Dreams from My Father Okay? Read online

  Contents

  Dreams From My Father, Okay?

  Dedication

  About the Editor

  Introduction

  Me

  Before Me

  Me Again

  My Dream

  My Early Days

  My French Years

  Back Home

  I’m Officially Marvelous

  One Last Thing to Think About When You Think About Me

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Notes

  Dreams From My Father, Okay?

  The Secret Memoir

  of Mitt Romney

  ****

  Being a Frank and Full Account of His Wonderful Life

  as a Severe Conservative, Classic Mormon, Sensational Family Man,

  Quarter-Billionaire, and Possessor of

  the Finest Crop of Hair in Presidential Politics

  ****

  Mysteriously Acquired, Lightly Edited,

  and Boldly Introduced

  by John Sedgwick

  Dedication

  For my daughters, Sara and Josie,

  who’ve put up with a lot of jokes from me already

  And for Rana

  who makes everything funnier

  About the Editor

  John Sedgwick is a writer and political operative best known for his revelatory The Secret Life of Citizen Obama , a compilation of private documents discovered in the files of the University of Chicago in 2008. One document unaccountably missing from the files was the future president’s birth certificate. Sedgwick’s innocent inquiry into the location of this missing document created a national sensation. Himself a controversial figure who prefers not to reveal anything about his own private life or background, Mr. Sedgwick acknowledges only that he lives somewhere on the East Coast. He served six months in prison in 2009 for refusing to divulge any of his sources for Citizen Obama and has vowed to provide no help to the federal investigation into his sources for the Romney memoir you now hold in your hands (or on your electronic delivery device, as the case may be). Mr. Sedgwick’s discovery of this private memoir has already provoked outrage from the Romney campaign, which has undertaken an all-out public relations campaign to vilify him. Eric Fehrnstrom, a spokesman for the campaign, has labeled Mr. Sedgwick “Public Enemy Number One,” and Ann Romney, the candidate’s wife, has called his actions “utterly despicable.” A rival presidential candidate, former Senator Rick Santorum, on the other hand, has praised Mr. Sedgwick as an “incredibly great American.” And Rick Perry, governor of Texas, adds, “If Mr. Sedgwick can do to that skunk what that skunk did to me, I’d be one happy guy.”

  Introduction

  This 129-page manuscript was found stored on a 16 megabyte Panasonic flash drive that was resting on a bed of cotton inside a small, inlaid mahogany box bearing the initials MR. The exact details of how it was found, where, and how it came to me—none of this can be disclosed beyond what has already been revealed in the press, as the entire matter is currently the subject of a federal investigation. Counsel assures me I can legally confirm the following: the matter did involve a German tourist, an unlocked door that led downstairs to a dusty basement, and a wall panel that swung open when the tourist brushed against it. It may further be said that all this took place in the small, red-brick Mormon tabernacle in the former cotton-growing town of St. George, Utah, that Mitt Romney’s great grandfather, Miles P. Romney, helped build in 1867. (This tabernacle is not, of course, to be confused with the far grander Tabernacle in the Mormon capital of Salt Lake City three hundred miles north.)

  Read a few pages of this manuscript, and you will see why it has already gained international attention and heavy consternation from the Romney campaign, for it yields a stunning new understanding of the “real” Mitt Romney, a character long hidden from view. Read the whole thing, and, well, judge for yourself. This manuscript will shift the media talk from the notion of Romney’s being a “tin man” to how complex he is, sometimes disturbingly so. With remarkable candor, he discusses his tortured relationship with his Mormon faith; his bitter rivalry with his father; his many debilitating sexual hang-ups that have pushed his marriage to the brink; his pathological love of money; his resentment of all the attention that his dog, Seamus, has received in the campaign; his acute regrets about choosing Nancy Reagan as his running mate in 2008; and his aspirations to be president for life. The issues are explosive, but the style is always refreshing—juvenile, at times, yes, but also thoughtful, humorous, quirky, and profound. For again and again, Romney returns to the fundamental questions: Who am I? and Why am I like this?

