U.S. president John F. Kennedy was assassinated 50 years ago this week and I have been alive for nearly 46 of those years with the name John R. Kennedy.
Although I am grateful my parents didn’t give me Fitzgerald as a middle name — or any name starting with “F” — I was never thrilled about their choice of Robert.
Robert, of course, is the name of JFK’s younger brother, who was assassinated in the year of my birth.
Going through life with the names of two dead Kennedys is not as much fun as you might think.
When I wasn’t being prodded to name my favourite punk rock band, I was subjected to comments about convertible rides and questions about being gun-shy.
My response was frequently: “Too soon?”
People would laugh out loud at their own cleverness upon asking me about my wife Jackie.
For many years, people who learned my name instinctively came back with: “Is your middle name Fitzgerald?” I remember that every time I introduced myself I would pause in anticipation of the question.
Almost always, it would come. The person would giggle. We would move on.
Another frequently asked question: “Were you named after the president?” If I was feeling kind, I would pretend to have never heard the question. More often than not, though, I would respond with a snippy “what president?” or “you mean Lincoln?”
I learned early in life never to ask anyone if there was anything I can do to help because their response would typically start with: “Ask not what you can do for me…”
Ah yes, a reference to his famous speech. Clever.
Don’t even get me started on how many times I was treated to breathy Marilyn-esque renditions of “Happy Birthday” on my special day.
Since I was a living memorial to two iconic deceased political figures, I felt some responsibility to learn about my namesakes. I read books about John and Robert and followed news about JFK’s widow. I even visited Hyannis, Massachusetts — home of the Kennedy family compound.
As a teenager, I went to Dallas and visited the site of JFK’s assassination. I posed for a photo in front of the memorial and snapped pictures of the Texas School Book Depository, from where Lee Harvey Oswald had fired his rifle.
Years later, I visited JFK’s final resting place at Arlington National Cemetery outside Washington, D.C. (where Robert is also buried).
In the ‘90s — as the JFK comments started to subside — I was more likely to hear JFK Jr. references. These were more welcome because he was a) seen as a smart and handsome young man and b) alive.
Instead of being asked about my “wife Jackie,” I was being asked what it was like to date Sarah Jessica Parker, Julia Roberts or Darryl Hannah. I was being complimented on my new magazine George.
Of course, JFK Jr.’s tragic death in a plane crash in 1999 sparked a new generation of jokes about my name.
Still, there are far worse things than going through life as John Robert Kennedy. As far as I know, it hasn’t hurt me professionally (a radio station manager in the late ‘80s asked me to use the name Johnny Kay because my real name “might freak people out”) and it remains a conversation starter.
In late 2011, when I was introduced to former U.S. president Bill Clinton — a JFK fan — at a corporate function, he peered over the top of his glasses, smiled and said: “How lucky you are to have that name.”
But the moment when I truly embraced my birth name came a few years earlier when I was hired to be the official photographer for Robert F. Kennedy Jr. during a speaking tour in southern Ontario.
When he asked if John Robert Kennedy was my real name, I told him I was honoured to have the names of his uncle and father. He surprised me when he showed a sense of humour about it.
“I feel for you,” he said. “But I guess this makes us cousins.”
He later signed a snapshot of the two of us together: “Thanks cuz.”
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