Chapter One

The First Lessons of Tough

I’m no martial artist or big-time, high-stakes moneymaker. I barely measure five feet, maybe five-three in my high heels, and nobody has ever accused me of having a menacing presence. No, but I have lived with an emotional intensity—a sense of indignation, determination, and sometimes outrage—that has often inspired opposing reactions among my political colleagues, voters, and right-wing “pundits” who have said these and other quotable things about me:

“[Barbara Boxer is] quite possibly the biggest doofus ever to enter the Senate chambers, including janitorial staff, pizza delivery kids, and carpenter ants.”

—Doug Powers on July 11, 2005, on WorldNetDaily

“Barbara Boxer is a great candidate for the Democratic Party: female and learning disabled.”

—Ann Coulter, from a speech on February 18, 2005

“Barbara Boxer continues to prove that she is unfit for any office higher than turd inspector.”

—Comment on April 7, 2005, from blog reader Arthur Schlep in response to the EPA/American Chemical Company study of children and pesticides

“You’re a detestable femi-Naz.”… “A stupid nut.”… “A dried-up prune.”… “In my day you’d be running a brassiere store on the turnpike.”… “You can suck my machine gun.”

—Various detractors

Yes, you read it right. And here’s one of the strangest of all, from the inestimable radio host Michael Savage.

“In the future, Barbara Boxer may be remembered as the Frau Doctor Mengele of the U.S. Senate. Dr. Joseph Mengele, the Nazi war criminal who directed merciless human experiments, may have decided to come back, as a woman.”

—Michael Savage on October 27, 1999, from Newsmax.com: “Is There a Mrs. Dr. Mengele in the Senate?”

But on the other side I have gotten these messages:

“God bless you.”… “You’re an eloquent shining star.”… “As a veteran I hold you in high esteem for all the fights you have taken on our behalf.”… “Thank you for being a fearless trailblazer.”… “An inspiration to my daughter…”

Then there is this: “Your work and integrity inspire me.” But just to keep me humble: “Apparently the people are not your concern, ever.”

My all-time favorite is, “You rock, Senator.”

You get the point, I’m sure. I don’t elicit neutral responses, and it’s always been that way. I don’t know how to be neutral. I take things to heart, run them through my brain, and the distance from there to my mouth isn’t big enough to have much of a filter.

It’s all about the art of tough, which has been informed by the principles that I have lived by, learned mostly from my dad, Ira Levy, the only one of nine siblings born in the United States, and my mom, Sophie, one of six, who came to her beloved America as a baby in 1911, wrapped in the arms and dreams of her parents. They both taught me to face problems and challenges with values, beliefs, and a sense of purpose, providing me with a foundation of moral ideals that has always been with me. As the children of families who chose America to escape the prejudices in Europe, they saw what hate and fear and silence in the face of injustice could do.

As lovers of music, they often cited the lyrics from South Pacific that said: “You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late, before you are six or seven or eight, to hate all the people your relatives hate, you’ve got to be carefully taught.” My parents taught me not to hate, but to be strong. Without knowing it, they taught me “the art of tough” and here are the guidelines:

1. Never compromise about doing the right thing.

We lived on the fifth floor of a six-story apartment building in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. One of my friends, Sheila, lived directly above us. Sheila’s parents were a lot more lenient than mine, so quite often I would whine that “Sheila’s mom lets her do this” and “Sheila’s mom lets her do that.”

My mother thought Sheila was spoiled silly. She said what every parent everywhere has said over the generations: “If Sheila’s mother let her jump off the roof, would you want to do that too?” In my eleven-year-old mind, it was a point well taken.

One day Sheila and I were walking home from school and stopped in at the candy store. In a completely shocking moment, Sheila put a two-cent taffy lollipop in her pocket, grabbed my hand, and dragged me out of the store. My parents had taught me that taking anything that didn’t belong to me was a sin, but Sheila was so persuasive and so popular, I let her pull me down the street without saying anything. But it weighed on my mind and, as usual, I took this dilemma to my mother.

Mom was dismayed that I hadn’t told Sheila off.

“Don’t you understand what it would mean to that candy store owner if everyone did what Sheila did? Yes, it was only two cents, but that can add up.”

