When I went to New York to attend NYU and then started my acting career, I put politics on the shelf. Ronald Reagan had been elected president in 1980, and as unhappy as I was about that, I was consumed with getting my bearings in the business. The period between 1979 and 1987 was largely one of political dormancy for me, but when Reagan was reelected in 1984 (and I was near the peak of my drug addiction and alcoholism), I made the exception of a brief and odd little stopover in the office of Tom Hayden. I contacted the California assemblyman’s Santa Monica office and explained that I wanted to volunteer for him. Some of the women in the office watched Knots Landing and asked me what I was doing answering Hayden’s mail. I explained that I had been bound for law school before I picked up acting and that, once in LA, I had a lot of time on my hands. A guy who worked there, unsure of what I was after, gave me a job in, you guessed it, constituent services. This time, my task was usually getting to the bottom of an overcharge on a water or power bill.
In 1985, Hayden invited me to his home for an event he was hosting with his wife, Jane Fonda. All of a sudden, I was sitting in one of the premier salons of political Hollywood. The biggest film and music stars of their day, representing different generations, were gathered in Jane and Tom’s backyard to listen to a speech by Nobel Prize winner Desmond Tutu. At any given moment, I fully expected someone to ask me to put on a white jacket and start serving canapés. I thought to myself, “What the hell am I doing here?” But Hayden, in addition to being an incredibly bright and dedicated political fighter, was completely unpretentious. His attitude was, “If you care, if you’re engaged in the fight, and if you want to learn, you’re welcome here.” We stayed in touch, and in 1988, Hayden put me on the list for a party in honor of his latest book, Reunion, to be held at the home of Courtney Kennedy Ruhe, one of Bobby Kennedy’s daughters. There, I came face-to-face for the first time with Ethel Kennedy. Though her husband had been gone twenty years, to me it might as well have been a month. I spared her my recollection of the ten-year-old me at St. Patrick’s, but to say that I was overwhelmed when I met her is an understatement. After a brief moment of small talk, Mrs. Kennedy did what all Kennedys do: she changed the subject, charging into some issue of the day.
In July 1988, my connection with Hayden got me invited to the Democratic convention in Atlanta as a guest of the California delegation. The group I was with included Ally Sheedy, Sarah Jessica Parker, my brother Billy, Judd Nelson, and Rob Lowe. Dukakis was the nominee, and although I had my doubts about his electability, I was ardently opposed to Vice President Bush as president, if only because he had been director of the CIA. (I believed then, and I believe now, that having been the head of any secret intelligence agency in this country disqualifies one from being president.) In October of that year, Ethel invited me to her home in Hyannis Port. With my sister Beth in tow, we watched Lloyd Bentsen wither Dan Quayle during their debate with the famous line “Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy.” Sitting with Ethel, one wall going up a staircase covered with Kennedy family photos, my sister Beth and I looked at each other, both giddy, in a way that clearly said, “Do you think Dad can see us?”
Not all of the Kennedys are created equal in terms of the ineffable quality that distinguishes them in American political life. The blend of charisma, the ability to articulate the facts, and the high level of passion are rare in politics these days. For me, Bobby Jr., his late brother Michael Kennedy, and his sisters Kathleen and Kerry are examples of how the best of the Kennedy genetics resurfaced in the next generation. But no one can top Ethel for her sheer life force. She is sharp, indefatigable, funny, intense, and well practiced (as all Kennedys must be) at granting strangers a chance to experience the Kennedy zeitgeist. I could not begin to imagine where she found the personal courage she had accessed in order to carry on with her life. A few years later, after Bill Clinton—who carries some of that Kennedy spirit—had moved into the White House, I was invited to a party there featuring a screening of Ron Howard’s film The Paper. To my delight, I was seated next to Ethel. At one point in the movie, a gun went off and Ethel grabbed my arm. To see the look on her face, all those years later, showed me that though she is tough, that moment is still there.
My romantic feelings for nearly all things Kennedy aside, the fall of 1988 was also when another invitation arrived, and with it, one of the greatest political contacts I’d ever make. While shooting Miami Blues in south Florida that year, I was invited to attend a Dukakis fund-raiser at the Los Angeles home of Norman Lear. I wondered if flying across the country while I was shooting, to feel out of place among a pack of powerful Hollywood celebrities again, was the best idea, but a friend told me I’d be crazy to pass up such the chance.
At Norman’s home, a line snaked its way through the property to reach Michael Dukakis, perhaps the last Democratic candidate to win the nomination with such a deficit of charisma. Like Humphrey, McGovern, Carter, and Mondale immediately before him, Dukakis was old school: an earnest and ultimately uninspiring candidate, the kind that one assumed Reagan had knocked off for good. The Massachusetts governor was a decent enough guy, yet he made priggish Vice President Bush seem downright affable. When I turned from Dukakis to shake Norman’s hand, my excitement spiked. “Now, this guy ought to be running for president,” I thought. Norman proved to be more than a powerful political eminence; he became a mentor. The organization he founded, People for the American Way (PFAW), focused my political activities in a way for which I will always be grateful, both to Norman and to the group as a whole. Lear is a hero and a legend in the community of artist-activists I count myself among.