(C) 2013 M C McLemore
Anyone over the age of 6-years on this date in 1963 likely has some memory of where they were when JFK was shot.
I was in biology class, first class after lunch, at F. T. Nicholls Senior High in New Orleans, wondering where our teacher was. She was almost ten minutes late, and the class was getting restless, loud and unruly. When she came through the door, it was obvious she had been crying, was still crying. The class fell immediately quiet, uneasy.
"It is my sad duty," she said, "to tell you that the President has been shot."
Stunned, confused silence greeted her announcement.
A boy sitting behind me asked "What president?"
Our President, she blubbered. "John Fitzgerald Kennedy!"
Disbelief replaced confusion and several of us screamed out "NO!" The boy behind me said she lied, that Kennedy wasn't shot, it wasn't true, it couldn't be true.
We were the same class that had lived through the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis, practically at our front doors. We didn't believe anything could be scary after that.
Mr. Garland, the principal, came on the intercom a few seconds later, telling the teachers to close the doors to their rooms. He told everyone to remain calm, that he would speak again after the upcoming broadcast.
Somewhere in the front of the room a girl began to cry. Then it became real. Something was dreadfully wrong. Mr. Garland was crying, too.
Like in a roomful of babies, where one after another begins to cry (not knowing why exactly, but if the other babies are bawling then there must be something to cry about), sniffling and low moaning spread through the classroom. Even the most macho of the boys succumbed to the anxiety.
The next announcement came from the school secretary.
"The President is dead. Please remain in your seats." Her voiced cracked. The mike clicked off.
Fear, unnamed but near-palpable, raced its way from seat to seat, row to row.
Mr. Garland opened the mike. He said he was reading a statement from the Orleans Parish Superintendent of Schools.
"President John F. Kennedy was shot today in Dallas, Texas, around 12:30 this afternoon. He was rushed to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead just a few minutes ago."
A great roar went up in our classroom and those around us. Unbelievably, some were cheering. Not in our room.
Mr. Garland told the teachers to take attendance and for the students to prepare to leave, but to stay in their seats until he released us.
When we were released, we walked out of school into a world changed forever. We had left the cave, lost a measure of our innocence, and felt the heavy hand of adult responsibility touch our shoulders.
I didn't break down until later that evening, at home, while we were watching the arrival of Air Force One returning to Washington, DC. When I saw the First Lady standing at the back of the open bay, her face puffy from crying, her hair in disarray, I said to my mother that there were rose petals still on her suit.
"Those aren't rose petals, Martha."
My mother's voice was soft, kindly, tearful. I looked at her face, then knew.
There were many tears shed in our home over that mournful weekend and the week after, but none stung as bitterly as those shed for the blood rose-petals on Jackie's skirt.
"President John F. Kennedy was shot today in Dallas, Texas, around 12:30 this afternoon. He was rushed to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead just a few minutes ago."
A great roar went up in our classroom and those around us. Unbelievably, some were cheering. Not in our room.
Mr. Garland told the teachers to take attendance and for the students to prepare to leave, but to stay in their seats until he released us.
When we were released, we walked out of school into a world changed forever. We had left the cave, lost a measure of our innocence, and felt the heavy hand of adult responsibility touch our shoulders.
I didn't break down until later that evening, at home, while we were watching the arrival of Air Force One returning to Washington, DC. When I saw the First Lady standing at the back of the open bay, her face puffy from crying, her hair in disarray, I said to my mother that there were rose petals still on her suit.
"Those aren't rose petals, Martha."
My mother's voice was soft, kindly, tearful. I looked at her face, then knew.
There were many tears shed in our home over that mournful weekend and the week after, but none stung as bitterly as those shed for the blood rose-petals on Jackie's skirt.
