I was sixteen, and a junior in high school, the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Mr. Hirsh was delivering his chemistry lecture when my former biology teacher, Mr. P, came in and whispered in his ear. Mr. Hirsh looked at us and said, “President Kennedy has been shot.” We didn’t speak. We just looked at each other in disbelief. It was November 22, 1963.
“He’s in Dallas”, popped into my brain. I had read the front page of the morning Detroit Free Press while getting ready for school. I normally opted for the sports section, but on this day I did a cursory look at the front page. There was a small article announcing the trip.
The principal came on the public address system and directed everyone to return to their homerooms. We weren’t there more than ten minutes when the announcement came. “President Kennedy has been shot and has passed. This is a sad day for our country. I’m dismissing school and want each of you to go home to be with your families.”
I remember only one more thing from that day. As I walked into the hall to gather my things, my friend, Jim Pohlman, slammed his locker and let out the loudest GD I ever heard. He was angry and wanted the world to know.
As the day unfolded we learned the following:
President Kennedy was fatally shot, while riding in an open-car motorcade through the streets of downtown Dallas. Less than an hour after the shooting, Lee Harvey Oswald killed a policeman who questioned him on the street. Thirty minutes after that, he was arrested in a movie theater by police. Oswald was formally arraigned on November 23 for the murders of President Kennedy and Officer J.D. Tippit.
The news coverage of the day was just that. Our news people reported facts with little conjecture. That would come later, but on this day we held our collective breath as the day unfolded. I had spent two weeks in the summer of 1960 watching the Republican and Democrat conventions as Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy were chosen to represent their respective parties in the upcoming election.
I was drawn to Kennedy because he was a young man who seemed sincere in his belief that he could help make the world a better place. He was forty-three years old, a Catholic like me, and we shared the same birthday, May 29th. I knew nothing more. I was drawn to this charismatic young man and put off by his counterpart, Richard Nixon.
On the Sunday following Kennedy’s death I spent much of the day in my then girlfriend, Karen, grandmother’s apartment. Karen’s dad had hired me to wash the ceiling and walls of her grandmother’s kitchen. I was alone in the apartment and had the television turned on to follow the on-going events of the assassination. I stopped to watch the transfer of Lee Harvey Oswald.
Oswald was brought to the basement of the Dallas police headquarters on his way to a more secure county jail. A crowd of police and press with live television cameras rolling gathered to witness his departure. As Oswald came into the room, Jack Ruby emerged from the crowd and fatally wounded him with a single shot from a concealed .38 revolver. Ruby, who was immediately detained, claimed that rage at Kennedy’s murder was the motive for his action.
I saw it all, and it’s still stuck in my brain.
TBC