Mourning a Legacy

(Before I begin, it bears mentioning that I recognize my deficits when it comes to blogging. People expect blogs to be informative, interesting and routine. While I hope I have achieved some level of entertainment for readers, since my family has joined me in D.C. (and frankly, my fellow workload has increased), I have been admittedly lax in my communication. I apologize, and in true political fashion, pledge to do better.)


One of the things that created the greatest anxiety for me while considering applying for the Kennedy Foundation Fellowship was the prospect of being interviewed by Eunice Kennedy Shriver. I had heard various horror stories of her high jacked conversations and left-field questions that threw candidates in a tizzy or resulted in tears. In one notorious meeting she apparently thanked an interviewee and sent her packing prior to asking the first question. I did not know if I could withstand such scrutiny.

So leading up to my fellowship selection approximately one year ago, I prepared for a potential Eunice interaction. My Madison friends staged a mock interview, past fellows shared stories and strategies, and I read up on Mrs. Shriver’s work.

Alas, when interview day came, Mrs. Shriver was not in attendance. I breathed a sigh of relief. And now I am mourning a missed opportunity.

My exposure to the Kennedy family work in disability issues before arriving in Washington was limited to my knowledge of Special Olympics – what I thought of as merely a charity-based, segregated sporting event for people with intellectual disabilities run by Mrs. Shriver. What I have come to learn in the last six months is the deep and often behind the scenes commitment to disability issues by not only Mrs. Shriver, but also her Senator brother, Ted.

Most vaguely know the Kennedy’s connection to disability as derived from their eldest sister Rosemary. Rosemary, a beautiful and capable young woman who kept a diary and was often pictured in formal family photos, could reportedly not keep up intellectually with her brothers and sisters and at times had problem behaviors. After a disastrous experimental operation in which a doctor assured the Kennedy’s he could cure her with a lobotomy, Rose was instead reduced to an infantile mentality. She lived out the remainder of her years in a home for people with disabilities in Wisconsin.



But Rose’s younger sister and brother, Eunice and Ted, remembered the promise of their sister by dedicating their lives to promoting the dignity of people with disabilities.

Stories of Mrs. Shriver in my mind now extend to a woman who felt passionate about affordable housing and community inclusion for individuals with disabilities. She was someone who the mere mention of her name could get a Senator on the phone in an instant. Even into her eighties, she could command a meeting on the Hill, and even as recently as a few months ago, was seen walking through these halls to court Congressional Members on issues.

Together with her brother, the Kennedy’s were a formidable pair. During the Senator’s career he authored or sponsored fair housing legislation, the Americans with Disabilities Act, ground-breaking changes to the education of children with disabilities through IDEA and countless other Acts which have had lasting implications for people like my daughter. His influence made things happen. Senators followed his example.


Eunice and Ted were a rare combination of passion, power and personal experience. Now that both of these figures are gone, I wonder who is capable of filling their shoes. We advocates have lost a tremendous unified voice for change. And I have missed my opportunity to brush with greatness.

Lisa Pugh is the 2009 Kennedy Foundation Public Policy Fellow. She will work on disability public policy for the House Committee on Education and Labor during the 111th Congress and is being sponsored by The Arc Wisconsin. She will live for one year with her family in Washington and return to her home in Madison, Wisconsin to share what she’s learned in January 2010.