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Hank Kronick is the son-in-law of US Representative for Maryland’s 8th congressional district, Jamie Raskin.
Hank Kronick’s wife is Hannah Raskin. His close ties to the Raskin family have endeared him to the people. His father-in-law is also an American attorney who is also a member of the Democratic Party.
Jamie is co-chair of the Congressional Freethought Caucus and chair of the Congressional Subcommittee on Civil Rights and Liberties. He was also the chief impeachment manager for Present Donald Trump’s second impeachment.
He was also a professor of constitutional law at American University Washington College of Law before being elected to Congress. There he was co-founder and director of the LL.M. Program in Law and Government and the Marshall-Brennan Constitutional Literacy Project.
Who Is Hank Kronick?
Hank Kronick is the husband of Hannah Kronick. She is the daughter of Jamie Raskin, a US Representative for Maryland’s 8th congressional district.
Hank seems familiar because, like his father-in-law, he’s a politically minded person. His actions and opinions on several political matters prove this.
He and Jamie share a relationship like that of a son and a father. They form a strong bond following the death of Jamie’s son Tommie, who committed suice on New Year’s Eve 2020.
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Despite this, there is not much information about him on the Internet yet. He is popularly known as Mr. Raskin’s son-in-law.
Hannah Raskin Husband, Hank Kronick Revealed His Presence Inse U.S. Capitol Last Year
Hank Kronick, husband of Hannah Raskin, opened up about his presence in the US capital last year. In an article on Medium, he proved details of how the family endured trauma in 2021.
He spoke about how his family went through the worst and most traumatic experience right after the sad death of his brother-in-law. He tweeted about his presence in the US capital on the day of the anniversary of the riots on Jan. 6.
As a result, people empathize with him and tell him that the Raskin family is lucky to have him.
Hannah Raskin and Hank Kronick Wedding Photos
Hannah Raskin and Hank Kronick’s wedding photos have not yet been released to the media. The couple doesn’t talk much about their private lives online.
Kronick’s name was recently discussed on the Internet. Therefore, people are not yet informed about his background details.
Are People Born Gay? (Hank Hanegraaff)
Images related to the topicAre People Born Gay? (Hank Hanegraaff)
See some more details on the topic Who Is Hank Kronick Everything About The Husband Of Hannah Raskin And Their Wedding here:
An Outsider Inside the Capitol Insurrection | by Hank Kronick
We piled into the car with Hannah and Tabitha’s partner, Ryan, who would take me and Tabitha to the Capitol and continue on to watch Jamie on TV …
Source: medium.com
Date Published: 7/21/2021
View: 8057
Jamie Raskin’s year of grief and purpose – The Washington Post
… Tabitha Raskin, and his son-in-law, Hank Kronick — who is married to Raskin’s daughter Hannah — would meet the congressman on Capitol …
Source: www.washingtonpost.com
Date Published: 11/22/2021
View: 748
Hannah Grace Raskin (@hannah_raskin) / Twitter
Hannah Grace Raskin Retweeted · Hank Kronick · @Hankkronick. ·. Jun 10. If Americans lived in a monarchy would Donald Trump’s head be in a basket right now?
Source: twitter.com
Date Published: 7/1/2022
View: 1534
Bethesda interview: Jamie Raskin and Sarah Bloom Raskin
Now, Jamie, the couple’s daughter Tabitha, and their daughter Hannah’s husband, Hank Kronick, were all at the Capitol, threatened by a …
Source: bethesdamagazine.com
Date Published: 4/8/2021
View: 6152
Jamie Raskin’s Year of Grief and Purpose
When Jamie Raskin returns to those shattered January days, the sounds surface in his memory. Among them: a hideous pounding, the pounding of an angry mob trying to force their way onto the floor of the House of Representatives, repeatedly banging something invisible heavy thing against the central door leading to the Chamber. “I’ll never forget it,” says the Democratic congressman, who has represented Maryland’s 8th Circuit since 2017.
Then there was a chorus of screams as the floor of the house turned into chaos on the afternoon of the January 6 riot in the US Capitol. Some people ran to push furniture against the shaking doors; others began calling loved ones and saying what they thought were final goodbyes. Raskin recalls someone shouting instructions to get the gas masks — he hadn’t even known there were gas masks under the chairs — and someone else telling members of Congress to remove the pins they’re wearing to identify themselves. Several Democrats yelled angrily at their Republican counterparts: You did that! You allowed that! He looked across the gallery and saw Rep. Susan Wild (D-Pa.) succumb to a panic attack as Rep. Jason Crow (D-Colo.) tried to tend to her.
