My father’s name was Thomas James Mulgrew but everyone called him “Ace”. This nickname was attached to him as a result of the flying skills he exhibited during the war.  He was shaped by The Depression, the War and the FDR administration.  He called himself a “yellow dog” democrat and he was a proud member of The Greatest Generation.  The men and women coming out of the war were very different than succeeding generations because they were all a part of something much bigger than themselves, and they knew it.  Dad understood his civic responsibility and he cultivated this sense of social and political accountability.  One of my earliest memories of Dad unfolds like this:  he is shaving in front of the bathroom mirror, I have been dispatched to bring him his favorite drink (which, in those days, was scotch on the rocks) and as a result of completing this task, I am allowed to sit on the toilet seat and observe.  He has a shaving mug and a brush and an expert hand, swift and steady.  The bathroom fills with the aroma of Old Spice.  My father is talking to me about the Democratic Party and the meeting he is about to attend.  He is vital and funny and passionate and although I understand very little of what he is saying, his message is somehow startlingly clear: to love people and the ideas and policies that govern them is both a privilege and an honor.  I think my father was happiest when he was the Democratic Party Chairman, his wits sharpened and challenged by county politics and the people he represented. 

The memories are coming fast now:  our house in the country, the place we call Derby Grange, was magical and no more so than when it was filled with political players.  Congressman John Culver, bigger than life, sitting in the armchair, drink in hand.  He and my father are laughing and it is understood that the joke is very private and very sophisticated and that the people who are the brunt of this joke are called Republicans.  Governor Harold Hughes also visited and though his was a more restrained personality he was, nevertheless, a top-drawer Dem and, as my father would have said, “a hell of a guy”.  There was loud, impassioned conversation, smoke-filled rooms, jazz in the background and the sense that this was a very exclusive and wonderful club and that only the best and the brightest were asked to join. 

Perhaps my father’s greatest accomplishment was in winning the hand of my mother, Joan Kiernan.  They made an unconventional and unexpected match and were, by turns, difficult and delightful, bristling with conflict, humor and intellectual energy.  My mother, too, loved politics and brought with her into this unorthodox marriage a long and rich personal history, many defining friendships, and a maverick streak that thrilled my father, and drove him absolutely crazy. Mother’s greatest childhood friend was Jean Kennedy Smith and she knew and loved all of the Kennedys, but in particular Jack and Bobby.   You could say they grew up together and so you will understand that on the night Bobby Kennedy was assassinated the grief that shrouded our house was palpable and almost unbearable.  Only once in my life do I remember seeing my parents so bereaved and close to despair, and that was when my sister Tess died.  But this other thing, this cutting down of a true prince, and so soon after the murder of his extraordinary brother Jack – this sudden and brutal good-bye cost my parents dearly and I think they were never again quite the same. One of the greatest chapters in American political history had come to an end. 

Terry Stewart, who is responsible for this event tonight, asked me if I would talk a little about my own journey and how my parents influenced my choices.  So let me be perfectly frank.  My father did not understand my career choice.  In fact, when I told him I was going to be an actress, he looked at me long and hard, shook his head slowly and said, “Well Kitten, I hope you don’t break your neck coming out of the gate.”  Now, you may think such counsel would have been sufficient to give me pause, but here’s the interesting part:  my father knew me better than I knew myself and, on some level, he understood that between my mother’s overwhelming show of support and his apparent disdain, my ambition would be well-calibrated and that life, then, could hold few devastating surprises.  Despite the fact that I’ve grumbled over the years about Dad’s lack of interest in my fascinating life, I see now that he did the best thing for me: by withholding, he disciplined me to pursue my craft with absolute focus and determination.  Besides, Mother never missed a performance. 

On a deeper level, and this speaks to the core of who I am and how much I loved my parents, my second marriage was to one of my mother’s dearest friends, and, like my father, a yellow dog democrat with the fire in his belly and infinite goodness in his heart.  There is no more decent man than my husband and in him I recognize the combined virtues and complexities of my parents.  I am, therefore, never bored.  And boy, did I draw a fabulous hand.

I’ll finish by saying that I received a phone call this morning from a producer friend of mine who was calling to tell me that we had just won The American Bar Association’s prestigious Silver Gavel Award for Excellence in Creative Contribution for a short film we shot last year (edited to add - The Response).  The film is about the military tribunals and use of torture at Guantanamo Bay.  So, need I say more about my father’s influence?  The Silver Gavel Award belongs to him.  I’d like all of you to raise your glasses, in the Mulgrew family tradition, and with a wink and a smile, “Here’s to you, Ace.”

Thank you.