One Brief Shining Moment

Barbra Streisand with John F. Kennedy at the White House Correspondents' Dinner on May 24, 1963.

Streisand, then 21, performed three songs. She concluded with "Happy Days Are Here Again," saying that she really felt joy having JFK in the White House, and her performance reflected it.

Following the dinner, performers lined up to meet Kennedy, reminded by a protocol team that they were to greet him quickly and move along without asking for autographs. "When JFK got to me, he told me that I had a beautiful voice and asked, 'How long have you been singing?' I said, 'About as long as you've been president.' He laughed, and then I did exactly what we were told not to do."

Streisand pulled out a card from the dinner and asked JFK to sign it for her mother, which he did, and when he returned it, she said, "You're a doll."

"I guess some people were a little surprised to hear me saying it to the president," she writes. "Frankly, it just slipped out."

When the Senator returned to Washington from his trip to South Africa, I went down and asked Angie if I could speak to him privately-that it would only take a few minutes. She had no problem with it and told me to go right in. I peeked around the corner and knocked softly on his door. He waved me in. He looked rather tired from his recent overseas trip, but he greeted me warmly.

He asked me how I was doing, and I told him that I was fine, but that I had to talk to him about something. I think he must have picked up on my nervousness, because he immediately looked concerned. "What is it-is anything wrong?" he asked. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

"Well, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be leaving the office in July," I responded.

He looked surprised. "For good?"

"Well, I hope not...but for the time being, anyway."

"Why? Is there a problem? Why would you want to leave?"

I couldn't believe how hurt he seemed. It was as though I had betrayed him somehow. To this day, that's the main thing I remember from my meeting with him that afternoon-that look of hurt on his face. It was devastating.

"No-nothing like that. It's just that I got accepted to study in Oxford, England, this summer, and I'm planning to transfer to UC Berkeley in the fall."

"Really? Don't you like it in Washington?"

"It's not that...but I am a bit homesick for California." At that moment, it felt like a shameful admission, something more appropriately confessed at an AA meeting. I quickly added, "Plus, Berkeley is a much better school, so..."

"I never pictured you as a radical." There was that cryptic smile of his again.

I chuckled. "I'm not really...but if we're going to stop this war, it's the place to be, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "Well, I hate to see you go. I hope you'll return. You know you have a job waiting for you here whenever you want to come back. In fact, if you want to work here next summer, we'd love to have you."

"Oh, thank you, Senator. That's very sweet of you."

"Just let Angie know if you're coming, and she can arrange it. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, there is something. I would love to have a photo of you and me together."

"Of course. l'll have Angie set it up and let you know. Again, I'm disappointed that you're leaving."

"I'll really miss you, you know."

He looked a little embarrassed. "Well, you have to do what's right for you." I didn't want to take up any more of his time, so I got up to leave. As I was walking to the door, he said softly, "I’ll miss you, too."

I turned around and smiled, but I felt like crying.

The next day, Angie called me to say that the Capitol Hill photographer would be coming that afternoon to the Senator's office. I think the photo of both of us turned out well, and without a doubt, it is my most prized possession.

The Senator inscribed it: "For Donna, With appreciation, and I hope you will come back. Robert F. Kennedy"

Once I arrived in Washington, I immediately went down to see my friends at the office and to say a last goodbye to the Senator. He and I had a fairly lengthy conversation by his standards—maybe ten or fifteen minutes. He asked me about my trip, and I described how I had visited the Runnymede memorial to President Kennedy. I told him that it reminded me of when I used to walk over to Arlington several times a week. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at me for a long time, and I sensed his discomfort. That melancholy was back, and his hands shook a little as he fidgeted with a piece of paper on the desk.

I quickly changed the subject, recounting the incident at the American Embassy in Hamburg. He seemed surprised to hear how horribly the German police had treated the peaceful demonstrators. I also told him how I’d met up with my parents in England—how my dad had read Wordsworth’s poem to my mother and me at Tintern Abbey.

He asked, “Who’s your favorite poet?” I thought for a moment and then said that there were several, but that one of my favorites was E. E. Cummings. And Yeats, of course. He said, “I like the Greeks...and Emerson. Have you read any Emerson?” I replied, “Yes, he’s one of my mother’s favorites. She actually has a framed portrait of him hanging in our house. She’s an English teacher. I don’t think I’ve read any of his poetry since high school, though.”

“You should,” he said. Then, to my astonishment, he started reciting a few lines of an Emerson poem from memory—I don’t recall which one. “I’m sure my mother has a book of his poems at home somewhere—I’ll read it when I get back. I’ll have to tell her about your shared love of his poetry.” He again reminded me about returning to work for him the following summer and said he hoped he would see me before then. He ended the conversation with the same question as always—“Is there anything I can do for you?” When I said, “No, thanks,” he got up from his chair at the same time that I rose from mine. But then I stopped and said, “Well, there is something...can I kiss you goodbye?” He just smiled and moved closer. So I kissed him.