It was a mess, but Raskin watched it with a strange sense of detachment, a clear concentration; he didn’t feel the deep fear that gripped so many others around him. He would understand later: what should one fear when the worst imaginable had already happened to him?
The day before, on an overcast winter morning, Raskin had stood surrounded by his family in a Montgomery County, Maryland cemetery and watched as the coffin containing his 25-year-old son, Thomas Bloom Raskin, was lowered into the ground. Tommy, as everyone who loved him called him, a student at Harvard Law School, had died by suicide on the morning of New Year’s Eve. “Al mekomo yavo veshalom,” Rabbi Jonathan Roos said to the assembled family – may he go in peace – and then they took turns shoveling dirt into the grave. The hollow thump of frozen earth on wood was followed by the wails of Raskin’s wife and two daughters, and he would not forget those sounds either.
It had been decided that night that Raskin’s younger daughter Tabitha Raskin and his son-in-law Hank Kronick — who is married to Raskin’s daughter Hannah — would meet the congressman the following day on Capitol Hill for confirmation of the college votes, while Hannah and her mother, Sarah Bloom Raskin, would stay at home with the family. “I thought Tabitha didn’t want me to leave her alone,” Raskin says, “but turns out she didn’t want me to be alone.” Amid the frantic evacuation from the floor of the house, Raskin texted urgently to Tabitha and Hank; They were barricaded in the office of House Majority Leader Steny Hoyer (D-Md.) along with Raskin’s Chief of Staff Julie Tage. They spent a harrowing 45 minutes hiding there, huddled under a desk and fearing for their lives as insurgents stomped down the hallway, wiggling the knob of the locked door as they passed.
The vivid details of that day are burned into Raskin’s memory and will be chronicled in his forthcoming book, Unthinkable: Trauma, Truth, and the Trials of American Democracy, to be published Jan. 4, just before the first anniversary of the uprising. After such devastation, both personal and historical, Raskin felt it imperative to record everything. By the time Tabitha and Hank left the hill to go home on the night of January 6, Raskin had already got the word “impeached” to his fellow House Judiciary Committee members David Cicilline (D-R.I.), Ted Lieu (D -Calif.) and Joe Neguse (D-Colo.). After midnight he returned to the House of Representatives and made the closing remarks for the Democrats in response to Republican objections to the Pennsylvania voters, and then the count was finally over, the election formally confirmed. It was after 4 a.m. on January 7 when Raskin finally arrived home in Takoma Park, Maryland, bearing the weight of a wounded family and a wounded country.
In the weeks that followed, after House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) put him in charge of impeaching President Donald Trump, Raskin was catapulted into the national limelight. Both before and during the trial, his widely circulated remarks and arguments mixed a scrupulous interpretation of constitutional law with the emotion of the human toll of the uprising. He spoke about his family’s experience of how the attack on the Capitol happened the day after Tommy’s funeral, “the saddest day of our lives.” Colleagues and friends and media interviewers kept asking him about the convergence of his son’s death and the impeachment process, how he coped with those two monumental experiences at the same time.
“I think a lot of colleagues said, ‘Jamie is dealing with his grief by throwing himself into the impeachment and the process,’ which wasn’t entirely true for me,” Raskin says. “Tommy was a passionate political and moral person, and fascism is probably the only thing he hated in his life. I knew he would want me to fight for our family and our country and so I felt he was with me, in my chest, in my heart. I felt it physically and I felt it ethically.”
He’s still trying to understand the intersection of these disparate tragedies — how, at the end of one horrific year and the beginning of another, he was suddenly reeling from successive disasters, each the result of something tedious. simmers beneath the surface. “The truth is, I see these two horrific, traumatic events in my life as very intertwined,” says Raskin. “In a cosmic sense, they were logically independent of each other. But in my life they are inseparable.”
Please forgive me, Tommy had written in his final hours. My illness won today. Please take care of each other, of the animals and of the poor worldwide. Love, Tommy.
“My roadmap for the rest of my life,” Raskin said of his son’s farewell message. For those unfamiliar with Tommy, unfamiliar with the full reach of his empathy, his unwavering focus on justice and morality, it may be difficult to understand how Jamie Raskin sees it: the job is to defend a vulnerable democracy not a distraction from the overwhelming depths of his grief, but a channeling, a place to channel all the love for his child who is no longer here to receive it.
