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Sitting in a small 7th grade class with old desks carved with past
students' names, the day was gray and cold in Michael T. Simmons school
in Tumwater, Washington. Our teacher was a young man who's family had
enough money to help him get a porche and he was very popular with all
the students. I wasn't a part of that group of students that Mr. Robins
favored with his attention. I was a watcher. Someone who stood at the
edge of the group and listened.
Half-way through the class, the loudspeaker interrupted. The
vice-principal asked Mr. Robins to come down to the office. It was an
unusual request--to ask him to leave us alone. He walked down the
hardwood halls, heels echoing all the way. Something wasn't right. Was
he in trouble?
He was only gone a few minutes, returning quietly. He passed off
questions with a wave and tried to restart the lesson. He wasn't sure if
he wanted to tell us or just go on. Then, another announcement
interrupted. This time the voice was soft and serious. Our
vice-principal said that our president had been shot. He asked us to
stop what we were doing and have a silent moment. I didn't feel
connected to what was being said. I didn't know much about our president
except that my parent hadn't voted for him and they were not happy to have a
Catholic in the White House. I wasn't sure why it was so important. He
really didn't mean much to me. Mr Robins told us that they had called
him to the office to tell him before they made the announcement because
he had worked on the Presidents' campaign and had met him. He had tears
in his eyes.
I stood outside in the cold, gray light during recess and watched. I saw
girls crying, teachers trying to comfort them and hold back their own
tears. The boys weren't sure how to act. Some were very quiet and
others were very loud. School was dismissed for the rest of the day. I
walked home expecting to see my parents upset. They went about their
usual jobs listening to the T.V., but didn't seem to be very concerned.
But, they were quieter than usual. I knew they really didn't like him.
I was interested in what was going on. The news stories and the scenes
or hysterical people, confusion, and panic. I watched everything--the
scenes from the hospital, news reports from the parade route, the
swearing in of the vice-resident. We didn't have a color T.V. I
couldn't see the pink of the suit on Mrs. Kennedy, but I could see the
dark blood stains.
As I watched I began to understand. It wasn't about a man being killed.
That happened somewhere every day. It was The President. It hadn't
ever been a big deal to me. Politics was boring. But, it began to sink
in. Our country had chosen a man to be our leader and because we put him
in that position, someone had killed him. They didn't confront him and
argue or tell him that they hated him or that they thought he was a bad
president. They waited for him. Watched him wave at the crowd. Saw
friendly faces smile and wave back. They hunted him and murdered him in
front of his wife, leaving her holding his bloody head while he died. It
didn't matter to me anymore who he was. It was the tragedy that finally
touched me. As I watched, I heard people who had been his political
enemies swear to do anything within their power to bring his murderer to
justice. I saw world leaders speak with respect and often sorrow about
the death of our president.
My parents got tired of watching. They said that eventhough he was our
president, they were bored with having it on the T.V. all the time.
They didn't really like him anyway. But, to me it was an awakening. I
had never cared what was going on; never cared about the political news;
never felt a part of any of that adult world until I was touched by the
emotional responses of so many people. As I watched the black horse,
that riderless horse, walk down the street in Washington, D.C. and saw the
casket draped with an American flag, I bit back tears for the loss. I
felt connected with all those people who stood weeping on the sidewalks
along the path of the funeral procession. I felt a sorrow I didn't
understand until I was older.
I saved newspaper clippings and magazines about the assassination and
about Lee Harvey Oswald. I read them and wondered at the mystery and
uncertain ending. Who did kill President Kennedy? Why?
Mr. Robins didn't talk about it in class. He didn't joke with the boys
or chat with the girls for several weeks.
It was a gray, cold day when our President was assassinated.
Glenda Garrett
Media Specialist
Sunset Elementary
Vancouver, Washington
ggarrett@egreen.wednet.edu
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