Over a decade ago I was much criticized in some quarters for writing a book about my old boss, John Kennedy Jr., a phenomenon which at the time deeply frustrated and upset me. (You can now buy that book for a penny; the glamor of publishing.)
In the years since, I have watched as at least two of my more vociferous critics wrote books of their own—not in response to mine, but apparently because they were planning to all along—as has one of John’s former girlfriends.
It’s an interesting thing to watch, and I’ve gained some wisdom from it all. When John’s former assistant, Rosemarie Terenzio, came out with a book about John a couple of years ago, I watched a couple of television interviews she did and thought, Is anyone going to ask her about her very personal criticism of me for writing a book, on the grounds that, as she put it at the time, “John would never have wanted anyone who worked for him to write a book about him”? Is our culture’s memory so short? Isn’t there some price to pay for hypocrisy?
People’s minds change, of course, and things that once seemed fixed and certain become less so over time. I always wondered, Is Rosemarie mad at me for writing a book, or is she mad at me because she wanted to write a book? I’m pretty sure what the answer is, but I don’t care much any more; if writing a book about John was important to Rose, then more power to her. I’m glad she did it.
But I do find it ironic that the most salacious gossip about John—things I would never have written about had I known them—is coming from Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Granted, he’s not publishing them on purpose; the New York Post has obtained copies of journals he kept, apparently because of tension between him and the family of his late wife.
It’s odd for me to read this stuff—yesterday’s “excerpt” was about family feuding between the Kennedys and the Bessettes after John, Carolyn and Lauren died—because the actions described are consistent with my impressions of the people involved, and because the scene that RFK Jr. describes at John’s funeral is exactly the scene described in my book. (Always nice when someone else confirms your memories.)
For me, though, the main impact of reading this stuff in the New York Post is to remind me of what a shame it is that John isn’t alive; there are moments when I really wonder what he would be doing now. I’ve no doubt that all of us who knew him think about that from time to time.
