Houston
Originally written 24 January, 1998 in Paris.
It was fifty years ago today that the quotidian activities of our 5th grade class were interrupted by the principal coming on the P.A. system. "Your attention please!" She usually began her announcements in this way. But today was different; her usually strong, commanding voice was wavering and unusually emotional. We all immediately quieted down to listen attentively. We did not have long to wait. There was an ominous silence - we all knew there was something wrong.
In an uncharacteristic, quivering voice, this usually strong, authoritarian lady said: "I am sad to tell you.." she began, "That the president of the United States has been shot..."
With that, THE ENTIRE SCHOOL BROKE OUT IN WILD CHEERS!!
It was as if we had won some championship game!
It was just UNBELIEVABLE!!
The principal was shocked and dismayed by this outburst, and rightfully took us to task for it. The other kids were making fun of people getting shop, and I - ever the jokester - tried to join in, but my heart was not in it. I was just as shocked and saddened as was the principal, and as were the teachers - as much about the children's reaction as over the shooting itself.
We learned that in addition to the president, the governor of Texas had also been shot. There was no quiet in the school after that; it was not a day of peace. Teachers tried in vain to discuss the subject, so we could focus on one thing and not be upset, but it was impossible, because they themselves were upset.
We made a sham attempt to go on with schoolwork. I hoped and prayed that the president and governor would be all right.
Then came the announcement that I will remember for the rest of my life: "Your attention please!"
The principal's voice was now strong and calm, and seemingly void of emotion.
"It is with a heavy heart that I inform you...that the President of the United States is dead."
A few half-hearted silent cheers and gestures quickly arose, and just as quickly ceased. More than ever, I felt a sickening sadness, sense of loss. I just wanted to go home.
I got my wish. Today's events had been entirely too much of an emotional drain on teachers and administrators, and it certainly was so with me. I really wanted to see what was happening on the news, and when I got home, I glued myself to the TV and watched the events as they unfolded live.
The next few days were indeed spent watching television, but not kiddie cartoons or comedy reruns. All normal programming was pre-empted. The most noted anchormen of the day, Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntly, David Brinkley and others, accustomed to news of tragedies and shocking stories, were, themselves, dwarfed by the sheer totality that the felling of our nation's leader represented.
That first night I stayed up late, still watching the news. No commercials interrupted the somber music that was playing. On the black & white screen was the simple life image of the White House, its flag flying after sunset, at half-mast. My young eyes filled with tears as I saw that familiar white house, now forlorn and void of its occupants.
I played outside at my grandparents the next day, and so missed the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald. With that act, we all began to believe that there had been a conspiracy to kill the president, and although I felt no sadness at hearing of Oswald's death, I firmly believed that justice was not done that day.
Then there was the day of the funeral. The slowly-beating of muffled drums throbbing an old Scottish marching cadence heralded a horse-drawn hearse with a flag-draped coffin. Inside was the body of someone I admired, but more than that, therein lay the remains of the President of the United States.
The coffin was taken up the steps of the Capitol, and the band played the old mariner's hymn, Eternal Father. It was a very sad time indeed, and I would forever associate this with the Kennedy assassination.
Then, after lying in state in the Capitol rotunda, there was another cortege, this time it ended just across the street from where I used to live only a few years before.
The Eternal Flame was lit at a grave at Arlington Cemetery, we had Thanksgiving dinners, and went back to living our lives as before.
But something happened that fateful day in Dallas. Our country changed that day. We no longer were the same. Our innocence as a nation was lost, and we desperately searched for heroes to believe in, only to see them fall in the same manner.
As unbelievable as the killing of the President was, all too soon we would watch another Kennedy brother die, followed quickly by Martin Luther King, and there were other shootings as well, as attempts were made on the lives of Presidents Ford and Reagan. Programs were interrupted by the newsflashes, and the anchormen told the tales. These werejust reruns, now: we had seen all this before, that day in Dallas.
As for me, ever the different one, I found a new hero who believed in building bridges between cultures; bridges - not walls. Anwahr el-Sadat of Egypt defied many of his own people and chose peace and tolerance over popularity. He, too, was killed by assassins.
So much for heroes!
I remember that day always with sadness. I may have been just a "punk kid" then - as I was often called; just a twelve-year-old - but my feelings were deep, and I knew what was going on in the world. And I saw, for a brief period of time, our divided country stood as one.
I grew up a lot that day... the day the nation cried.
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