I distinctly remember the first announcement of President Kennedy’s assassination. I was seated in the last row of a history class at a New Jersey high school. A speaker box mounted high on the front wall aired the principal’s booming voice. That the middle of class was being interrupted was highly unusual, enough to stir the imagination. He simply said reports from Dallas, Texas indicate the president “may have” been shot. The room of 30+teenagers went silent. His voice droned on as if in pain and then he said, “the President has been assassinated, President Kennedy is dead.”
I was overcome with sadness and bewilderment. What did this mean? Class was dismissed and school was canceled. The next day I played touch football with my friends—there was no school. It was the quietest game—no shouting, a half-hearted gathering.
No one of us at the game had a sense of what the President’s death meant to our daily lives. He seemed to be doing a good job. Why would anyone want to kill him?
I don’t think that question was ever answered.
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