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Kennedy fever...
Nov. 17th, 2013 11:16 pmUp until yesterday, I had been only vaguely aware of the increasing tempo of references to John F. Kennedy as we fast approach the 50th anniversary of his assassination. As those of us who remember that event are a decided minority here on LJ, I thought I would, for the record, tell you my own personal story of November 22, 1963.
It is not a story to particulary grab you where you live, or anything, because I was a mere spectator that day. I was in 7th grade, and had been attending Joseph Pulitzer Junior High School No. 145 for less than three months. I was settling in as well as could be expected for a kid that was not as sharp, in some respects, as many of his classmates.
It was Friday, and it was the home stretch of the school day. We were sitting in the science classroom, and Mr. Bart was explaining something to us. By now in the school year, we had learned to listen attentively, for Mr. Bart had a reputation for not brooking any nonsense. He was not a teacher you could cross (say, by passing a note) and escape unscathed; at least not for long. Unlike many of my classmates, I felt comfortable in his class, as what he was teaching was like mother's milk to me. I recall I sat about two-thirds of the way toward the back of the room, on the right-hand side as one faced the blackboard.
Suddenly, some kind disturbance outside the classroom door attracted Mr. Bart's attention. He excused himself and left the room, closing the door behind him. He returned a few moments later and his physical demeanor had changed. He looked as if he had been struck physically.
"The President has been shot," he announced, in a very quiet voice. And he began to cry. "Get your stuff together and go on back to your home room," he continued. As I was leaving the room, Mr. Bart was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, and he was sobbing.
We did not remain in our home room very long (but then again, it was already nearing the end of the school day). An "early dismissal" was announced and we all went home. Upon arriving home, my recollection becomes muddied. Neither of my parents said anything, that I can recall. I watched a lot of television.
They say nobody forgets where they were and what they were doing the day Kennedy was shot. I cannot speak for anyone else, but it's certainly true in my case.
It is not a story to particulary grab you where you live, or anything, because I was a mere spectator that day. I was in 7th grade, and had been attending Joseph Pulitzer Junior High School No. 145 for less than three months. I was settling in as well as could be expected for a kid that was not as sharp, in some respects, as many of his classmates.
It was Friday, and it was the home stretch of the school day. We were sitting in the science classroom, and Mr. Bart was explaining something to us. By now in the school year, we had learned to listen attentively, for Mr. Bart had a reputation for not brooking any nonsense. He was not a teacher you could cross (say, by passing a note) and escape unscathed; at least not for long. Unlike many of my classmates, I felt comfortable in his class, as what he was teaching was like mother's milk to me. I recall I sat about two-thirds of the way toward the back of the room, on the right-hand side as one faced the blackboard.
Suddenly, some kind disturbance outside the classroom door attracted Mr. Bart's attention. He excused himself and left the room, closing the door behind him. He returned a few moments later and his physical demeanor had changed. He looked as if he had been struck physically.
"The President has been shot," he announced, in a very quiet voice. And he began to cry. "Get your stuff together and go on back to your home room," he continued. As I was leaving the room, Mr. Bart was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, and he was sobbing.
We did not remain in our home room very long (but then again, it was already nearing the end of the school day). An "early dismissal" was announced and we all went home. Upon arriving home, my recollection becomes muddied. Neither of my parents said anything, that I can recall. I watched a lot of television.
They say nobody forgets where they were and what they were doing the day Kennedy was shot. I cannot speak for anyone else, but it's certainly true in my case.
