Ambassador Young

Ambassador Johnny Young. Johnny. Just plain, old Johnny, as Johnny once referred to himself. And that description may be the most remarkable thing about Johnny. He was just plain, old Johnny even when he was a four-time ambassador. His Christian humility seemed to gain luster with each promotion and award. I cannot stand here and unequivocally say that Johnny was the best man who ever walked this earth. But I can say, without hesitation or exaggeration, that he was the best man that I will ever know. Johnny. I can hardly say his name without smiling, without feeling better about myself, without feeling better about others, without feeling better about life. And my God, he loved life, he loved living. He lived life with tremendous passion and deep reverence. Johnny was so full of life that when he took his last breath, Death Itself must have been surprised.

I was honored, but not surprised when Johnny asked me to speak today. He would always tell me that I was way better than him with words. And I would always reply that he was way better than me at life. In truth, he was way better than anyone I have ever known at living. And one of this world’s many ironies is that those who love life best, greet death easiest. The lyrics “I get weary, sick of tryin’, I’m tired of livin, but scared of dyin” apply to many people, but not to Johnny. His faith in God, his faith in love, always transcended fear. Instead, Johnny lived Paul Robeson’s famous revision to those lyrics: “But I keep laughin’ instead of cryin’, I must keep fightin’ Until I’m dyin’.” For Johnny, life necessarily included suffering and struggles, but it was never a vale of tears. For Johnny, life was a banquet, a party, a dance which everyone could enjoy if they just let themselves.

Sometimes when re-reading the Sermon on the Mount, I think of how impractical it is, but then I think: what about Johnny? He did so many good deeds and helped so many others, he was so forgiving and so devoid of bitterness, that he almost seems too good to be true. And that simple cliche describes Johnny well. He was too good to be true and yet he was true, he was real, he was a good man. I don’t think he ever let anyone down. Certainly, never intentionally. He always stuck by those in need. Here’s a story that explains much of who Johnny is. On August 23, 2000, a Gulf Air flight crashed in Bahrain, killing all those onboard, including a wonderful, young American diplomatic courier named Seth. Seth had just gotten married a few weeks earlier and was really just starting his life. Typically, Washington was breathless to know all the details of the plane crash. We were getting calls from the White House and the highest levels of the State Department. I was busy at my desk when I looked up and there was Johnny all dressed up in a nice suit and he said to me: “Joe, you handle Washington. You know what to say.” And I looked at him bewildered and replied, “Johnny, this is a big deal. All of Washington is going crazy. The White House, the Secretary of State, they will want to talk to you, you’re the Ambassador.”  I then saw hovering at my threshold Angie, also all dressed up nicely and I thought for a brief moment: Are they crazy? They’re going to go to some fancy dinner party tonight? But the look on their faces told me that wasn’t their plan. Johnny explained: “Joe, I have something more important to do than talk to those people in Washington.” As I wondered what could possibly be more important, he continued: “Angie and I need to go tell Seth’s wife that he has died.” I was stunned. And I was ashamed. I hadn’t even thought of that matter. And I then realized that Johnny and Angie were probably the only Ambassadorial couple who would have chosen to console a young widow over getting to talk to the bigwigs in Washington. Angie. Even on this day it would be wrong not to confess that Johnny’s success as a leader and diplomat would have been far less had it not been for his Angie. Angelena, a force of nature and a force for good in her own right, made Johnny not just successful, but also that far more elusive goal: she made him happy.