  This is the Mitt Romney even Ann Romney doesn’t know. It’s Mitt Romney’s unfettered attempt to answer the biggest question of this election year—

  I.

  Me

  1. To Begin With

  Who is Mitt Romney?

  I get this question a lot, and I’ve thought about it a good deal, and it’s an important one, quite honestly. And despite all the words that have been poured out by me and by so many others on the campaign trail, I can’t honestly say that that question has been answered, at least not to my satisfaction.

  The truth is, I’m not Mitt Romney. I’m Millard Mitt Romney. On that point, people have claimed that I’m actually Willard Mitt Romney, named for Willard Marriott, of the hotel chain. That’s just silly. Who would ever name his kid Willard?

  No, it’s Millard, for one of America’s most memorable presidents, Millard Fillmore, the pride of Moravia, New York, in the Finger Lakes where New York State Route 38 joins Route 38A. He was born in a log cabin, just as I was in my own campaign literature. (Do yourself a favor and look him up—fascinating man, a Whig.) And when my parents first looked down at me in our cabin, they saw a president, just as the Fillmores did.

  But enough about me. Let me ask you: Who do you think I am? Whatever you might say, I bet you ten thous—make that a buck that it is not who I think I am.

  I am writing this book to close that divide.

  I want you to know me as I know me. But if you can’t, I will endeavor to be whomever you think I am, or should be, for that matter. So please, go to my website, www.whoshouldMittRomneybe.com, and fill out a short, online questionnaire, listing your preferences on the important issues of the campaign (handguns, contraception, crabgrass) and then, in the second part, please consider the various ways I might adjust my personality to be more to your liking. Like No. 4: Should I be funnier, do you think? As a way of lightening it up a little? Or more serious, befitting the grave perils faced by our nation under a Democratic administration? Could I possibly be nicer (No. 13)? Ann thinks I don’t seem very nice when I’m out at an Elk’s Club of East Oshkosh Bar-B-Q and somebody drips chili on my button-down. What about you? To be honest, I probably could be nicer, but right now I don’t see the point. I mean, if, say, I’m 5 percent nicer—a reasonable amount—what’s the yield? What will it get me? Twenty votes? Fifty? Is that really worth it? Now, would you like to see me in your living room five nights a week (No. 17)? (On the TV, I mean.) Okay, why not (No. 18)? Am I real enough (No. 22)? Which of my five houses do you think I should spend the most time in (No. 23)? (Aside from the White House, of course!!!) Should I go after Barack Obama for being bl—I mean a person of color (No. 31)? Or should I pretend he’s normal (No. 32)?

  I could use your guidance on these matters, and if you could indicate your thoughts by clicking on the little circle by the characteristic or position you would most like me to have, I would be very grateful. My campaign will calculate the winners, and you watch, you will see a remarkable change in my nature, appearance, and beliefs very soon. Look out, America!

  Also, if yo
u wouldn’t mind, you’ll see a blue bar to click on down at the bottom of the first Web page. Each click contributes $500 to our election effort, so that I can make America more like me, and you can make me more like the person you want me to be, which is to say—if you think the way I do—more like you. That’s the beauty of a democracy, let me tell you. So click that bar a few times, please! We accept PayPal and all major credit cards except Diner’s Club and anything having to do with huge discount stores such as Walmart or Costco. And goodness, no cash, or those jackals at the FEC will be all over me!

  The truth about Millard is our secret, by the way.

  2. That Ridiculous Business About the Dog

  I want you to know the real me, and not just another rehashing of anecdotes like that silly story about how I supposedly lashed the family dog to the roof of the station wagon for a trip to Canada. But since I am on it, I do want to correct a few misconceptions. Yes, it’s true that we did drive to Canada with Seamus up there, and it did take something like twelve hours, and it was August, and it was blazing hot, but it wasn’t any easier for any of us inside the car. An Irish setter was too darned big for our station wagon once it was loaded up with my lovely wife, Ann, and our five handsome young boys and all our stuff. And what were we supposed to do, leave him behind in the kitchen?

