I am a Jackie-lover. That would be Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis, who died in 1994 in her Fifth Avenue apartment, surrounded by among other things, her books, as related at the time by her late son John F. Kennedy, Jr.
I love this woman for many reasons, including that I believe she was smart, practical, and seemed to have clear sense of herself, especially as she aged. She raised good kids and that in itself is an achievement worth admiring.
It would be easy to forget that she was just 34 when her husband was brutally gunned down by an assassin in Dallas. As a very young widow, she drew herself up, took her young children’s hands and planned a funeral— really for all of us—that was patterned brilliantly after Lincoln’s.
I was one of millions of Americans who watched the entire rainy, cold, November weekend of the JFK shooting on television. Jackie mustered all the style and grace she had and gave us a funeral that was solemn, sad, riveting. Who can forget the rider-less horse with the boots backward in the stirrups? The baby-salute by the same JFK, Jr.? Jackie’s trailing veil that hid her mask-like face from view?
She never had or was a “brand,” modern parlance for selling your appeal or fame for millions of dollars to millions of people. She epitomized style in this country for decades and never sold “Jackie suits” or “Jackie shifts” at Kmart or Sears or Bergdorf’s.
I think it’s called class, and I think it has to do with knowing or having a sense of who and what you are—and what you are not. I think Jackie knew that, perhaps from a very young age. She could have fronted any charity she wanted; but one she chose was “small” and within the bounds of what she knew: the Municipal Art Society and its effort to preserve Grand Central Terminal.
I have an admission. I keep a copy of a famous Galella photo of her on the floor near my bed—where I can see it. It’s the one where she seems to have been caught unaware on the street, turned with hairblowing. She’s wearing the simplest of jeans and top, trademark sunglasses in her hand. No jewelry, not even a watch.
What I see in this photograph is a leonine power and grace. Through the maze of dark hair is that familiar broad-planed face and the eyes fixed dead-on at the viewer. This is a woman who knows who she is. It’s in the stride, the gaze, the movement of the arms. And in that direct and powerful stare.
It’s tonic to me when I leave the house and go out into the big, wide world.
Christina Rossi is a 62-year-old writer who lives with her beloved cat Lucy in northern New Jersey.
