As someone who spends a lot of time studying, and occasionally writing about the ’60s and ’70s, I confess I’ve always been immune to the charm of the Kennedys. Maybe if I was older and lived through the era, I’d have a rosier view of the clan that dominated American politics for two generations. But I grew up in the ’90s, when the most-visible Kennedy (perhaps even more than Ted, still serving in the Senate) was John F. Kennedy Jr., a nice, charitable but not especially bright socialite who coasted on his charm and family name to tabloid celebrity (and a Seinfeld joke or two) before dying a tragic and untimely death. With Ted’s death the second most-visible Kennedy has become his cousin, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., whose quixotic presidential bid has reminded people that besides being a rabid anti-vaxxer, he’s also a lifelong creep and weirdo who enjoys eating road kill, tortured his mentally unstable ex-wife, helped spring his murderer cousin from prison, and generally behaves like the worst kind of rich fail son.

So, when I think of Kennedys I don’t think of the halcyon Camelot and Thousand Days of myth. I think of Joseph Kennedy’s Nazi appeasement, abusive drive for his sons to enter politics and cruel lobotomy of daughter Rosemary. I think of JFK’s hesitation in Civil Rights, habitual nuclear brinksmanship and helping to draw us into Vietnam. I think of RFK’s working for Joe McCarthy, his petty feud with Jimmy Hoffa and his role in his brother’s plots to kill Fidel Castro. I think of Ted Kennedy driving his car off a bridge and leaving a woman to drown. And I think of their often unpleasant, when not vile private behavior, which ought not be anyone’s business but it’s hard to avoid. Discussing any of that seems anathema to people who’d rather dwell on conspiracy theories and rehash tabloid gossip about JFK’s mistresses than engage with their complicated legacy.

One almost sympathizes with the generations of conservatives who’ve held a near-pathological grudge against the family…well, except now they keep trying to claim JFK as their own, and insist that his dead son will return from the grave to rescue America from socialist pedophiles. Admittedly, I have no beef with Kathleen Kennedy Townsend or Caroline Kennedy, who have both turned in admirable careers in public service. Though I do look askance at Joe Kennedy III, who was briefly a darling of #Resistance Democrats, only to crash by losing to Elizabeth Warren in a Senate primary and declining to campaign for her afterwards.

But, I’m a contrarian cuss at heart. I recognize that JFK, for all his faults and hesitation, had good intentions and some transcendent moments as president; that RFK reneged on his hardcore anticommunism, advocated earnestly for civil rights and poverty relief, and came out as a principled (if surely animated by his dislike for Lyndon Johnson) critic of Vietnam. Ted Kennedy, to the surprise even of his peers, lasted long enough to become a powerful and effective voice for liberalism in the Senate, even if Chappaquiddick blocked his way to the White House. And even if it’s not tangible, the degree of inspiration, liberal-tinged patriotism and hope that they’ve offered to Americans of their generation had a positive impact.

Yet, I still hold the view that the Kennedys were, and remain, a triumph of image over substance. They’re remembered as crusading progressives rather than centrist Democrats who often played catch-up with the great causes of their time. No amount of debunking books by Garry Wills or Seymour Hersh, no exposure of their fractious private lives, no amount of brain worms and rat-eating can fully overcome the decades of hagiography, bolstered by their inner circle, a credulous media and a hero-hungry public. And so it seems we’re never to be rid of the Kennedys, even when their platform consists of getting revenge on Mark Zuckerberg and throwing Anthony Fauci in prison. Delusions, and political dynasties, die hard.