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My JFK Story




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November 22, 1963 - I was in school, the fall of my fourth grade year. I remember that the teachers all went out in the hall whispering (and some crying), and us kids were looking around at each other wondering what was going on, sitting quietly even though no adults were present (which wouldn't happen today). We were sent home early - all of us walked to school at that time, and most of us had moms at home with younger siblings. I remember my mother and her relatives being particularly upset because they felt JFK was one of them, Irish and Catholic; his assassination brought back memories of the hardships and prejudices encountered by previous generations who came to the USA as immigrants. School must have been closed for a few days, because I remember being home and watching the funeral on our black-and-white TV. I'll never forget the solemn procession, the casket drawn by horses, and of course, little John-John's salute, which still brings tears to my eyes. I think we remember that day because our mostly idyllic little life was rudely interrupted by the dark side of life.