A few words about our friendship. We became friends before we ever met. It was the winter of 1998 and my career was on the skids. I was trying to get a DCM position—a DCM is a sort of deputy ambassador. I had gotten half a dozen phone interviews with ambassadors during which I was grilled sometimes up to an hour about this or that issue, but none of the interviews went well. Those ambassadors were all way too savvy to choose me. My last chance was an interview with Johnny. I answered the phone, prepared for another marathon interview, but then suddenly, weirdly, after no more than three minutes, he asked: “So, you want the job?” I was speechless for a few seconds, but finally said, “Yes, Ambassador, hell yes, I want it.” And he blandly replied, “OK, then, we will meet up this summer.” And as I hung up the phone, I really wasn’t sure I had really gotten the job. The conversation had been so short, so seemingly superficial–and surreal. And for years I wondered how he had made his decision so quickly, and then one day, while playing Bridge, I finally just asked: “Johnny, that phone interview was so strange. We didn’t discuss anything important during it.” And Johnny looked up from his cards, smiled, and said: “You don’t remember do you, Joe?” “Remember what?”, I asked. “Well, Joe,” Johnny explained, “within two minutes you made me laugh. That’s all I needed to know.” Later, I realized how sensible his decision was. After all, almost any of us can do an adequate job as a DCM or as an ambassador, no matter what anyone else might tell you. It’s not such a big deal. What is really hard is finding someone you can enjoy being with, who you can work hard with and still have fun with. And my God, we had so much fun. Even the bad times were good times.

One other thing about our friendship. We had many things in common: concern for our subordinates, a skepticism about those in power, a love of country, a love of family, a love of good—and bad—jokes. But we often disagreed vehemently on political issues. Every now and then I would write an article and the very next day he would call me up to argue about it. Then one time, he didn’t call for almost a week after I had published a particularly controversial article. When he finally called to argue about it, all I could say was, “Oh, thank God, I thought you were upset with me!” And he just laughed that amazing laugh and said: “Joe, politics is one thing; our friendship is something else.” And so it was. He always stood by me; he never flinched whenever I needed him. When I got into a conflict with the Admiral of the 5th Fleet, Johnny wouldn’t back down. When I got criticized by the host foreign government, Johnny stayed at my side. When I had a dispute with the highest levels of the State Department, Johnny never wavered in his faith and affection.

The great Austrian psychiatrist and concentration camp survivor, Viktor Frankl, once explained that every freedom can be taken from us except one: the freedom to choose how to respond to what people do to us. This, I think, is what really sets Johnny apart. He had a hard life at times, he was treated unfairly at times. As a young boy, he was raised Catholic and yet was denied entry into a Catholic school because of his color. Much later, walking down the streets of Bethesda, as an adult, police would stop him for no reason other than his color. These sorts of incidents could easily have turned him into an embittered, cynical man. But he chose not to embrace bitterness. He remained a devout Catholic his entire life; he always retained an abiding devotion to his country that has not always lived up to its ideals. He refused to define himself as a victim and he refused to let bad things make him bad. I frankly doubt I would have been so gracious, so forgiving, so understanding, and so courageous. I would have failed miserably; Johnny succeeded spectacularly.

Even in his last days, while in severe pain and weakening, he was worried about my problems. Johnny understood that caring about other people makes you carefree about yourself. Johnny knew that the only real way to live was living for others. But I don’t want to make Johnny out to be too saintly. He was incredibly patient—except now and then with those he loved the most—but he could get angry. And there were a few people he didn’t like, although even those people I suspect he liked a little. His whole life glowed brightly. His smile could encircle this church like a halo, his laugh was the sweetest sound I have ever heard this side of heaven. He showed that a person can be saintly and still be human.

Life, for me, will always be a little brighter whenever I pause to think of Johnny’s laugh, and life will grow dim each time I think that he is no longer here to share a laugh with me. He was, he is, the kindest, most lovable man I have ever known. I am shaken. I am broken. I am also full of gratitude for being his friend. I would not trade the sorrow I feel today for all the joy this world might offer.

Last time I saw him we made shrimp fried rice together, then played Bridge. As I was leaving, I got on my knees aside his chair, teasingly congratulating him on finally, after 24 years of trying, playing a decent game of Bridge. I then got off my knees, bent down and kissed the top of his bald, black, beautiful head, and whispered: “Goodbye Johnny. I love you.” He replied in a far firmer voice: “I love you too, Joe.” I could not look at him; I walked toward the door. I wish I could tease him one more time; I wish I could give him one more kiss; I wish I could hear his firm reply one more time. But all that is left is to just say one last time: Goodbye, Johnny, I love you.

Delivered on August 6, 2021, at St. Augustine’s Catholic Church, Washington, D.C.

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The featured image is courtesy of Pixabay; the top image is a 2002 photograph of Ambassador Young and is in the public domain, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

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