Since I hadn’t participated in “the act,” I should have been done with it. So I told my mother in what was probably a righteous voice, “But I didn’t do anything!”

Mom’s reply was quick and intense. “That’s the problem. You stood by and said nothing, and you need to tell Sheila how you feel.”

“But…”

“No buts—go! She’s just one floor up.”

It was no fun. I tried to be very nice but clear about what I thought of her behavior, and I’m sure Sheila told our other friends what a Goody Two-shoes I was. But I knew my mother was right. I had failed to do the right thing, and that is not the way to act when a misdeed takes place right in front of your eyes. And in the long run, Sheila respected me for telling her, and we remained best friends.

This event taught me something else that’s stuck with me ever since. When admonishing me to confront Sheila, my mother gave me another piece of invaluable advice I have used often: “You can tell someone to go to hell,” she said, “but if you do it with sensitivity, they’ll thank you for it.”

2. Don’t be afraid to step up.

In 1950, when I was ten, my mother had a “mystery” illness. She had horrible rashes and a terrible cough. Nothing seemed to help; she was sent to the hospital for tests and rest. She was away from me for days. Even having her gone for hours was too much for me. My dad was home after school; his sister, my aunt Rose, who lived nearby, filled in. But for me, there was no substitute for Mom.

Adding to my heartache was the hospital rule that barred visits from children under twelve—something about spreading germs in one direction or another. I begged my dad to break the rules, and although he had snuck me into the theater for a Jimmy Cagney gangster movie or two, he wouldn’t budge.

“Why not write a letter to the doctor, Babs? I will make sure he gets it.”

“Will he be mad?”

“Don’t worry about that—he needs to know how these hospital rules hurt kids who want to see their parents.”

Thankfully, my mother came home soon after I wrote my letter. But it wasn’t until 1978, after my father’s death, that I found my letter, clearly never delivered, along with his other mementos in a large accordion-style manila folder in his desk.

Dear Doc:

I am Mrs. Levy’s daughter and would love to see my mother very much. I didn’t see my mother when she left, only a little while, about five minutes before I went to school. I have no sickness, only a little belly ache now and then. I won’t make a lot of noise. I miss my mother very much so can’t I see her? Thanks for reading this letter.

Sincerely yours,

Barbara Levy

As a backup, I also wrote to my mother.

Dear Mom:

How mean can a person be? If they don’t let me in they really are mean. I will be so happy if I see you. In school I am in the Mexican group [a study group on Mexican culture and arts]. In fact I am the chairman.

Love and many kisses to you,

Babs

Delivered or not, I guess that letter to the “Doc” was my first “truth to power” correspondence, of which I have written many more in my lifetime.

3. Beware of anger.

Being tough doesn’t give you license to dive into an angry rage. That can lead to uncontrollable violence. I know. I did an awful thing in anger when I was in sixth grade. There was one kid—his name was Albert—who was harassing me and driving me nuts: pulling my hair, chasing me around, and shouting nasty things. Every day!

Honestly, I don’t know why he was doing it, but boys in those days engaged in this behavior around girls to get their attention. I was little—still am—and so was Albert, so I was an easy target for him.

The antics were mostly harmless, but to me it was adding up. I didn’t want this attention from him, and I had just gone through the same sort of problem with another boy named Jay, who chased me down a dirt hill filled with broken glass and debris, which was my path home from school on a regular basis.

One day, the predictable happened on my usual “run away from Jay” activity. I tripped, flying through the air and landing, my knees and elbows scraped, thoroughly embarrassed. When I got home, Mom told me she was going to the principal’s office to put an end to it.

Mom’s visit to the school turned into a “she said versus she said” between my mother and Jay’s mother, and the whole thing was a humiliation. So when it came to Albert, I decided to take matters into my own hands and put an end to Albert’s harassment in a big way. Big mistake.

Toward the end of the school day, when the halls were emptying out and nobody was watching, Albert insulted me—something about my height and my clothes. He got up in my face and punched me in the shoulder. I lost it. I took my number-two sharp lead pencil out of my pencil case and stabbed him in the upper arm. Fortunately, no one saw this happen, but oh, my God, it was awful. Albert started crying and so did I, but neither of us made this public. Me, because I had lost it and I knew it; Albert because he deserved it and I’m certain he knew it. It became our nasty secret.