There are many high-visibility families who abruptly turn inward after a loss, withdrawing from the public eye and making only brief statements asking for privacy while they grieve. The Raskins made a different choice. The day before their son’s funeral, they released a long and soulful statement about his life, a vivid portrait of Tommy and what he ultimately endured. They revealed his battle with depression and the manner of his death, and included the entirety of his farewell note. That level of openness didn’t necessarily come naturally to everyone, “but Jamie is the best person for it,” says Sarah Bloom Raskin, former Deputy Treasury Secretary to President Barack Obama and a professor at Duke University School of Law. “He draws his strength entirely from other people. He trusts in people’s ability to love and care. He attributes the best of intentions to mankind.” And so it was decided that they would tell the world exactly who and what had been lost.
[Rep. Raskin and his wife on their late son: “A shining light in this broken world”]Tommy was born in January 1995, two and a half years after his older sister Hannah and two years before his little sister Tabitha. A lively boy with his mother’s clear blue eyes and his father’s wild curls, he grew up with his sisters in the Takoma Park house just outside D.C. where the Raskins have lived for over 30 years, down a sloping road under a canopy of leaves.
Jamie Raskin — the son of Barbara Raskin, a writer and journalist, and Marcus Raskin, an author, philosopher, and co-founder of one of Washington’s most prominent left-leaning think tanks, the Institute for Policy Studies — was a professor of constitutional law at American University when his children were young unaware that one day he might run for public office. That changed in 2005, when he learned that his Democratic senator, Ida Ruben, who had been in office for 30 years, was pushing to expand Maryland’s death penalty and obstruct marriage equality. As Raskin stood on his porch in January 2006 to launch his campaign for the Maryland Senate to represent Maryland’s 20th District, it was 10-year-old Tommy who introduced his father to the modest crowd gathered in the front yard had gathered.
Raskin at home with his wife Sarah Bloom Raskin in Takoma Park, Md.
“He was a natural in politics. But that was a small part of him,” says Raskin. “He had a very philosophical soul. I mean, from a young age he said, “Let’s have a debate about free will and determinism.” Or, “Let’s have a discussion about the mind-body issue.” ‘, but he was never a loner: his friends and family describe a magnetic presence and a raucous sense of humor, the reigning champion of family stand-up comedy competitions, and a devoted boggle enthusiast. As a young child he was a prolific author of elaborate, illustrated stories, later writing countless essays, legal briefs, poems and plays as a young man.
Tommy’s parents each saw something of their own fathers in their son. Tommy and his maternal grandfather, Herbert Bloom, shared a passion for the written word, while Marcus Raskin shared an irreverent libertarian streak with his grandson, says Jamie Raskin. He enjoys recounting the time he was accompanying Tommy to elementary school and they discovered another little boy who had been suspended for a week and was finally coming back. “I said, ‘Tommy, look, they let him out of jail!'” says Raskin, “and Tommy said, ‘You mean, they let him back in jail.'”
At that young age, Tommy envisioned that he would one day like to be governor of Maryland, but by the time he was 12, Raskin says, those political aspirations had been abandoned. “The more he learned about electoral and legislative politics, the more he realized it wasn’t for him,” says Raskin. “At one point he just said to me, ‘I don’t think I could do what you do.’ And I said, ‘You mean be a law professor?’ And he said, ‘No, I can do something like that.’ But I don’t think I could be in politics because I don’t think I could handle being with people I only have basic disagreements with.’”
Raskin shakes his head slightly as he remembers this. “I felt like a politician when he said that, like someone who put up with so much nonsense and hypocrisy. And that’s what you do in politics. You have to,” he says. “You spend a lot of time being wary of people who might be liars, warmongers, or insurgents.” In those early conversations about politics, Raskin recalls, he used to tell Tommy that there were two kinds of politicians: politicians of justice and politicians politicians of power. “And I think Tommy decided as a kid that he didn’t really want to be around power politicians,” he says. “He’s right. Every day I endure so much avoidance of the truth. And it wasn’t for him. It was a poignant moment between us.”
He wants to understand his son’s experience as much as he can, he says, even if that understanding brings even more pain.
Still, Tommy remained heavily involved in politics: joining the Young Democrats Club as a high school student and raising people to volunteer for Obama’s 2012 re-election; He fought for his father during Raskin’s Senate race and again in 2016 when Raskin decided to run for the open congressional seat vacated by the now-Senator. Chris Van Hollen; He spent countless hours debating and debating issues of ethics, politics, and political philosophy with his father. A teacher by nature — Tommy started a peer tutoring program in high school to help his classmates with math and English — he was adept at persuading others to consider new perspectives. He was a passionate animal lover and committed vegan, but never engaged in hypocritical proselytization of veganism: “I work for a vegan world, not for a vegan club,” his parents recalled his words, noting that he had many carnivorous friends and family members successfully converted to his cause by making them feel welcome and not pushed (his father has been a vegetarian since 2009). Tommy rejected the idea that everyone must choose between animal rights and human rights; In one of his spoken word poems, he argued that indifference to animal suffering sets the stage for the neglect and dehumanization of vulnerable people, and that it is therefore necessary to treat all living things with care and dignity.
