I was sitting in
seventh-grade math class, a pimply-faced 12-year-old worried about how I
was going to explain to my mother that I was about to receive a C in math, when
the announcement came.
The voice of the principal of Goliad Junior High
School came over the PA system and stopped my math teacher in mid-equation. I
don’t remember his exact words, but the news he gave was stunning: President
John Kennedy had been shot during a visit to Dallas and was being treated for
his wounds.
The rest of that class is a blur, but I recall there
was a lot of excited chatter among my classmates, including the observation from
one ignorant dumb-ass that Kennedy “deserved it.” The president was a revered
figure in my house, despite some initial heartburn from my yellow-dog Democrat
parents about his Catholicism. In the end, he had won them over, and they
considered him a smart guy and an inspirational leader. So I told Dumb-Ass, who
had about 20 pounds on me and was a surly, belligerent soul on his best day, to
shut his mouth. To my surprise, and utter relief, he did.
My next class was Texas history, and we had barely
settled into our desks when the principal was back on the PA to announce
solemnly that Kennedy was dead.
For two heartbeats, there was complete silence as we
took in the news. Then a high-pitched scream pierced the silence. A girl was running
down the hall, hysterical, screaming all the way. It was a sound that spoke of
heartbreak, despair and, yes, fear. Even now I can hear it, echoing down through
the years to put an indelible stamp on an unforgettable moment in American
history.
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