I was immediately stunned at my own loss of control. What I’d done was contrary to everything taught by my parents. I was so ashamed. I told no one about it, but my punishment was coming, the self-inflicted punishment of anguish.

The day after the stabbing, Albert didn’t show up for school. My heart sank. He was also gone the day after that. On my way home on the third day, I saw a black crepe cloth over the front door of his house. Now I knew the truth. I had killed him.

I ran home and cried to my mother. After listening quietly, she expressed her total shock that I would do such a thing.

“I’m surprised at you, Barbara Sue,” she said, using the name my parents used when they were serious. “You know what a terrible thing you’ve done. But I doubt that you’ve killed Albert, and will call the principal to make sure.”

It turned out that Albert’s grandfather had died and the household was in mourning. I felt really bad for the family, but I felt such joy to see my nemesis when he returned to school. I even hugged him. Me hugging Albert. He wasn’t amused or particularly happy to see me, but after that, he left me alone.

I learned that using my fists or a sharp pencil was not the way to go. I had agonized, felt guilt and remorse, and it probably would have been better to tell Mom to make another trip to the principal’s office, even though it would have been “babyish.”

I felt so lucky that it had all turned out okay.

Over the years, and I admit this with some difficulty, I learned to channel my anger, control it, analyze it, talk it over with those I trust, and map out a strategy to confront the issue in a smart way. Taking a pause is good for me because sometimes I can overreact or misconstrue a situation. There are other ways to win an argument. I wasn’t going to repeat that fiasco.

In my work over forty years, I’ve had to be much tougher than I thought. Guys like Albert were a piece of cake compared to what I was confronted with day after day. Of course there were good things too, which kept me going. The more I have been attacked for my views and actions, the more I’ve stood up to it, and the more support I have received.

That support has been the wind at my back, pushing me forward, and I’m truly grateful for it. That support has made me a much better person, secure and unafraid of the venom, able to get past it and do my work without anger.

4. Forgive.

I forgave Albert and he eventually forgave me. It was to our mutual advantage. You can’t go on living or working with someone if you hold a grudge or let any kind of lingering resentment fester in your heart.

I saw my parents get mad at friends and relatives but never for long. They always let it go, forgave whatever perceived grievance there had been, kept their eyes on the big picture, and put it behind them.

My parents were the youngest of their siblings and called themselves “change-of-life babies,” a common term used back then to describe children born to moms in their forties; “unexpected blessings” was another description.

Everyone came to our very modest home, a two-bedroom apartment on Lefferts Avenue that may have been a thousand square feet. Even so, the door to that apartment was open to all relatives. My dad’s brother, Uncle Murray, was a charming guy, about fifteen years older than Dad, who would arrive unannounced, give us all giant hugs, and sleep on my mother’s favorite piece of furniture: her beautiful gray velvet couch in the living room. His dapper shoes would be neatly laid out, peeking out from under the couch with the fancy fringes hanging down onto his shoe tops. Murray would stay for days on end. He never said when he would come; he never said when he would go.

He was filled with stories of his sales career in which he would sell whatever was “popular”—even religious statues to nuns and priests, he would recount. When embarking on the sales tour to these Catholic institutions to sell his wares, he would tell them his name was Murray Kelley, not Murray Levy.

Murray was a bantamweight boxer as a young man and had the cauliflower ears to prove it. He was, in brief, “exotic,” and the total opposite of my intellectual dad.

He was also a guy who took advantage of my parents’ generosity. He took and took and took. He never cleaned up our small apartment. He never offered to pay for a meal out or even in, and although he was funny and engaging, he clearly was unappreciative.

My parents were hurt by Uncle Murray year after year, but they forgave him. I would listen to their heartfelt discussions every time he left, and how they knew he had a hard life, no permanent home, and no lasting marriage.

“He keeps everything inside under that happy exterior,” said my mother. “He needs us,” said my dad.

So Murray continued to show up at the door filled with his stories and his charm, the clothes on his back, the shoes under the couch, and big hugs, for years and years and years, fully forgiven for his trespasses.

Great lesson, especially for the daily give-and-take of national politics where someone can steal your idea one day, but the next day is your biggest advocate. But it is true for everyone, in any situation in which conflict can be expected on a regular basis, whether it’s at home or at work, you must be ready to forgive. Not that you should ever forget the really bad stuff. If it recurs, put that person in the part of your heart that can’t be touched by them anymore.