At a socially distanced drive-in memorial the family hosted outside RFK Stadium in April, dozens shared reflections that conveyed that mix of moral integrity and personal decency. “He was honestly the smartest person I’ve ever met, but he was never pretentious and he never made anyone around him feel stupid,” said one of his friends. Tabitha still referred to her brother in the present tense: “I will miss how he expresses love. He’s so gentle and so warm and so kind.” Another friend said, “He believed in me. … As I stood in Tommy’s gaze, I saw a version of myself that I could love.” And another: “He felt the pain of others like no one I know.”
[Rep. Jamie Raskin and family mourn son at socially distanced memorial]When it was Sarah Bloom Raskin’s turn behind the microphone, her blue scarf ruffled by the cold breeze, she quoted a line from the poet Rumi: Beyond the notions of wrong and right there is a field. i will meet you there “Tommy took us to these fields. He took us on these trips,” she said. “We listen to him and think we’re sitting on our sofa in the family room, but instead we’re somewhere else. … We were transported to these newly designed places with new ideas, new openness and we ask ourselves: How did we get here? can we come back And how do we stay?
can we come back how do we stay For the Raskins, these questions—once pondered in Tommy’s presence—had found a new resonance. What the family was looking for was a sense of permanence, a way to hold onto everything Tommy had given them to serve as a channel for his vision and ideals. In the case of Jamie Raskin, this work began just days after his son’s funeral.
On a bright Friday afternoon in late September, at the end of a grueling week on Capitol Hill, Raskin appears on the doorstep of his home and peers out onto the wide porch, where I meet the family’s two dogs – Potter, the grizzled mutt, and Toby, the blue-eyed one husky. “It’s been a really tough week,” Raskin says — citing tense rows between left-leaning and centrist Democrats over the terms of President Biden’s infrastructure plan — “and I’m really longing for a hike.” How about Rock Creek Park?”
When he reappears a few minutes later, he has traded in his tie and jacket for Nike pants tucked into hiking boots, and Potter and Toby happily take their places in the back seat of the car. In his long-ago pre-pandemic life, Raskin hiked the dogs through Rock Creek Park at least once a week; When the country shut down in March 2020, he started walking almost every morning. Tommy, who returned to live with his parents the same month after the Harvard campus closed, often joined his father.
It’s a short drive to the park, and the dogs tug at their leashes excitedly as we set off. Our walk today is a quick breather from a relentless schedule; Raskin will spend his Friday night writing captions for his memoir. He began work on the book last March, a time when he says he was “still drowning in grief and agony.” Tommy’s death had completely obscured the future, so instead Raskin would travel back in time, digging up memories for hours every night and staying up until 1 or 2 am meticulously chronicling his son’s 25 years. “I didn’t sleep much anyway,” he says. “I like the feeling of working when everyone else is asleep.” When he turned in the manuscript — all 900 or so pages of it — his editor informed him that he had actually written two books: a comprehensive biography of his son and a gripping treatise on the 50 life-changing days that spanned Tommy’s riot and subsequent impeachment. The publisher was interested in the latter.
Now that the book is done, what follows feels like a reappearance of sorts. “When I first finished the book, I felt tremendous relief because it was such an overwhelming project,” he says. “But then I was very sad to see the world again without Tommy and there are still so many difficulties.” The pandemic is not over yet; people are still dying. The country remains bitterly divided. The extent of the riot has yet to be fully revealed by the ongoing Congressional investigation, an effort Raskin is leading as a member of the House Special Committee on the Jan. 6 attack. And there’s the constant pain of missing Tommy, the constant temptation to relive certain moments and conversations, to search the past for clues that might reveal how the unthinkable came about.
As a teenager, Tommy was a restless sleeper, a boy who sometimes worried unduly that he had hurt someone’s feelings. When all of his friends were busily getting their driver’s licenses, Tommy decided to hold off; He never drove in his life, Raskin says, “because he was always afraid of hitting someone and he never wanted that responsibility.” But it wasn’t until college that Tommy’s depression surfaced with startling intensity, presenting primarily as obsessive anxiety. With his family’s encouragement, he saw a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with both depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder. He found some relief from medication and a regimen to keep himself sane, and he remained very private in his struggle. “Even his friends — and he always had a girlfriend — didn’t really know what he was going through,” says Raskin.
