The Confession by James E. McGreevey

thrilling time; only later, once Nixon’s lies were revealed, did I come to regret my precocious early stand.
    My excessive conservatism during these years also put me even further out of step with my peers. Looking back, I think my rightward turn may have been an attempt to give purpose to my isolation, as if I were saying, What you see in me that’s different is really Republicanism, nothing more sinister than that. I acted proudly out of step, wearing ties long after they were no longer required at school and getting myself elected president of every wonky club there was, from science to German to school spirit. I was chairman of the Assembly Committee, managing editor of the newspaper, and the only kid to do four years in the debate club. I turned all my attentions to accumulating accomplishments.
    I also began throwing myself into church affairs with the same energy I devoted to my schoolyard political campaigns. I even began flirting with the new charismatic movement in Catholicism, which had first blossomed in Pittsburgh in 1968 and was slowly spreading to other American cities. A group meeting in Edison welcomed me in, but I never became comfortable with the singing, dancing, clapping, and speaking in tongues. The Holy Spirit, when it entered me, told me to go back to St. Joe’s, get on my knees, and say my prayers, the way Catholics have been doing for two thousand years.
    At St. Joe’s, even Brother Michael thought I had taken my conservatism too far. “You’re too extreme, Jimmy,” he told me. “Life isn’t black or white.You’ve got to be more balanced in your viewpoints.” He counseled me to be more forgiving of the hippies and “peaceniks” I disparaged. I didn’t take his advice; I was still too much of an absolutist. If Rome was against communism—as Bishop Fulton J. Sheen so eloquently established on his television show, Life Is Worth Living —then it must also be against Hanoi. The Church had handed me down this set of inflexible, God-given values, and I wasn’t about to give any leeway in return.
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    I KNOW I MUST BE COMING ACROSS AS AN EXTREMELY LONELY young man, but I did have many close friends—men and women alike, who remain instrumental in my life to this day. My high school years, in fact, were crowded with social obligations and opportunities. Nothing was more important to me than the time I spent at the YMCA in Rahway, an invigorating universe inside a blocky two-story brick building near the railroad tracks. The lessons I learned at the Y have stayed with me throughout my life: leadership and consensus, ecumenism and racial tolerance, and solid values, chiefly a belief in the value of social service.
    I had been taking classes and swimming lessons there for years, but in the summer after freshman year the Y gave me my first job, as assistant camp counselor. The work thrilled me. The “camp” was right there at the Y, a program of day-long activities for underprivileged kids from the area, some just a few years younger than I was. We helped organize ball games, crafts, and other recreations, as well as field trips. This was a lot of responsibility for us kids, and not without potential for disaster. One afternoon we took the campers into New York to visit the legendary Bronx Zoo. Each counselor was responsible for twelve or fourteen kids. One of the kids under my supervision was named Billy Wnuck. Unfortunately, his natural curiosity drew him to the crocodile ponds—literally. When I turned my back he climbed over the fence and bent down to pet one of those enormous creatures on the head. Our cries of alarm were enough to convince Billy to scoot back to safety in time.
    Visiting these kids at their homes over on Hazelwood Avenue allowed me to see stark poverty for the first time. In one kid’s home, wooden boxes stood in for furniture, and layers of unhemmed fabric served as curtains.His ill grandmother was