Joe Biden and the lesson of never forgetting where you came from

The congressman I worked for at the beginning of my career died in April at 96. Nearly 40 years ago, he chose me as an intern, and then a year later, he hired me and gave me the start to my unbelievable career.

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I never forgot his faith in me; as a result, I stayed in touch with him all my life, always letting him know how grateful I was. I wrote about him in my hometown newspaper, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. I told people it was my last official act as his press secretary.

I’ll never understand why I was picked. I grew up in modest surroundings, had no political connections, and no one in my family ever contributed to his campaign or any campaign for that matter. I was a goofy kid who got 840 on his SATs and attended a college no one ever heard of, Clarion University. It was there that I decided I wanted to be a press secretary. But how would I ever do that, considering where I came from and who I was?

But it happened, and it allowed me to embark on a truly incredible journey, through the rarefied world of Capitol Hill and Washington, D.C., to an exciting life of 30 years in New York City, as a standout PR professional.

During all that time, I never, ever forgot where I came from. Still don’t. When I went back for the congressman’s funeral, it was as if I had never left that bucolic and blue-collar area of southwestern Pennsylvania, and I think part of the reason why I still felt at home is because I never forgot that it was truly home.

There is so much being said and written about President Joe Biden and his courageous and humble decision to withdraw from the presidential race. I wrote previously, as I did often, about Biden, always in glowing terms. That’s because I really loved the guy.

And last night, during his historic speech from the Oval Office, he crystallized why I have loved him so much for so long. When he said, “Nowhere else on Earth could a kid with a stutter” from Scranton, Pennsylvania, become president ... and here I am,”

Yes, he’s said it before. He’s told the story about his very humble beginnings, about his father, who called him Joey, and endured years of financial struggle, about his stuttering which led to classmates teasing him, about his neighborhood, and the people he grew up with. Joe, the kid from Scranton, is still a moniker he uses, even at 81. He did last night. Regardless of how old you are, many of us still feel like the kid we were when we were growing up.

President Biden has taught us so many lessons over his 50+ years in public service, about enduring unfathomable loss with his first wife and daughter, about recovering from a serious illness, about running for and failing to win the presidency twice and still not giving up. Losing his beloved Beau. And he taught us a huge lesson in humility during the past week.

Joe Biden is humble because he never forgot where he came from, and that’s a lesson that he’s imparted throughout his life in that rarefied world of Washington, D.C., Congress, the U.S. Senate, the vice presidency, and president. He reached the pinnacle of success that only 45 men before him in the history of our country have done. Joey, the kid from Scranton.

Is it a coincidence that I dreamed last night about the small red-brick three-bedroom, one-bathroom home that I grew up in for the first 16 years of my life? Perhaps, but I dream about that home constantly. For some reason, regardless of what the dream’s about, that home appears.

I watched the moon landing at that house. It’s where I first realized I was gay and endured all the pain that came with it. I threw a rubber baseball at the back of the house from a makeshift pitcher’s mound in the backyard over and over and over again. I shared a tiny bedroom with my brother and watched my dad shave every morning in the cramped bathroom. And I was with my dad when he died in the narrow driveway on Marmion Drive, in the North Hills of Pittsburgh. That house is constant: It informs me and it haunts me.

You always got the sense that Biden knew where he came from. I would bet that he also dreams of the Scranton apartment and homes where he grew up. He was right last night when he said we don’t do kings in the United States. Joe Biden would make a lousy king, and that’s a good thing.

Throughout my life, professionally and personally, I’ve met thousands of people — no joke, as Biden would say, and no hyperbole, as he would add. I’ve met and worked with countless celebrities, politicians, authors, sports figures, CEOs, and so many people who have achieved so much in life. I could make a list, it would be rather short, of those who I sensed never forgot where they came from.

Similarly with friends and acquaintances. You’re hard-pressed to find anyone who actually grew up in Washington, D.C., or New York City. Everyone is a transplant, and it’s so easy to get caught up in the glamour and nobility of it all. I’ve met so many awful people who can’t get over themselves and can’t stop talking about all that they have. Private planes, multiple homes, $5,000 watches, etc. I always found it so tiresome.

At the same time, I could always tell who never forgot their roots. It was these people that I gravitated toward, who I became friends with, and who I celebrated. My pet peeve is snobbery, and I think that’s because I don’t care for anyone who thinks they're better than me or anyone else.

My grandfather had a saying, “Even the queen squats to s**t,” and I think about that any time someone says to me, “I only fly private.”

Is never forgetting where you came from generational? In other words, in a society that has become transient, reliant on perfecting the perfect life on social media, that obsesses about the rich and famous, has coming from humble beginnings something to be embarrassed about?

I think that’s what I’ll miss most about Joe Biden, his firm grasp on the lessons of his childhood, and not letting go of the life he lived in Scranton, Pa. If taking pride in your past is a thing of the past, then we may never see the likes of Joey, with a stutter, from hardscrabble Scranton again.

Whenever I go back home and see that small red-brick house on Marmion Drive, I feel like I never left it. It feels like a permanent dream, and maybe that’s because those dreams about that house remind me to never forget it.

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