  Seamus was fine, believe me. We didn’t Velcro his paws to the ski rack. He was in a spacious dog carrier I had outfitted with a special windshield so the wind wouldn’t blind him, or pin his ears back, or rough up his fur, or anything of that nature. I can’t say that the carrier had air-conditioning, but we didn’t either, okay?

  Are we clear about this? Yes, he did “go” on the trip, but that is only natural for a dog, wherever he is, over that length of time. I actually violated our itinerary and stopped 23.7 miles ahead of schedule and pulled into the very next gas station to hose down the roof, rear window, and Seamus a little bit. Whatever that lady columnist from the New York Times might say, and I wish she’d get off this, he loved it up there, he really did. When I unclipped the latches to spring him, he didn’t want to come down, but hunkered down on the far side from me, growling, and gave my right wrist a little nip when I reached for him, but nothing serious because he’d had his shots, and so have I. He had a blast up there. He had a better view than we did, and he didn’t have to listen to the Ronettes.

  And to all those dog people out there, the ones who are making such a fuss over this, turning up at my events with doggy ears and noses and little tails and howling at me all the time: you’re barking up the wrong tree!

  3. How Smart I Am, Part One

  Now, I know everyone will want to know all the real-me stuff like where I grew up and how I decorated my room and how I met Ann—that’s my wife, Ann. I love her just so much, and it is so tragic what has happened. It was when I was a Cub Scout, and she was on this huge horse and—well, I’ll tell that full story later. And there will be plenty of interest in what it was like to go off to convince French people to give up Godlessness and frivolity and try being earnest, teetotaling Mormons for all eternity, and how my dad might have been president of the United States if he hadn’t used one wrong word in an interview. On that last one, if I may? If he were here today, I’d tell him, “Dad, don’t just use one wrong word, use lots of them, so they don’t stick out. That’s my approach, and I am way ahead in the delegate count.”

  And I will get to all that, but first I need to focus the laser that is me on the American people. I learned to focus at the Harvard Law School, or was it the Harvard Business School? Forgive me, I sometimes get them mixed up because I attended both at the same time. (Well, actually I don’t, but doesn’t it sound less insufferable this way? My pollsters thought so. And, just so you’ll know, I did darned well in both programs. For my grades, see the appendix.)

  Fo-cus. Don’t just think about the one big thing; think about all the little things that go into the big thing, and, if you can, think of the really little things that go into the little things, and then scrunch up your eyebrows and bore in. You might even say, that is the big thing, all those really little things. So here—

  Who am I?

  Just six letters, but could there be a more important question?

  Let’s start at the beginning. The who. Who? A little word, who, but it is so important. It tells us so many things. In a murder mystery, for example, the “who” is the man, or sometimes the woman, who committed the murder. That’s why people ask, Who did it? Or whodunit as some people say. Not so grammatical, but it’s what they say. That who is the important part. Who?

  Now, when I was a kid, I had a friend who said, “Whew!” a lot, and I can’t remember his name, but I think of him now because Who kind of makes me go, “Whew!” Now, why? Why would I do that? This would not be much of an autobiography if I didn’t at least take a stab at the answer. I sweat easily, not many people know that. And, to be honest as you have to be in a book of this nature, the whole Who thing makes me a little sweaty on my upper lip and at my temples, and sometimes under my arms and up and down my back and on my chest, too, if you want to know. (The hair there gets matted down a little when it’s moist.) I have never said this before, and I didn’t really expect to now, but it is so.

