To be Irish is to know that in the end, the world will break your heart. –Daniel Patrick Moynihan
Call me a cultural stereotype. A boomer. A limousine liberal. I don’t care. Ted Kennedy being diagnosed with malignant cancer of the brain floored me. I don’t even know why.
Long ago, Duke University, which changed my life in a number of ways, awarded me my first paid desk job to work for Wisconsin’s Senator Gaylord Nelson. With some help from my father, I rented an overpriced and horrible little apartment across the street from the hospital on Washington Circle where I had been born 21 years earlier, and excitedly entered the world I’d been seeing on television since I was in my early teens growing up in the Midwest. That first sunny Monday morning in May, I walked all the way to work, zig-zagging down Pennsylvania Avenue, and then up Constitution Avenue, well over two miles total, just to take it all in. But I walked in a hurry.
The Hill job was in health policy, and I was asked to follow and report on the work of the busy U.S. Senate Subcommittee on Health, chaired by then 42-year-old Ted Kennedy. I saw Kennedy up close a lot during committee sessions and mark-ups during the next 3 months. (A few years later, I worked again on Capitol Hill, and lived there for many