Where’s My Memorial?

I was thinking the other day. My brother John has a memorial. My brother Bobby has a memorial. And honestly? They didn’t do much. Shit, getting killed was the best thing for their legacies. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting. I’ve been dead for what, like four years now? It’s about time.

We all know John would not be so beloved if he had lived through Vietnam. And Bobby wasn’t even President when he was killed; he was only running for the Democratic Party’s nomination. I mean, if Rand Paul got shot during his campaign, would we erect a monument for him? Jesus, should I have coordinated an assassination like them to improve my chances of being remembered.

John has the beautiful Eternal Flame in Arlington, and Bobby has his poetic speeches carved into stone there, too. There are places named after them all across the country: JFK International Airport, RFK Stadium in Washington D.C., I heard they even renamed a bridge in New York City after Bobby recently.

Yet here I am, one of the most distinguished and longest serving senators in United States history. I oversaw legislation that got uninsured children health insurance and I helped pass and defend Title IX. They called me “The Lion of the Senate,” for God’s sake. By the way, a statue of a lion would be pretty sweet. Just forget about the time I basically killed that woman.

Originally published: Jan 2014

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