  And I’ll tell you why. It’s because I sometimes see some more words right after, but hidden. Hidden from you, I mean, but I see them every time, and they make me terribly nervous. They go: Who am I . . . TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. Now, why, if I am myself running for president of the United States, do I say that? Well, I think the answer is this. My father ran for president, and I revere my father. I would be less than truthful if I told you that I believe that my father, Dad, was about as perfect a human being as you’ll ever find. Didn’t tell you, I mean. Didn’t tell you that. Sorry. And he said one little thing wrong one time, a little thing I won’t repeat because it has already been repeated a hundred million times, and Dad probably went to his grave mumbling it, and nothing was ever the same for him, or for me, or us, or anyone, after he said that one word just one measly time. 1 He had been way ahead of Nixon—now there’s a skunk. (See appendix for the exact poll numbers.) Before he said what he said, every Republican in the country was for my dad, just about. After he said what he said, nobody but nobody was for my dad. They all thought he was a stupid idiot moron to have said such a thing. Dad quit the race, now there was a bad day, and the best he could do in politics after that was be that skunk Nixon’s secretary of Housing and Urban Development so that Nixon could have the pleasure of kicking around George Romney, former president of American Motors and the handsomest man in presidential politics until me. And Dad never ran for anything again.

  That’s when I decided I am not going to be my dad. I am going to be better than my dad.

  4. Further Reflections on Myself

  All the great philosophers have asked that question, the Who-am-I one. Starting with our Lord Jesus Christ. And he was God. That was His answer to Who am I? I’m God. Well, I suppose the real answer there was that he was more like the son of God. But actually he was God, deep down, I mean. That is my belief. I have always believed that. I will go to my grave believing that, and I will rise up afterward and, with any luck, ascend into the magnificent Celestial Sphere—which is where all the very best Mormons end up—believing that, too. 2 Jesus Christ is God, but he was God dressed up for a while to be a regular guy, like he was in costume. Trick ‘r’ treating, say. Surprise! I love that holiday. Always went out with the kids—me in one of those plastic masks with the rubber bands. I was usually a gorilla. Ann went with us, and she was Fay Ray, from the movie King Kong that terrified me as a kid, only that may have been a reference nobody got since the movie came out in 1957, but we did. 3 Loved it.

  Trick or treat—that’s my kind of question, not from the trick ‘r’ treater, but from me as the keeper of the candy! It’s the key question: Am I the kind of person, the good kind, who’d give you candy in your Halloween basket without weighing the bas
ket, or weighing you, to see how much candy you had in there already? Or would I be the kind of person, the bad kind, who gives you the kind of candy with nuts, even though you’d told me you’re allergic?

  Well, I think I’m the good kind, and I think most fair-minded Republicans, the good kind like my dad, not those Tea Party nut jobs, would agree that I am the good kind, too.

  But—who am I? I. That is the other little word in that sentence that means so much more than you would think. There aren’t too many other words that are just one letter, and none of them gets to be a capital when it is standing by itself. I think it’s because I is so skinny. It has got to be the skinniest letter in the alphabet. I is so thin, you couldn’t see it wet, as we used to say in the Navy. (By this, I don’t mean to suggest that I myself was in the Navy, because I was not. I was serving with the Mormons at the time.) No, heavens, the point is that there is almost nothing to I, or to me, for that matter.

  Seriously. We are here on Earth for such a brief time, we are hardly here at all. I’ll share this: I was driving in France one time, and a woman was sitting beside me, and a truck veered out at us going very fast. It was driven by a deranged Catholic priest, actually, not that I have anything against Catholics, even now, after what happened. And it slammed into us and knocked us all around. I broke a few things in my body, quite a lot of them, actually, and when I came to at the hospital, I found out that the woman who had been sitting beside me was now dead. Fortunately, she was—is—a Mormon, so she is still alive someplace. I hope in the Celestial Sphere, since that is such a great neighborhood. But do you understand what I am saying? Because this is important. She was alive and then, well, snap your fingers. Because that’s how long it took her to be dead. And right beside me. That taught me a lot about life, about how it can flip over into death, just like my car did, only my car rolled over many times. And it rolled around, and stuff went everywhere, and then there’s death right next to you.