To mark the hundredth anniversary of President Ronald Reagan's birth, son Ron Reagan has written "My Father at 100: A Memoir." Read an excerpt of the book below, CLICK HERE for photos of Ronald and Ron Reagan and watch an interview with Ron Reagan on "20/20" Friday at 10 p.m. ET
We all cobble together an internal account of our lives; in that, Dad was entirely typical. Virtually everyone creates a mental album of memories and anecdotes that, ultimately, passes for our version of a life story. We are all the protagonists of our own narratives, of course -- the indispensable main character; on a good day, the hero. In that sense, Dad was just like everyone else. Only peculiarly more so. For most of us, the boundaries of our personal tale are relatively fluid and amenable to outside influence. Our story selection, even the sense of our own character, shifts as new circumstances arise: One day we're a rebel folk hero in the making, the next day, a contented corporate cog. But Dad's story, I believe, was far more comprehensive in its sweep and consistent in its narrative details than is the case for most people. Keeping its primary themes intact and inviolate, safe from the depredations of an intrusive, ambiguous, and contradictory world, was for him an endeavor of existential import. My father didn't create his personal narrative to put one over on anyone. On the contrary, with its creation, he was forming a template for his life. He wanted to be seen -- he wanted to truly be -- an estimable individual who made his way through life as a positive force in the world, a man people would admire for all the right reasons.
Critics have long accused him of falseness, of merely acting out assigned roles. Such a superficial analysis ignores the central curiosity of my father's character: He played only one role, ever, and he did so unconsciously, totally absorbed in its performance.
Reading his early high school and college essays, and considering his film career, among other things -- and with plenty of opportunity for personal observation along the way -- I see two primary threads jumping out of my father's story line: that fierce desire to be recognized as someone noteworthy, even heroic; and his essentially solitary nature.
On the one hand, he reveled in public exposure -- the bigger the stage, the more comfortable he was. He warmed to applause and the approval of crowds. He counted on the support of those around him. But in the film unwinding in his mind, Dad was always the loner, compassionate yet detached, who rides to the rescue in reel three. This role could become tedious -- it's fun to be bad on occasion -- and would prove unhelpful to his professional goals, for just as Hollywood was marketing ambivalent antiheroes, Dad was looking to wear an unblemished white hat in conventional westerns. Yet when he became a politician, circumstance and story line meshed beautifully: Don't we want our presidents to be heroes?