Wrapped in the Flag (20 page)

In the fall of 1962, reports surfaced about unsettling developments in Cuba. Several thousand Russian soldiers had arrived on the island nation along with
tons of supplies. It was assumed that most of those supplies had a military use. The chorus of American voices demanding pushback against the Russians grew.

In mid-October, one of our U-2 reconnaissance planes flying over Cuba photographed what looked like missile silos under construction. Soon after, President Kennedy canceled a campaign trip because of “illness.” We didn’t know it at the time, but U.S. intelligence agencies had confirmed that Soviet ballistic missiles, missiles that carried nuclear warheads, were being installed in Cuba. It didn’t take high-level intelligence to realize that the United States was the main target.
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When the Soviet missiles became public knowledge, my parents decided that the whole crisis was a smokescreen. President Kennedy would be made to look like a good anti-Communist, pro-American leader while he secretly opened the door to more Communist power in our hemisphere.

“Another example of the principle of reversal,” my father said.

“Another Bay of Pigs in the making,” Mother added.

My parents had never trusted Kennedy, but they had become even more certain of his anti-Americanism when 1,300 CIA-trained Cuban freedom fighters were stranded during the Bay of Pigs invasion in April of 1961.
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From then on, they had ratcheted up their unrelenting anti-Kennedy rant.

They called the president a Commie-dupe, a traitor, a coward, and a liar. And that was just for starters. My parents hated Fidel Castro and John Kennedy in equal measure. Castro for being a Communist and Kennedy for, well, being a Communist too.

Regardless of what they said, however, it became evident that a real crisis was unfolding in the Caribbean. I parked myself in front of the basement television on October 22, 1962, to listen to the president’s address from the Oval Office.

From the beginning, Kennedy laid out a strong and terrifying message. After outlining the steps taken to verify the presence of Soviet offensive missiles in Cuba, Kennedy said: “This urgent transformation of Cuba into an important strategic base—by the presence of these large, long range and clearly offensive weapons of sudden mass destruction constitutes an explicit threat to the peace and security of all the Americas.”

As the president continued to outline the depth of the Soviets’ deception about the weapons, I realized that this situation could easily explode into a world war or world destruction. The calmness of President Kennedy did nothing to soothe me. In fact, it scared me; it was so stark and so definitive.

“Missiles in Cuba add to an already clear and present danger,” Kennedy
said. “We will not prematurely or unnecessarily risk the cost of worldwide nuclear war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth; but neither will we shrink from that risk at any time it must be faced.”
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Later that evening, I couldn’t fall asleep. I stared at the ceiling while the lyrics of “Merry Minuet” played in my head. I missed my brother so much; I wanted to sing with him, hug him, and be with him if the worst happened. The next day, the naval blockade of Cuba began and orders to sink any ships attempting to run the quarantine line were given.
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In school, we were back to the old “duck and cover” drills. I knew that a missile strike anywhere near Chicago would kill us all, but the adults seemed to think that something was better than nothing. I dutifully stuffed myself under my desk, bent from the waist, and covered my head. It was hot and uncomfortable and quiet, except for the occasional nervous giggle.

Later that day, I went to Confession. As a good Catholic girl, I was terrified of dying with unforgiven sins on my soul; the Catholic sacrament of Penance promised to wash me clean. Afterward, during Mass, I knelt and prayed for my family and my country. I begged for blessings on the president. I hoped God had some brilliant strategy ideas for him—no one else seemed to.

That day, President Kennedy authorized the loading of nuclear weapons onto our bombers and the DEFCON (the defense readiness condition) level was raised to 2, the highest it had ever been.
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“This really is it,” I told myself. I fell asleep with my rosary in my hand.

In the morning, when I wasn’t dead, I worried even more. “Will it be today?”

I watched television whenever I could. The reports didn’t ease my worries, but I had to know. When we learned that Kennedy had received a proposal from Russia that could diffuse the situation, my parents went into hyperdrive.

“See, he’s giving in,” Mother cried. “We are doomed.”

“They’ll kill us anyway,” my father insisted. “Nothing can stop the Commies now.”

Finally, on Monday, October 29, after a week of public skirmishes and behind-the-scenes negotiations, our president agreed to remove old missiles we had in Italy and Turkey, and Khrushchev agreed to dismantle the missiles he had in Cuba. Diplomacy had won a big Cold War battle.
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Everyone in the country breathed a sigh of relief—well, not quite everyone. After the crisis, my parents were even more disgusted with John Kennedy. They believed that he’d surrendered to Khrushchev and that those missiles were still in Cuba, loaded and ready to strike.

“The whole Cuban Missile Crisis was fabricated,” Mother said.