A photo of Raskin and son Tommy taken in December 2019. (Courtesy of the Raskin family)
In his early 20s, Tommy identified strongly with effective altruism, a philosophy centered on finding the best possible way to help others. Around the same time, Raskin says, Tommy decided not to have children of his own because he didn’t think it would be a morally responsible decision. “He would put it as a philosophical principle: No one has the right to force an experience of pain on anyone else. And of course that sounds perfectly fine in the abstract – but then he translated it like this: ‘Therefore it would be wrong to have children, because you would be exposing them both to the possibility of great joy, but also of sadness,’ and obviously he was …” Raskin falls silent. For a man who took so much joy in becoming a father, someone known among friends and family for a lifelong, unrelenting optimism, it is agonizing to think that Tommy did not present his arguments from the point of view of a prospective parent, but a son is in pain.
We keep moving through the trees, the cool air filled with the chirping of crickets. “When he said he didn’t want to have children,” Raskin concludes, “I think that was as close to expressing the difficulty of depression for him.”
While Tommy lived at home, Jamie Raskin watched his son agonize over the collective suffering caused by the pandemic. “We lived in a time where people are in just terrible pain, and he felt all of that,” he says. At that point, Tommy had been battling depression for years, “but the whole situation has been made immeasurably worse by Covid-19 and by the state of our society under Donald Trump,” says Raskin. “And I want to be clear: I’m not saying that Tommy died because of Donald Trump. Tommy has struggled with depression, but depression exists in a broader social context and Covid-19 has been a terribly isolating and devastating experience for many young people.”
Despite the psychological toll of 2020, those closest to Tommy never doubted that he was only at the beginning of a promising life: he’d spent the summer enthusiastically working as a legal intern for nonprofit animal rights organization Mercy for Animals; He was a passionate law student and dedicated teaching assistant who spent countless hours with his undergraduate students on Zoom, guiding them through their work.
“I have a responsibility to do everything in my power to preserve American democracy, which is fragile in many ways. I feel so strong and I know that Tommy felt and would feel so strong.
A few weeks before his death, as Tommy and his father stood together in their kitchen, Tommy said, I don’t think I’ll ever be happy. Raskin offered his trademark positivity and loving reassurance, and that memory is a difficult one for him: “I kept talking, but I should have asked him if he had any suicidal thoughts,” he says. “One of the things I regret is that I didn’t really use that word much, you know? I think that was a mistake. I think it’s probably best to talk about it.” He exhales. “These are things that can sometimes keep you up at night.”
Towards the end of December, a strange calm settled over Tommy, and Raskin now recognizes this as a sign that something is wrong. He suspects Tommy had made up his mind what he was going to do and didn’t want to be swayed, so he tried to instill a sense of stability. “His normal state of being was exuberant, hilariously fun, enjoyable. None of that was there. But he didn’t seem depressed and upset. It was kind of a serene calm,” says Raskin. “But it was kind of an act.”
One of the most harrowing passages in Raskin’s memoirs is his recounting of the last hours of Tommy’s life. Sarah Bloom Raskin visited her mother out of state; Hannah was at home with her husband in Nevada and Tabitha was with her partner’s family in Pennsylvania. Father and son watched TV together and talked about Tommy’s plans for the spring semester. “I love you, dear boy,” Raskin told him as they embraced. “Love you dear Dad,” Tommy replied.
Raskin found his son in his bed in the downstairs apartment of their home the next morning. What followed was a blur from hell: a frantic call to 911, a desperate attempt to resuscitate his son, the screams of his wife and daughters when he reached them on the phone, the hours of waiting for their trip home to Maryland.
Tommy had met with his longtime psychiatrist for an hour the day before he died; The doctor did not notice any man about to make such a decision and, like everyone else who knew Tommy well, was amazed at the way his life ended. Especially for a father who was exceptionally close to his son, who was eye to eye with him on so many things, Raskin still struggles with how unfathomable it feels. He says he’s never experienced depression. In 2010, as he battled stage 3 colon cancer and underwent grueling rounds of radiation and chemotherapy, what he remembers most is an ardent desire to live.
