Dancharthos :
Autobiography :
13.1 -- Day They Shot President Kennedy
I had a crush on Julia Raider in the 8th grade. (This is the origin of my identical twin cousin Michael's story about his mother remembering.) She had her locker next to mine at Spring Valley Junior High. I think they call it Middle School now. I heard the news from her in class break at eleven a.m., already one p.m. in Texas, November 23rd 22nd, 1963. I must look in an almanack to get the date right. I always think it was the 23rd. No. It was the 22nd. It was also Friday, but I always think it Thursday. Wrong both times. Such inaccuracy is memory.
At our lockers, Julia said something like, "Daniel, you'll never guess what happened! The President has been shot!"
"What?! How do you know?" I demanded. The flashbulb memory claims to remember this perfect.
"I spend third period working in the office. We heard it on the radio."
I believed her but didn't believe her. I had Spanish next period. Told James ("Diego"). He sat next to me. Didn't want to believe me at all. "Ha!" he laughed, "Good! Get that guy out of there!" San Diego suburbs were conservative and Republican. Ten minutes later the classroom phone buzzed (intercom only from the office). Then the teacher told us. "Oh no!" Jim said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it...!"
I don't remember if they sent us home early that day or not. I don't remember if we talked about it in classes. But we must have. And next week, too, with the funeral and all. We were very shocked. Upset. And yet, proud that we were Americans and that the assassin would not become President like in Macbeth or Julius Caesar. Remember, this was before conspiracy theory.
I went home and read my parents' coffee table picture book about the White House. Tried not to cry over the injustice of it all. It was even weirder for me because in those days I was a junior closet Democrat in kneejerk land and all of a sudden everyone was grieving for someone who (whom) only a few days ago they had loved to hate. In those days I didn't know about old Joe stealing West Virginia votes and winning the election for his son. But now, regardless, as a father I grieve for him and for them all. How our Camelot-Irish royalty hath suffered for their so-called hubris. It is not fair, said the Marilyn Monroe doctrine.
Life is never fair, my first father often said, better let sleeping dogs lie. So I will say no more, even though I've just kicked the beast twice, and written more than my memory of the time.
At our lockers, Julia said something like, "Daniel, you'll never guess what happened! The President has been shot!"
"What?! How do you know?" I demanded. The flashbulb memory claims to remember this perfect.
"I spend third period working in the office. We heard it on the radio."
I believed her but didn't believe her. I had Spanish next period. Told James ("Diego"). He sat next to me. Didn't want to believe me at all. "Ha!" he laughed, "Good! Get that guy out of there!" San Diego suburbs were conservative and Republican. Ten minutes later the classroom phone buzzed (intercom only from the office). Then the teacher told us. "Oh no!" Jim said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it...!"
I don't remember if they sent us home early that day or not. I don't remember if we talked about it in classes. But we must have. And next week, too, with the funeral and all. We were very shocked. Upset. And yet, proud that we were Americans and that the assassin would not become President like in Macbeth or Julius Caesar. Remember, this was before conspiracy theory.
I went home and read my parents' coffee table picture book about the White House. Tried not to cry over the injustice of it all. It was even weirder for me because in those days I was a junior closet Democrat in kneejerk land and all of a sudden everyone was grieving for someone who (whom) only a few days ago they had loved to hate. In those days I didn't know about old Joe stealing West Virginia votes and winning the election for his son. But now, regardless, as a father I grieve for him and for them all. How our Camelot-Irish royalty hath suffered for their so-called hubris. It is not fair, said the Marilyn Monroe doctrine.
Life is never fair, my first father often said, better let sleeping dogs lie. So I will say no more, even though I've just kicked the beast twice, and written more than my memory of the time.