November 22, 1963.
Our sixth grade class was celebrating the much anticipated Thanksgiving break from school.
It was a party.
We feasted on homemade cupcakes, indulged in silly chatter and listened to The Beatles 45.
“I Want to Hold Your Hand”.
My best friend Maryann had brought in her little green and white collapsible record player.
All was right with the world.
Until 2 o’clock.
Our principal, Mr. O’Neill, who suffered from chronic halitosis, entered the room.
We were sure he was there to stop the ruckus, but instead beckoned our teacher to the hall.
Moments later she reappeared, face ashen and tear stained.
Twenty puzzled faces turned their attention to her as she spoke.
“You must all go home now…The President is dead”.
The classrooms emptied out into the concrete hallways without the usual upbeat clatter
And the slapping, clumsy sounds of young running feet.
We left the building in cold clouded silence.
And walked huddled in somber groups.
The quiet of the small town was almost deafening until we began to hear the sobbing.
From the street corners of the crossing guards, to the proprietors of the mom and pop shops
To the neighbors and strangers we passed by at every turn towards home.
It was the white noise of people crying.
And we began to cry too.
Four days riveted to our black and white TVs.
We begged to comprehend one fragment of what happened.
We saw the perpetrator gunned down in real time.
We watched our beloved President,
A warrior against poverty, proponent of civil rights, architect of The New Frontier
Whose vision pointed our eyes to the stars,
Being wheeled down Pennsylvania Avenue
Casket draped in red, white and blue
To rest beneath an eternal flame.
There was no Thanksgiving that year because we were all now thankless.
We were not just mourning a great loss of a great man, but the end of our own innocence.
An evil door had been blown wide open to usher in a new age of violence in America.
In the years to follow, we would lose two more friends of the people
Two more was just too many.
So we began to mourn the loss of our future
With heavy hearts and an uncomfortable reality
The proverbial party was indeed over.
Our sixth grade class was celebrating the much anticipated Thanksgiving break from school.
It was a party.
We feasted on homemade cupcakes, indulged in silly chatter and listened to The Beatles 45.
“I Want to Hold Your Hand”.
My best friend Maryann had brought in her little green and white collapsible record player.
All was right with the world.
Until 2 o’clock.
Our principal, Mr. O’Neill, who suffered from chronic halitosis, entered the room.
We were sure he was there to stop the ruckus, but instead beckoned our teacher to the hall.
Moments later she reappeared, face ashen and tear stained.
Twenty puzzled faces turned their attention to her as she spoke.
“You must all go home now…The President is dead”.
The classrooms emptied out into the concrete hallways without the usual upbeat clatter
And the slapping, clumsy sounds of young running feet.
We left the building in cold clouded silence.
And walked huddled in somber groups.
The quiet of the small town was almost deafening until we began to hear the sobbing.
From the street corners of the crossing guards, to the proprietors of the mom and pop shops
To the neighbors and strangers we passed by at every turn towards home.
It was the white noise of people crying.
And we began to cry too.
Four days riveted to our black and white TVs.
We begged to comprehend one fragment of what happened.
We saw the perpetrator gunned down in real time.
We watched our beloved President,
A warrior against poverty, proponent of civil rights, architect of The New Frontier
Whose vision pointed our eyes to the stars,
Being wheeled down Pennsylvania Avenue
Casket draped in red, white and blue
To rest beneath an eternal flame.
There was no Thanksgiving that year because we were all now thankless.
We were not just mourning a great loss of a great man, but the end of our own innocence.
An evil door had been blown wide open to usher in a new age of violence in America.
In the years to follow, we would lose two more friends of the people
Two more was just too many.
So we began to mourn the loss of our future
With heavy hearts and an uncomfortable reality
The proverbial party was indeed over.