Because Our Fathers Lied

That's the title of a new memoir by Craig McNamara, son of the late Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, who helped President Kennedy save the world from nuclear destruction, became a Vietnam War criminal under President Johnson, and much later wrestled with his guilt as a vocal advocate of the nuclear freeze movement during President Reagan's tenure. The senior McNamara was a fascinating man -- a welter of conflicting opinions and feelings, as I discovered back in 1984, when I profiled him and two other retired national security officials with blood on their hands who also became nuclear doves -- former National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy and former CIA Director William Colby.

Two decades after my article appeared in Mother Jones magazine, I wrote again about Robert McNamara's profound schizophrenia in my 2007 book, "Brothers." Despite the glaring light I shined on McNamara -- and his deeply troubling transition from JFK to LBJ -- he phoned me after the book was published to tell me I "got it right."

I interviewed his son, Craig, when I first wrote about McNamara in Mother Jones. Craig, an organic farmer in Northern California, was a sensitive man -- torn between his love and loyalty to his father, and his anger about the Vietnam War and his father's role as one of its principal architects.

Craig's memoir, which just came out, is searing and beautifully written. In it, he writes the following about his experience with me, the Mother Jones article and his father:

In the spring of 1984, David Talbot wrote an article for Mother Jones, “And Now They Are Doves.” The article covered my father’s attempts to rehabilitate his image and step into the role of elder statesman. At the time, I was 34, farming my heart out. I had a wife and child.

Over the years, I had thought about Dad every day with a mixture of love and rage. Whenever we spoke and I asked him about Vietnam, he deflected. There was never a big confrontation between us. I remember my life at that time as being defined by an absence of truth and honesty in our relationship, and I remember how I had defended Dad’s integrity when I was a boy –- and the letters from his supporters too.

David Talbot called and suggested an interview, and it felt like an opportunity I needed to take. I didn’t want the media attention. I just wanted the chance to speak honestly, to be heard. David came to visit the farm in Winters, and we spoke for an afternoon. Earlier that day, I’d been on the phone with Dad, updating him on the progress of our orchards.

The published article in Mother Jones included a lengthy quote from me. I had never criticized my father so publicly:

“There had to be a lot of guilt and depression inside my father about Vietnam. But he will not allow me into the personal side of his career. My father has a strong sense of what he will and won’t talk about with me. I would ask him things, like why he left the Pentagon in ’68. I felt I could learn a tremendous amount of history from him. And I felt I could teach him about the peace movement. But he just gives these quick 30-second responses, and then deflects the conversation by asking, ‘So how many tons did you produce on your farm last year?’ Still seeking refuge in statistics.”

I didn’t know if Dad would read the article. One of the many mysteries that remained was the extent to which he followed his own publicity. If I had taken the time to think about it carefully, I probably would have concluded that he did. After all, I knew of his ego and his need to be right, to win.

He called me up almost immediately after the piece ran.

“Is that what you said?” he asked. “Was the quote correct?”

I was a little surprised by the quick timing, but I wasn’t surprised by his response. If anything, it confirmed my disappointment in him. It showed that he cared about his own narrative, when he should have just driven himself hard to the unspun truth.

“Yeah, Dad,” I said. “The quote was correct.”

He was silent. This was always the way he reacted to being hurt. I knew I had hit him in a tender place. I felt sad, but I didn’t feel sorry. It was the first time I had offered my version of the truth and the first time he had heard it.

After a little time had passed, my stance softened. I reread the Mother Jones article several times and convinced myself that it was full of errors and omissions, and I started to believe that David Talbot had neglected important truths about my relationship with my Dad –- especially the fact, unavoidable, that we loved each other deeply.

I wanted Dad to know what I was feeling. In a follow-up letter to him, I wrote, “They failed to say that we have a relationship based on understanding.”

I really believed that, but it wasn’t the truth. Our relationship was, in fact, based on joy and affection when it came to the things we shared, and deliberate silence and absence relating to the issues of war and peace that divided us. If we really had a relationship based on understanding, there’s no way I would have given that quote about his 30-second responses.

As I reread the article today, I see that there were no errors. David Talbot didn’t misquote me or misrepresent my views. I was serious when I told him that I believed the power brokers in Washington, including my father, had made decisions based solely on the military interests of America. So why did I reverse course in private? I think I was reenacting the pattern Dad had established, the one I had learned to follow. I thought I could hold two truths in my head at once, in separate cages, without working through the dialectic. I love you, Dad, and I want you to love me. I’m angry at you, Dad, and I need you to hear me…

Robert McNamara (far right), with President Lyndon Johnson and Secretary of State Dean Rusk