5. Fight against racism.

Ebbets Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, was six blocks from our apartment house, so during night games, I could hear the cheers, the boos, and the hoopla. I wanted to go to the games like crazy and Dad was very pleased to accommodate me.

Dad was the only one in his family to graduate from college, let alone law school. He viewed baseball the way many European immigrants did. A mastery of the subtle intricacies of the game made them more worthy, they felt, of the adopted land that they loved so much for saving them from oppression.

So off we went, and right away I fell in love with number forty-two, Jackie Robinson. Me and a few million others! My dad told me about Jackie—what a trailblazer he was, what a great athlete; what incredible character he had to stand up to the bigotry, hatred, and spitting and derision from many fans and players on other major league teams. There was even some racial tension in the Dodger clubhouse itself at first. My father told me that some players insinuated they would sit out rather than play alongside Robinson, but the mutiny ended when Dodgers management took a stand for Robinson. Manager Leo Durocher informed the team, “I don’t care if the guy is yellow or black, or if he has stripes like a fuckin’ zebra. I’m the manager of this team, and I say he plays. What’s more, I say he can make us all rich. And if any of you cannot use the money, I’ll see that you’re traded.”

Robinson did it all by maintaining his dignity, controlling his anger, and playing baseball like nobody else in the world. He set off excitement just by walking to the plate. I remember seeing his pigeon-toed stance as if it were yesterday. Jackie’s presence on the bases in the fifties was electric. The way he moved away from first base, leaning and longing to steal second, rattled every pitcher.

As I became older, I realized that his courage on the field was part of the way he lived his life. He was a symbol of hopes and dreams, not only for African Americans, but even for me. I cheered him with all my girl power as hard as I could… until I was hoarse. When I met my husband eight years later, a major impediment was that he was—perish the thought!—a Yankees fan. To this day, more than fifty-five years later, it’s still a sore spot.

But there I was, already feeling the stirrings of the civil rights movement in my heart. How could anyone want to harm Jackie? How could anyone be treated like a second-class citizen?

In 1950, when my mother was released from the hospital (after the stay that inspired my letter to the doctor), she was told to go to Florida for doses of sun. Sitting in the sun all day was thought to be good for your health back then, and the doctor also felt that after all her tests, she needed to rest in a warm setting.

Knowing that I would be miserable without her, my parents decided I should go with her. I was not happy at that prospect because I had to miss a week of school. I just wanted Mom home to be there for me. But the doctor won again and there I was, miles away from Brooklyn, surrounded by heated swimming pools with the ocean across the street.

Despite these amenities, I was grumpy, so after the sun and rest seemed to work, and Mom started to feel better, she said, “Let’s go to the movies!” I jumped at the chance and grabbed her hand as we headed for the bus stop. Leaving the hotel grounds and gliding down Collins Avenue where the bright light bounced off spanking-new hotels, I felt free and happy. We stepped onto a bus and the unexpected happened… something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

It was very crowded, but we were able to find seats side by side. The bus went to the next stop. An elderly black woman got on and I jumped up to give her my seat as I’d had been taught to do since forever.

“No, but thank you,” the woman said. I tried to insist, but she walked past us to the back. I was hurt… I didn’t understand why she refused the courtesy. I looked at my mother, who bent toward me and whispered, “This is the South, honey. She has to go to the back of the bus because of the color of her skin.”

“What?” I was so surprised. “Why?”

“That’s the way it is here. Segregated.”

So there was my mom, far from Brooklyn, away from my dad, whose college and law degrees she helped make possible with her support, love, and sacrifice, alone with me and face-to-face with racial prejudice. She could have ignored it, said it was none of our business, let it go, and allowed the moment to pass. But Mom saw this moment as a key one for me and I’ve loved her for that ever since.

“Follow me,” she said, grabbing my hand.

She led me to the back of the bus. Since there were no seats left, we stood next to a pole near the rear exit. My mom held on to the pole. I held on to my mom. I felt like the other passengers were staring at us, some maybe even glaring. At that point, I knew we were somehow behaving differently and we were doing it on purpose. Mom explained what was happening by whispering in my ear, and I felt grown up, part of her team.