We cross a bridge over the babbling brook, and here Raskin pauses for a moment along the way to focus on describing a particular epiphany: In late March, Raskin underwent an MRI scan to find a growth on his abdomen realize which turned out to be a benign cyst. Confined in the narrow tube, arms pinned to his sides, he was instantly consumed by panicky claustrophobia. A nurse had told him the scan would take 37 minutes.
“And I started thinking about Tommy,” he says. “And how he must have felt, trapped in the desperate feelings of depression, you know? And they gave me a little handheld device to squeeze when I felt like I couldn’t take it. And I immediately wanted to squeeze it, and then I started saying to myself, If Tommy could live with that feeling for weeks, months, or years, I certainly could handle 37 minutes.
So he lay still, imagining himself running the trails of Rock Creek Park, weaving between trees, along the trails he knows by heart. The same paths he walked with Tommy and his girlfriend through a freshly fallen blanket of snow just days before his death. Raskin presented himself here, and so he held out until the procedure was complete.
His expression is distant, remembering the long minutes in that cold machine. “For the first time, I felt like I had a sense of what Tommy must have felt, because when he told us in his note, ‘Please forgive me, my illness won today —'” his voice trembles. “I became obsessed with whether that meant he was out of control and it was the illness that forced him to do it, or whether it meant the illness was so overwhelming that he made a voluntary choice. And that second option made me feel like, maybe” — he winces, blinking back tears — “maybe there was scope for choice, there was something we could have done, you know? But after what happened in the MRI machine, I realized there really wasn’t any difference.” His voice is almost a whisper.
He walks on, the dogs padding at his side. Raskin thinks of everything he’s read about depression, the testimonies of those who have called it “the beast” or described it as “total darkness.” He wants to understand his son’s experience as much as he can, he says, even if that understanding brings even more pain.
There is a transformation of identity that follows a sudden, catastrophic loss, the reorientation and redefinition of one’s self in a new, incomprehensible reality, and this process is one that Rep. Lucy McBath (D-Ga.) understands well. Her 17-year-old son Jordan was murdered in 2012 by a man who confronted Jordan and his friends at a gas station and complained about the volume of their music before firing 10 bullets into their car. Following this trauma, McBath ended her 30-year career as a flight attendant and dedicated herself full-time to gun control activism. After the 2018 mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., she decided to run for Congress to focus on fighting gun violence and was elected that fall. McBath, Raskin’s friend and his colleague on the House Judiciary Committee, knows the horror of losing a child; she knows the urge to devote herself to public service to make sense of this loss; she knows how hard work as a member of Congress can be.
Realizing that Raskin had returned to The Hill just days after Tommy’s death, “I went right away to see him and he just fell into my arms and just started crying and crying,” she recalled herself while on the phone from her home in Marietta, Georgia. “And I knew exactly how he felt. I know it. I know these emotions, I know the pain and the doubts. I just wanted him to know that, you know, ‘I’m not just sending you my sympathies, I’m here. I know exactly what you’re going through.’ … I love Jamie. We all do. I think every one of my colleagues really admires him. We admire his intellect and compassion.”
McBath also worried about him as he navigated the intensity of the impeachment process. When he accepted the role of senior impeachment manager, she recalls asking him, “Are you sure you want to do this? Are you emotionally prepared for this?” He assured her he was.
In life, Tommy Raskin always challenged to embody his ideals; in death, Tommy gave his father a reaffirmed sense of determination.
In his opening speech to the Senate, in which he argued that Trump is still subject to Senate jurisdiction even though he is no longer in office, Raskin presented vivid video of the violence unfolding in the Capitol. “Senators, the President was impeached by the US House of Representatives on January 13th. What is a “felony and misdemeanor” in our Constitution, you ask? This is a high felony and misdemeanor,” he said in comments that soon went viral. “If that’s not an actionable misdemeanor, then there’s no such thing.” He tried to humanize the experience of being in the Capitol that day by explaining that his daughter and son-in-law found him in the middle of a devastating week for accompanied her family. His voice cracked as he recounted his exchange with Tabitha after they were safely reunited after he promised her that would not happen the next time she came to the Capitol with him, and she replied, “Dad, I don’t want to come back to the Capitol.”
[Video: Raskin opens up about his family’s terror on January 6]“I remember watching him and thinking, I just can’t imagine how he’s doing it now,” says McBath. “The steadfastness and the strength and the courage was just incredible for me. Because his sense of duty to this country is so deep and I really thought he was saying to himself, This is what Tommy wants me to do. And he kept going, even when he was broken.” She was one of many colleagues who rallied around him at the time. After the Senate voted to continue the impeachment process, Biden called Raskin: “You’re a friggin’ lawyer,” the president said, as the congressman recounts, “but you’re an even better dad.”
