The Godfather, the Kennedy Center Honors, and the Stories We Leave Behind
I look forward to the Kennedy Center Honors every year. The tradition began in 1978 when the first honorees included Fred Astaire and Arthur Rubinstein. Fifty years ago, I enjoyed watching because I either loved their work or discovered artists whose brilliance I had yet to explore.
Five decades later, I think about how art shapes us, transcends generations, and teaches us about each other. Art leaves an everlasting mark on our culture, history, shared biography, and humanity. At its core, the Kennedy Center Honors is about art, but the honors are about legacy.
This year’s honorees included:
The Grateful Dead, with their counterculture sound,
Bonnie Raitt, with her bluesy soul,
Arturo Sandoval, with his jazz brilliance,
And the Apollo Theater, where history was made, and voices rose above adversity.
Yet, Francis Ford Coppola, the visionary director of The Godfather, pulled me into deep reflection this year.
A Lifelong Student of The Godfather
I’m not an expert on The Godfather, but I'm a lifelong student. I first read Mario Puzo’s novel in 1969 and revisited it at least twice since then. I’ve seen the trilogy four times—once in the theater and three times on TV. I’ve read analyses and reviews, joined passionate discussions, and watched The Offer, the series about the making of The Godfather.
I’ve followed the ins and outs of the careers of Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, and Diane Keaton. I’ve seen nearly all of Francis Ford Coppola’s films except Megalopolis.
Years ago, during a family trip to Napa Valley, we passed Coppola sitting at a long table surrounded by friends and family. We stopped briefly, expressed our admiration, and might have asked for an autograph.
I’ve read about the uphill battle to cast Brando and Pacino, the financial struggles, and Coppola’s relentless vision to make a movie that was not only good but unforgettable.
The Paradox of Legacy
Watching an aged Al Pacino, with his slow walk and styled gray hair, and Robert De Niro, whose face is etched with time, felt bittersweet. They will remain the young, intense men who brought Michael Corleone and Vito Corleone to life. This is the paradox of legacy: the characters remain forever young on-screen, while the artists themselves move into new chapters of their lives.
Coppola’s legacy isn’t just his body of work. It’s also his family and their cinematic lineage, extending from his father to his grandchildren. I found it poignant that during the ceremony, those honoring Coppola sat at a long table—a table you might find in a family dining room swirling with ambition, creativity, and love.
Our Own Godfather Stories
That image stayed with me because, for many of us, our stories are built around our dining room tables—at holiday celebrations, family dinners, or during quiet conversations over coffee.
We all have our Godfather story, not in the cinematic sense but in how we each have a tale worth telling a moment, or a legacy that could ripple across generations.
I’m not Francis Ford Coppola, but the storyteller of my family’s history.
I’m the keeper of my mother’s journey with Alzheimer’s.
I’m the keeper of my father’s entrepreneurial spirit in the early days of computers.
I’m the keeper of my great-grandfather’s memoir about starting a wool and fur trading business in the untamed West.
And I’m the keeper of my quiet but defining moments.
Like Coppola directed The Godfather, I’m directing these stories—scene by scene, word by word—to preserve them.
Your Story Matters, Too
The Kennedy Center Honors remind us that art is a legacy, but legacy is also an art.
You don’t need a film set, a Grammy, or a Pulitzer to create your legacy. It might live in:
Handwritten letters
Cherished photographs
A short book filled with your reflections
But you do need to tell it.
Watching the Kennedy Center Honors this year reminded me of the beauty of reflection, the weight of legacy, and the power of storytelling.
What story are you directing? What scene is still waiting to be told?