But I was a little unsettled. Then Mom did what she often did when I needed comforting. She rubbed my back with her strong fingers, up and down my spine, across my shoulders, as the bus rolled slowly down the boulevard, making stops, letting people on and off. At one stop the elderly black lady gave me a little smile and descended the steps. I wanted to say something to her, but I noticed that Mom was silent, so I followed suit.

My mom never knew that one day, as a United States senator, her daughter would meet Rosa Parks, the woman who changed the bus craziness, and sit in the Capitol rotunda as a statue of Ms. Parks was dedicated. She didn’t know I would also co-sponsor a law to honor Jackie Robinson with a Congressional Gold Medal in 2003. She didn’t know that single gesture on the bus would mold me. Or did she?

6. It’s better to be strong on an issue, even if you turn out to be wrong.

My parents were always clear and bold in their beliefs, never wishy-washy. It’s the same thing Bill Clinton told many of us the first time in 1991, when he was running for president:

“It’s what the voters want,” he said to a group of House members in Washington with his usual good-humored generosity of spirit. “And you’ll see… It’s what your constituents will want. They’ll forgive you some mistakes, but won’t vote for you again if you’re a wimp.”

I quote this advice to anyone seeking a life of public service. One of my mentors, former congressman John Burton, said it another way: “Always go with your gut.”

It’s important to know what you believe and to stand up for it. It is not only respect that you will show yourself but it also shows respect for those you wish to represent, or serve with, by not pandering or flattering them if it goes against your true opinion.

I cannot overstate the importance of this principle. If you are not strong when you make your case to your staff, your colleagues, and your constituents, and, most important, to yourself, you might as well “hang up your cleats,” “fold up your cards,” “give up the ship,” or whatever colloquialism you might use.

All of my mentors lived by this principle and I have as well—particularly when the votes I cast went contrary to popular opinion.

Whether it was “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” the war in Iraq, gay marriage, bloated defense budgets, bank regulation, or holding up bills that were being touted as bipartisan, or even objecting to an election I thought was rigged, if I felt the policies were dangerous and wrong, I stood up—sometimes alone. In these cases, I was willing to lose my seat over these views, but I was taught to be strong. If you are wrong in the voters’ eyes, they will forgive you if they see your passion, your conviction, and your courage.

7. Sing. Sing? Yes, sing!

Music was a major part of my family life. My mom had a beautiful singing voice and my dad could play a mean piano. He could sight-read anything from sheet music: show tunes, movie tunes. In the forties we stood around an old upright in our tiny living room and sang songs from the forties, thirties, and twenties. In those years of singing with my parents, I learned to love the clever, funny, and romantic lyrics to many songs. In the fifties we sang music from My Fair Lady. We sang songs by Irving Berlin, like “How Deep Is the Ocean,” and “Getting to Know You” by Rodgers and Hammerstein, and songs from Porgy and Bess by George and Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward.

There was real value in a piece of sheet music. In 1956, “Sleepy Time Gal” cost thirty-five cents and three songs from My Fair Lady cost eighty-five cents. I still have the old sheet music and keep it in my piano bench. It’s fraying but in good shape. When I’m alone at home, I pull out these songs and play them, but I’m not even close to my father’s skill. Scientists say that our brains are wired to connect music with our long-term memory. All I know is that as I look back on my life, music has been a way for me to forget the troubles of the world and focus on the good things of life.

Right before I entered high school in 1954, Dad wrote me a beautiful note.

To my daughter Babs:

Now that the elementary school door has closed behind you, you’re about to enter the larger halls of high school with all its additional responsibility. Through it all, however, please continue to dance and never let the song escape from your heart.

Dad

In grade school, high school, and summer camp I took part in organized music: choruses, plays, and performances. My diva moment was playing Liza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.

As an adult, singing and music continued to play a major role as relaxation and distraction from the stress and pressure of my political life. In raising our children, my husband, Stewart, and I made sure they too appreciated music. We bought a used piano from a twenty-year-old who wanted to exchange it for a “hi-fi.” Lucky for us, it was a 1906 Steinway Baby Grand and it remains one of our most prized possessions.