McBath urged Raskin to make more time for himself and his family. “What I realized was that he didn’t set any limits for himself to allow himself to move fully through the grieving process,” she tells me. “I was trying to say, ‘Your family needs you, Jamie.'”
And they did, says Sarah Bloom Raskin, but they’re also a family that knows exactly what it means to live with a socialite. “He was called to play this role and we would have loved it if he hadn’t been,” she says, “but he’s someone with great skill and sensitivity, and he’s a professor of constitutional law, and there was nobody better human for it. He had to. At the same time we said, “We want you to stay with us, stay in our little cocoon” – we weren’t ready to look that way on the outside yet. It was quite early in our grief. But he was the person of that historical moment, so we totally got it.”
It took a little longer for Tabitha Raskin, a 24-year-old math teacher at Georgetown Day School, to fully understand. “I wasn’t happy with him at the time,” she says. “I just felt like we all need him; we needed his full attention. We needed time to ourselves and the family.” She knows her father is aware that Tommy would have wanted him to take on the role of senior impeachment manager to steer the prosecution for accountability and justice; she has a more nuanced way of thinking about it. “Tommy just wasn’t one to force his beliefs on anyone or expect others to do things. He wouldn’t have pushed my father into it,” she says. “But I think he would have said, ‘If you want to do it, you have to do it.’ So I got that.”
McBath recalls how long she spent in the fog of her own raw grief — it was two years, she says, before she could really begin to understand life without her son. So she still keeps an eye on Raskin because she knows where her boyfriend is, even – especially – when he looks like he’s somewhere else.
“I watch him,” she says. “And I sometimes see him sitting alone on the floor of the house. And he might be looking at his hands, he’s not really looking at anything, but I can see how he’s thinking. And I know he’s thinking about Tommy.”
A few weeks after the first we return to Rock Creek Park for another hike, this time on a stunning October Saturday morning. The park is packed with weekend visitors, and as we meander along a trail bathed in dappled sunlight, a passing hiker quickly does a double take before raising his hand to greet his elected representative.
“Thank you, Congressman, for everything you do for us,” he tells Raskin.
“Thank you, dear man,” Raskin replies, placing his palm on his chest. “I appreciate it.” The man’s walking companion chimes in as she approaches a few steps from behind: “Are you still managing to remain optimistic despite the scare?” Raskin assumes she is focusing on the investigation into the Jan. 6 attack relates; He appeared on CNN the night before to discuss the work of the House Select Committee, which has issued subpoenas against Trump administration officials and rally organizers. “Yes!” he says emphatically. “We’ll see it through. We could even put some of these people in jail if we have to.”
When out and about in his community, Raskin has always been recognized by his fiercely loyal following, but never more so than now, in the final months of a particularly high-profile year for his career. He is greeted repeatedly, by some people he knows and others he doesn’t, many of whom address him with a gentleness that conveys a certain familiarity with his story.
He says he’s used to it, he means the intersection of professional and private space in his life, and he even prefers it. “I’m not a person who is good at making strict distinctions between public and private life. I just see it as life,” he tells me as we continue down the path. “As you can tell from the people who come up to me and chat, they want to talk about their kids, my kids, how they know each other, their work, my work, our society. For me it is all one thing.”
Raskin speaks to reporters on Capitol Hill in October. (Jabin Botsford/Washington Post)
There was a time, just after Tommy’s death and the riot, when Raskin thought his career might be over – that leading impeachment might be the last significant political work he would ever do. At times, in the depths of his desperation, Raskin says, he thought: let them — Trump, his allies, his supporters — have it; left them the country, the political system, which they seemed to want to control by any means necessary. But then Raskin thought of his daughters, his nieces and nephews, the grandchildren he might one day have. He would think of the most vulnerable Americans and the voters reaching out for his hand as they come down those trails, saying, “Thank you” and “Keep up the good fight.” He would think of them all and remember what Tommy wrote: Please take care of each other.
“I know I have a responsibility to do everything in my power to preserve American democracy, which is fragile in many ways. I feel so strong, and I know that Tommy felt and would feel so strong,” says Raskin. “And as I’ve grown stronger and stronger, I know this is a political and personal mission that I can never step back from.”
