November 22, 1963 – An event that shook the world - John F. Kennedy assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

I was sitting in the lunchroom at Richland High School, enjoying lunch and talking to friends. Some of us were excited that our President was in Texas that day. There had been some chatter about it during my morning classes. Some students, like me, wanted to leave school and see Kennedy as he rode through the streets of Fort Worth. I don't know anyone who actually did it.

Suddenly everyone was being shushed as we heard something being said over the loud speakers. It was repeated three times. "This is your principal. The President has been shot in Dallas. I repeat. The President has been shot in Dallas. The President has been shot in Dallas." It was like an echo in my head. The President had been shot in Dallas.

It was as if a veil had been lowered over the lunchroom. Those talking were whispering among themselves in hushed tones. Some of the girls were weeping. Many sat in stunned disbelief. It was hard for me, a 10th grader to understand. Some students wondered aloud if the President was still alive or was he dead. Some reassured others that they would have said he was dead, if indeed, he was. After a few minutes several teachers entered the lunchroom and informed all of us that our President, John Kennedy, was dead.

We then wondered what would happen next. Would the school shut down for the day and everyone sent home early? We all had questions. No. Classes would continue. Okay. We should try to get back to normal and continue the rest of the day. So we did. But somehow that veil was still there. As I tried to concentrate on Business Law, in my mind I was thinking about Kennedy. I sat near the open door of our classroom. I saw one of my good friends running past, her hand over her mouth. She was crying hysterically.

 

It began to sink in. This is a tragedy. I went through the motions going from class to class. How could this have happened? I could hardly wait to get home to see what news was on TV. I wanted to learn more about what had happened to "my" President.

I was very possessive about my President. After all, I helped elect him the first time around. I was in the 8th grade and was good friends with an extremely intelligent girl, Betty, who also was a devout Catholic. Betty organized a group of young kids like us to become "Kennedy Campaigners." We would go to shopping centers and put bumper stickers on cars, hand out campaign information and generally tell the world about John Kennedy. I didn't really understand much about politics. I knew my Dad liked Kennedy and that was enough for me.
For Betty, it was more than that. Kennedy was destined to become the first Catholic President. I stood by as she calmly argued with a man in a shopping center about Kennedy's merits versus the Republican candidate. She was holding her own with a man four times her age. I was impressed.

I suppose because I had actively campaigned for Kennedy and he had won, I felt closer to this man because of it. I felt sad as I sat glued to the TV, wanting to understand the events of the past several days. I cried as the caisson slowly made its way down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. I felt we were burying a member of my own family. That veil I felt descending when I first heard of Kennedy's death took a long time to lift. For some it never did.