Later, singing and a new skill I developed writing lyrics to fit famous melodies became an interesting part of my political life. After I was sworn in for my first term in the House of Representatives in 1983, singing actually changed a discriminatory policy forbidding women representatives from using the House gym.

Incredible. I couldn’t believe it.

The men had a fully equipped gym with a large selection of weight training equipment, a big area of massage tables, and lavish shower rooms. We “girls” were consigned to a tiny room with a couple of showers and five huge hair dryers, the old-fashioned kind that they still have at hair salons, with big hoods that slide over your head. There was no exercise equipment, and hardly any space to even do stretches. It was like segregation: separate and unequal, clearly a gym in name only. As a Californian I was much offended at this, since in our state we had a workout sensibility for everyone, not just men.

An aerobic lesson I tried to run with my friend Claudette for the House women changed everything.

Congresswomen Geraldine Ferraro and Olympia Snowe walked in, looking like they could have stepped out of Vogue magazine. Their outfits were casual elegance—expensive t-shirts and jogging suits, all in perfect spandex. The rest of us wore “lived-in” attire. Several other friends were there as well. I’ll never forget my House colleague Barbara Mikulski, who was about to make history by becoming the first Democratic woman ever elected in her own right to the United States Senate.

After Claudette said, “Hands on hips, bend at the waist” to the six of us, Barbara yelled out: “Look, if I had a waist, I wouldn’t be here!” Everyone cracked up, but we also realized that this tiny space was impossible. We couldn’t even stretch our arms out to the sides without hitting one another.

We tried everything we could to integrate the gym but struck out. Finally, lyrics won the day. I was so frustrated, I sat down and wrote new words to the song “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.” I showed them to my fellow female representatives Marcy Kaptur and Mary Rose Oakar, both of whom could carry a tune. We sang it to our Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee chairman Tony Coelho, who suggested we sing it to the entire Democratic caucus. He truly thought it would bring a smile and a change of heart and policy.

We knew we needed to get it just right if this was to work. We were very nervous before the performance. Everyone kept saying “no” to our simple request to use the gym. The powerful Dan Rostenkowski complained that if we got into the facility, he would have to empty out his stash of shampoo that he kept there.

Huh? As if a group of congresswomen were going to steal beauty products out of the lockers?

I called our singing group into a huddle.

“Smile, above all else,” I said. “We don’t want to come off as angry.”

God forbid women who wanted equal rights should be seen as angry. We should have been! But I remembered the lessons I had learned: Smile and be nice while being tough.

“And,” I added, “Enunciate. It does no good if they don’t understand the words.”

With that, we let it rip.

Exercise, glamorize, where to go, will you advise?

Can’t everybody use your gym?

Equal rights, we’ll wear tights,

Let’s avoid those macho fights.

Can’t everybody use your gym?

We’re not slim, we’re not trim.

Can’t we make it hers and him?

Can’t everybody use your gym?

We’re only asking… can’t everybody use your gym?

(Big finish)

Our male colleagues loved it. By the way, there were 413 of them and 22 of us then. It worked. They finally let us use the gym. First they suggested special hours, but we fought it and said no. Then they tried other tricks such as just opening the gym to women on weekends. We said no again. Finally the gym was opened for everyone, period.

Over the years I have used homemade lyrics and rhymes to vent my feelings, with humor, irony, and, yes, on occasion, bitterness. I can’t say they’ve ever changed a policy as easily as the House gym song did, but I can say that my rhymes and lyrics have brought smiles where there were frowns. Sometimes they underscored that the fight was worth it, and in a way I never thought they would, they document my years dealing with issues and personalities, challenges and priorities. (I have sprinkled some examples of my rhymes throughout the book and in the Appendix.)

In the House I named our singing group the Red, White and Blues. In the Senate I named it DA DEMS. It consisted of Lucy Calautti, a good friend and wife of my former colleague Kent Conrad, Liz Tankersley, who was my first legislative director, and Senator Debbie Stabenow, who did some cabaret singing in her early years. Barbara Levin, Senator Carl Levin’s wife, sang with us from time to time. Special appearances were made over the years by colleagues Byron Dorgan, Tom Daschle, and Dan Akaka. Saving the day was our guitarist Kent Ashcraft, who used to play in the Marine band. Yes, men too. No segregation here!

