(2 of 7)
Everyone has to work through hard questions of identity and self-image; Kennedy had to work through his while trapped inside a brightly lit media fun house with distorted mirrors all around. And so he took advantage of an elaborate system that allowed him to cope: a family that had been through hell in public and knew how to guard its privacy--and to make life as normal as it could be. On his own, he developed a band of fiercely loyal and discreet friends who helped create a secure zone around him, who were always glad to say "No comment," escape with him into the wilderness for another adventure, or indulge his unquenchable love of the outdoors--parasailing, running, skiing, biking, losing himself in individual effort.
Within the zone, Kennedy was free to conduct his real life's work: not the magazine he launched, or the charities he volunteered for, or the law, but the cultivation of a basic, good-humored decency--an ordinariness that was his last defense against the extraordinary role life had handed him. He took the subway or rode a bike to work, hanging out mostly with friends who weren't at all famous, using his unparalleled celebrity mostly on behalf of good causes. At the same time, he went out of his way to joke with the tabloid reporters who watched his every move, was invariably polite to those who approached him on the street, and showed elaborate courtesy to the frantic, swooning women who mobbed him. He sent a hilarious note to New York magazine writer Michael Gross, who had profiled him against his will, saying he was glad the issue with his face on the cover was off the newsstands, so "I can stop glaring at myself glaring back at me."
And ultimately, he coped with the media carnival--the rumored affair with Madonna, the PEOPLE cover proclaiming him "The Sexiest Man Alive"--by opening up a place of his own on the midway: George magazine, which from time to time he used to send up the national obsession with all things Kennedy. He put Drew Barrymore on the cover, for instance, in a parody of Marilyn Monroe in the sewed-on gown singing Happy Birthday, Mr. President. When an uproar ensued, Kennedy pretended he didn't understand what the fuss was about. Or maybe he really didn't understand--it was just another image from the family album.
A few years ago, at a party in Washington, he was chatting with a friend about how poised and normal Chelsea Clinton seemed, even though she was growing up in the White House. "It's really a tribute to the Clintons," the friend said. Kennedy smiled. "Why is it," he asked, "that nobody ever gives the kids any credit?"
He had a point. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis received much deserved praise for the way she raised her children. But John and Caroline deserve credit, as well, for the character they displayed growing up in America's battered, beloved, hated, much chronicled almost-royal family.