The letters arrived as soon as news of Tommy’s death broke – hundreds of letters, then thousands, and now there are boxes and boxes filled with more than 15,000 messages of support, solidarity and sympathy. During those first few weeks, a family friend began compiling a list of “acts of kindness” committed in Tommy’s memory; What started as a local gesture quickly became national and then global. A couple in Silver Spring pledged to donate their stimulus check to support immigrant housing. A woman in New Zealand made a donation to a suicide prevention charity. A man in São Paulo, Brazil, wrote that he had delivered a home-made meal and pet food to someone who was living on the street with his dog. As the list soon approached 1,500 favors, it became too time-consuming to keep recording them all.
[‘A Small Act of Sympathy in Tommy’s Honor’: Acts of Kindness Follow Death of Rep. Raskin’s Son]The reverberations continued: In July, the Thomas Bloom Raskin Act went into effect in Maryland, expanding the state’s Crisis Call Center 211 to allow counselors to proactively reach out to people who have registered as having psychiatric need. A nonprofit organization founded by the Raskin family, the Tommy Raskin Memorial Fund for People and Animals has grown to over $1 million in donations and has received numerous grants, gifts, and the establishment of a paid internship at Tommy’s former place of work, Mercy for Animals announced. The foundation is run by Tommy’s sisters and cousins, and it was a comfort to have this mechanism to respond quickly to issues that would have been important to Tommy — like relocating refugees from Afghanistan and Haiti — the family says.
“He would pay so much attention to making sure we honor him appropriately — it feels good, but it’s also a little overwhelming,” says Tommy’s sister, Hannah Raskin, a 29-year-old vice president at Silicon Valley Bank. “I know he would know that we are doing our best and he would understand and be happy that we are all getting together and thinking of other people.”
Tabitha says she sometimes feels that pressure, too, knowing how meticulous Tommy was in his research and his reflections on moral dilemmas. “We cannot end all the injuries in the world. But at the same time knowing that we can ease the pain of some people, some animals – that wouldn’t necessarily be enough for Tommy, but it would be important,” she says. “Every little thing counts. We’re all doing what we can.”
Sarah Bloom Raskin has found solace in spending time with Tommy’s friends, the many people around him who have reached out to family after his death and wanted to be close to them as they navigate their collective grief. Getting to know some of these people, seeing her son through their eyes again, is deeply meaningful, she says: “His friends are ambassadors on the way forward.”
Jamie Raskin says it’s too early to see exactly where that path is headed, although he knows the principles that will guide him. On the day Tommy introduced his father as a political candidate in January 2006, Raskin vowed to always represent the moral center and not the political center, to work towards an alignment of the two. That’s how Tommy lived, he says: “Tommy was totally anti-war, and he was vegan, and he had these positions that would be considered radical in terms of conventional political norms.” In life, Tommy always challenged Raskin to his ideals embody; in death, Tommy gave his father a reaffirmed sense of determination.
As he ponders what lies ahead, Raskin recalls graduating from Harvard Law School and the professor – civil rights attorney and legal scholar Derrick A. Bell Jr. – asking Raskin what he plans to do next. “I said, ‘Well, I’m not sure yet,'” Raskin recalls. “And he said, ‘Fine. It’s really good not to have ambitions for certain titles and positions, but to have ambitions for values and for how you want to live.”
Police found Tommy’s suicide note hours after they arrived at the Raskin home and it was confiscated before his family members could see it or know what he had said to them. Because of the New Year holiday, they were first told it could be days before they could receive it — “and that would have been absolutely excruciating,” says Raskin — but Maryland Attorney General Brian Frosh and Takoma Park Mayor Kate Stewart said stepped in to ensure the note was returned to the Raskins as soon as possible.
It was written on the back of a Boggle word sheet in Tommy’s instantly recognizable, endearingly childlike print, and when it was given to them it felt like a relief, “like a gift,” says his mother — one last chance, from him hearing her boy feel reassured that he wouldn’t have wanted them to blame themselves. That he had done his best.
Almost a year later, the note is kept on the dresser in her bedroom. “It’s the first thing we look at every morning,” says Jamie Raskin. He sees in Tommy’s words more than just the day he died, but the embodiment of his life, the distillation of everything he has attempted in the quarter century he has shared with them. “I think his parting instructions about how he wanted us to live align very well with trying to take care of our family, our friends, our country, our world,” he says. And so it feels right to start each day with Tommy’s final message, which is now his father’s roadmap, a reminder of work still to be done: rebuilding a broken country, reimagining a family’s life to inhabit the visionary places Tommy once showed them. To find a way to come back and stay.
Raskin looks at family photos at home.
Caitlin Gibson is a Washington Post contributor. If you or someone you know needs help now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. You can also reach a crisis counselor by texting 741741 to the crisis text line.
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