Not every verse I wrote was performed, but many were, usually at Democratic retreats and meetings. They were a light break from all the serious conversation.

8. Go for your dreams.

It is hard to remember just how difficult it was for girls in the fifties to dream big. Certain careers were wide open for you—secretary, teacher, nurse, telephone operator. Outside of that, it was slim pickings.

I credit my dad for getting me to think very differently. Looking back on it, I wonder if it was because he never had a son. Mom and Dad had suffered a miscarriage and lost twin boys. I don’t know if that had anything to do with it. What I do know is that in addition to taking me to Dodger games and gangster movies, Dad also shared his love of the stock market with me and always took me outside to play catch with a pink little ball we called “a Spalding,” named after the company that made it.

He got such a kick out of throwing the ball above my head and watching me jump high to catch it—which I became pretty good at. But at the end of the day, my dad himself was really a role model at dreaming big. He went to City College at night after a full day’s work to earn his degree in accounting and become a CPA. Then, when he was over forty years old, he graduated from Brooklyn Law School after four years of night school. He dreamed of becoming a true American, and was aware of all issues and responsibilities of citizenship. So education was everything to him and he put out an extraordinary effort for himself and his family.

In my life I never followed the traditional path for a woman. I majored in economics, worked on Wall Street, and went into politics. I did marry at the traditional age of twenty-one and we had our two children before we hit our thirties. But if I hadn’t followed my dreams, this book would be vastly different.

9. Never settle for less than love.

My mother taught me that it wasn’t important to have a huge number of “friends” around you.

“If you have only one friend, and she or he is truly a friend, count yourself lucky,” she said. “What’s important is to make sure those you confide in, those you spend your time with, those you care about, truly care about you too.”

I remember a particular case in point. In high school I was stuck on this guy named Oscar. He was an unusual choice for me: a foreign-born student from Eastern Europe. I knew that he had a very troubled life and that somehow was appealing to me. So I asked my parents if I could invite my new “boyfriend” over for dinner.

“Mom,” I said, “I don’t think he’s ever eaten steak in his life!”

Food was always a way to show affection for my family and my mother was pleased to share our bounty. My father was less enthusiastic, but he always was when I told him I had a boyfriend.

Let me be clear: we were far from rich or even in the middle of the middle class. Anyway, Oscar started to come over on a regular basis and began eating us out of house and home. I loved it until he started acting weird. He became jealous if I even talked to another boy and made fun of the fact that I was co-chairman of the Boosters, a group that cheered on our not-so-winning high school basketball team.

“Why do you care about this silliness?” he said. “You are spoiled rotten by your parents.”

Now maybe he was right, but my life was warm and I was surrounded by love, and I didn’t understand why he felt that I was being spoiled. I began to doubt myself and was having a very hard time dealing with his criticism and cynicism. Through it all I still liked him, but wound up confused and mad at myself. So, you guessed it, I took it to my mom.

She had a simple solution.

“If any person in your life doesn’t really care about you, hurts you, especially if you have shown them love, then walk away and walk away fast,” she said. “Why do you need it? What good does it do you? I know you feel bad for Oscar because his life isn’t as good as yours, but if your warm family life makes him jealous, well, that’s his problem. He doesn’t understand that there’s a big difference between being spoiled and being loved.”

There she was again: giving me advice I would have had to pay an analyst thousands for if I couldn’t follow her wisdom. I told Oscar we should break up because I was too young to have just one boyfriend. He didn’t argue, just looked sullen, as if he expected it. He walked away. As he did, I felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from me. Maybe it was lifted from him too.

So, yes, find good people who truly care about you, give them your love and support, give them respect, but expect it back. Otherwise, take a hike. Get away. Find real love, real friendship.

No wonder when I was eleven I wrote the following rhyme to my mother. I found it in her jewel box after she died:

I’ll always love my mother.

She is so dear to me.

And when a good thing happens

She’s always there to see.

She makes delicious suppers

That I just love to eat

And when she tucks me in at night

It really is a treat.

And so when you give out medals

My mom deserves the prize.

She is a wonderful person

In everybody’s eyes.

So that’s the legacy of my childhood, the core values I’ve carried with me throughout all of my political career. Each time I encountered tough personalities—both those who agreed with me and those who opposed—these lessons have served me well.