So I was a sophomore at a catholic parochial HS in the Bronx. They didn’t explain why, but they closed school an hour earlier than normal. Had to take a public bus home. Didn’t talk to anyone on the bus. Walked the final half mile home. Got home and Mom was crying. That was well over an hour after most people knew what happened in Dallas that day.
Sunday morning I watched Oswald get shot on live TV.
Was 10 and sitting in 5th grade math class when they wheeled in the TV. Too young to grasp the magnitude but will always remember it.
I absolutely don’t care.
The Democrats have made Kennedy a god and they worship at his altar.
At some point, the stupid worship of this failed president must stop. He wasn’t good. He blew it on Cuba, he screwed up Vietnam, he failed to act on Civil Rights, he was a drug addict and a philanderer. He was no good.
Every November it’s the same thing: Boo-Hoo! Let me tell you where I was when Kennedy was shot ...
2003 — 40 years ago ...
2013 — 50 years ago ...
Well, guess what? It’s May. It’s 2017.
53 and a half years ago ...
C’mon! Can we stop worshipping the Golden Calf?
JFK worship. Bleccch! When are these people going to get over it? I never saw my mother cry so hard as when she heard the news about JFK — the night she heard he was elected.
I was nine months old and slept through the entire thing.
In retrospect, Kennedy was mainly considered great because he was shot.
But imagine how Ted Kennedy felt. He was the only Kennedy not worth enough to get assassinated.
I was in 7th grade. The head nun came over the PA system and said “Your prayers are requested for the repose of the soul of President John F. Kennedy, who has been assassinated.” My nun left the classroom, and our first thoughts were that the Soviets had killed him and that we are at war. Remember, the Cuban Missile Crisis was just a year earlier.
Our nun came back in the classroom, crying, and herded us all over to the church, where all the other classes were forming up. They had us say the rosary.
Then they released us for the day.
In 1963 my Dad was a colonel in the Air Force Reserve, and he was a pilot. When I got home he has home, and so was my Mom. My Dad never came home from work before 7:00 p.m., and here it was about 1:00 in the afternoon. In those days there were no cell phones, and my Dad reasoned that if his unit was going to be activated he’d get the call at home.
The only people I remember who were visibly upset were the nuns. Most of the other adults were just sort of quiet. Almost everyone’s father in those days was a WWII veteran, and everyone’s mother had experienced WWII to some extent (my Mom especially, as she was from England, and had gone through the blitz, etc.). So, all the adults I knew were just kind of stoic.
One of my sisters and I were roller skating in the basement when one of our siblings yelled down the stairs to us that the president had been shot. I had a sleepover that night with a friend, and I remember her mother crying on and off that evening about what had happened. It was shocking.