Free Daring by Gail Sheehy

And he had captured me with a speech he made at Kansas State University earlier that spring. After students at Columbia had occupied university offices and race riots had convulsed more than one hundred American cities, Kennedy’s voice cracked when he praised colleges and universities that “breed men who riot, who rebel, who attack life with all their youthful vision and vigor. The more riots that come on college campuses, the better the world for tomorrow.” It was a wildly incendiary thing for any politician to say, especially in conservative Kansas, but by then, even young moms like me were marching on the Pentagon while young men burned draft cards.
    When Kennedy tried to depart the Kansas campus, he was overrun by adoring students who pulled at his hair and ripped his shirtsleeves. I heard my friend the photographer Stanley Tretick, of Look magazine, cry out, “This is Kansas , fucking Kansas! He’s going all the fucking way!”
    â€œ CLAY, I CAN ’ T WRITE ABOUT Bobby fucking Kennedy!” Hanging out on the road with the big boys had already infected my language.
    â€œLook, every good reporter has to jump in and scramble until they get it,” Clay said, impatient now. “Read the clips. Read history! The same two or three political stories go on repeating themselves as if they never happened before.”
    â€œLet me think about it.”
    â€œNo! The Oregon campaign starts this week. Then follow him in California, that’s the make-or-break primary.”
    Frantically, I thought, What about Maura? My sister could stay with her for a few days.
    Clay didn’t wait for my answer. “You can do it!”
    â€œ LET ’ S GO! ” The moment the advance man opened the door of the private air terminal at Washington Dulles, a mob of reporters rushed out like penned-up cattle, racing for the best seats on Senator Kennedy’s chartered plane. All men, with a couple of exceptions. Startled, I lagged behind.
    â€œWhere are you from?” The Boston Irish accent was unmistakable. It was Robert Kennedy himself who fell into step beside me.
    â€œGail Sheehy, New York magazine.”
    â€œHappy to have you with us, Gail.” He grinned, pushing the flop of wavy hair off his forehead. With his next words, he swept me off my feet. “How’m I doin’ in New York?”
    I couldn’t wait to tell Clay: the senator from New York with the royal political family name was asking me , a mere pup from a month-old magazine he’s hardly heard of, how he was doing with the voters of New York. Clay laughed and gave me my first lesson in political journalism: “He’s trying to flatter you into feeling like you’re part of his election team. Don’t hold it against him, but don’t buy into it.”
    Anyone walking down the aisle of an RFK flight would see rows and rows of seats occupied by the “Kennedy Mafia,” the men and women linked to the family through friendship, marriage, work, and political alliances and ready to put their lives on hold to help any Kennedy win an election. I was so low on the pecking order behind national journalistic stars like Sam Donaldson, my chances of getting an interview with the senator were slim to none. The only other woman on that plane, a wire service reporter, tipped me off to ask for the help of Fred Dutton, Bobby’s behind-the-scenes campaign manager, a rare advocate of women in politics.
    Most of Kennedy’s campaign flights were jolly affairs marked by singing, drinking, and practical jokes played by his resident imp, Dick Tuck. On one long night flight, Ethel Kennedy led off a songfest with “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Campaign folksingers John Stewart and Buffy Ford crooned all the patriotic songs they knew while a stewardess made up the senator’s bed. At 3:30 A.M. , Robert Kennedy dragged down the aisle from a TV taping session, shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging. From his