“Kennedy is a Commie through and through,” Dad added.

As far as my parents and their Birch friends were concerned, the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis were the ultimate proof that the president was both a traitor and a coward. My father contrasted the words and actions of the Kennedy administration with the words of a “real” American, Barry Goldwater. At JBS meetings, Dad would read whole sections of
The Conscience of a Conservative
, Goldwater’s conservative manifesto. As much as his prescriptions for America resonated with the Birchers, the last section of the book, “Our Goal Must Be Victory,” seemed to be everyone’s favorite.

In it, Goldwater emphasized the need for the United States to take the offense against the Communists with weapons of our own choosing, especially “small, clean nuclear weapons.”
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He knew we had to be powerful, no matter the cost—in lives or money.

In a nod to anti-Communists everywhere, Goldwater said that the United States “should withdraw diplomatic recognition from all Communist governments” while we “encourage the captive nations to revolt against their Communist rulers.”
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Goldwater might have co-opted this plan to foment revolution from Robert Welch, who had called for JBS “undertakings on the international front.”
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Those “undertakings” would be “the setting up, or helping to set up, one by one and very carefully, governments-in-exile out of the most respected and solidly anti-Communist refugees from satellite nations.” If no such leader was available for this task, Welch suggested establishing “revolutionary committees.”
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These groups, according to Welch, would be “rallying points for a far more energetic opposition to Communist maneuvers and propaganda.”
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Welch didn’t go quite as far as Goldwater, however, who believed that “our strategy must be primarily offensive in nature” and that “we must—ourselves—be prepared to undertake military operations against vulnerable Communist regimes.”
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We could even move a “highly mobile task force equipped with appropriate nuclear weapons to the scene of the revolt.”
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Like my father, Senator Goldwater never shirked from war talk. “Any policy that successfully frustrates the Communists’ aim of world domination runs the risk that the Kremlin will choose to lose in a kamikaze-finish,” Goldwater said.
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Dad usually ended his pro-Goldwater pep talks with this quote: “For Americans who cherish their lives, but their freedom more, the choice cannot
be difficult.”
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“Barry is absolutely right,” my father always said. “‘War may be the price of freedom.’”
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One evening shortly after the Cuban Missile Crisis, my parents called me into the living room. “Your father and I have something important to discuss with you,” Mother said. I’d barely taken a seat when they got right to it.

“Something important” was this—Dad’s business was struggling and money was tight. It was time to look at expenses, including the costs of educating five kids. They reminded me, as if I didn’t know, that my brother was in a Catholic college, my sister and I were in a Catholic high school, and the two little kids were in a Catholic grade school.

“Something has to give,” Dad said.

In a minute, it became clear what they could not afford—my college education. My mother spelled it out, “Don’t expect any money from us. You’ll have to figure this one out, alone.”

Making sure I understood just what no money meant, the two of them ticked off every college expense: tuition, room, board, books, transportation, and clothes, while declaring “No” to each one.

“Does Jay R. know about this?” I asked. “What happens to him?”

“He’s all set,” Mother said. “We have him covered.”

I sat in the living room staring at the hideous floor-length flowered drapes. Then I looked at my hands shaking in my lap and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. When I started to sob—deep, sad sobs—I couldn’t stop.

Mother and Dad made no effort to comfort me. Not a word, not a hug, nothing. Instead, my father got angry. “Young lady, you know how I feel about tears,” he said.

“Stop playing the martyr,” Mother added. “Go upstairs.”

Sometime later, I finally stopped crying. I tried to figure how much money I would need for my first year of college. One thing was clear: I needed more than my 75-cent per-hour weekend job could bring in. I needed a scholarship, the bigger the better. Most of all, I needed a big miracle—not quite Moses parting the Red Sea, but close.

The next morning I didn’t stop at my locker or grab a Coke in the senior lounge. I was looking for advice, advice I couldn’t get from my friends. I had to learn everything I could about college scholarships, the bailiwick of Marywood’s guidance counselor.

Mrs. Waldron listened to my situation while she passed me tissues to mop up my tears. After a few minutes, she pointed out, gently, that crying
would not fix my problem; I needed a plan. She reminded me to focus on school; high grades and high test scores made all the difference in landing scholarships. She also recommended public schools in Illinois; they were the only ones I could possibly afford. Finally, she’d make sure I had great recommendations from my teachers.

By the time I left Mrs. Waldron’s office, I was still terrified, but ready to give it the “old college try.”

“I can do this myself,” I thought. “Just watch me.”

At the same time that my parents were refusing to pay even a dime toward my college education, they were demanding that I enroll at the University of Dallas, the school they had selected for me, the same one they had selected (and financed) for Jay R., now a freshman there.