Memories of November 1963

It was a Friday in November – less than a week before my First Holy Communion, which was to take place on Thanksgiving Day 1963.  Sitting in my 2nd grade classroom, I was only six years old, when an announcement came over the intercom:  “The President has been shot.  He was wounded in the arm.”  I don’t remember much beyond that message because many of us started to cry.  Our President Kennedy?  The President of the United States?  He was shot?!  How could that be?

My little brain whirled with questions, fear and anxiety.  What was happening?  Remember that we children were trained to “duck and cover” in case of a nuclear attack.  “Stay away from windows,” they told us.  “Hide under your desks and don’t look outside.”  We took part in these regular drills.  And in our naïve child-minds, we felt somehow “protected.”

But how could we be protected when they could shoot the President?  The teachers didn’t tell us what really happened that day in Dallas.  They left it to our stunned parents to impart the news when we got home from school. President Kennedy had died that day, felled by an assassin’s bullets.

Of course, as only children do, we asked so many “whys.”  Why did he have to go to Dallas?  Why did he ride in an open car?  Why did someone shoot him?  Why couldn’t the doctors save him?  Why did he have to die?

In truth, the biggest “why” of all was: “Why did such bad things happen?”  I just remember the suffering seemed immense, almost too much to bear.  My mother was pressing drapes, getting the apartment ready in anticipation of my First Communion.  She stood at that ironing board, watching the news and crying.  Even a trusted face like news anchor, Walter Cronkite, could barely hold back the emotion.

Ours was a collective sob which moved into open weeping as the days passed and we saw the tragedy as it relentlessly played out on the television: the suspected assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was caught after having killed a Dallas policeman; after questioning, Oswald was being taken away by the detectives, only to be shot at point-blank range; President Kennedy’s casket lying in state in the Capitol Rotunda as mourners passed by; then, the state funeral with the caisson and the rider-less black horse; Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy and her two small children, Caroline and John-John, saluting his Daddy.  The misery washed over us.  Our collective pain was palpable as President Kennedy’s funeral took place on Monday, November 25, 1963.  Dallas police officer J.D. Tippit and Oswald were also buried that day. 

We didn’t know at the time, but my brother, who was stationed on a U.S. Army base in Germany, told us later of greater fears.  When news came of the President’s assassination, the bases went on high alert, leaves were cancelled and the guards were issued “full metal jacket” – live rounds of ammunition for their weapons.  In the midst of the Cold War, it was believed that the Soviet Union was planning an all-out offensive against the U.S. and its NATO allies, beginning with the death of the president.

As for my First Communion that Thanksgiving, I recall sensory images: light filtering through the stained glass windows, casting rich colors all about; the sheen of the dark wood pews; billows of incense rising with our prayers; kneeling on the cold marble step at the altar railing to receive the Body of Christ; and singing “At That First Eucharist.”  I was nervous, but after receiving Communion, I prayed for President Kennedy, his family, my loved ones and our country.  Even in the midst of my joy at receiving Jesus for the very first time, I could not pull away from the grief we all bore. 

Years later, I wondered why we received our First Communion that year at Thanksgiving, when other churches celebrated this Sacrament in the springtime.  I realize now how appropriate it was to receive the Holy Eucharist then, since it means “thanksgiving.”  Even as a child, the thought occurred to me that, as a Catholic, John F. Kennedy also went to Confession and received Holy Communion.  Two priests went to him that day at Parkland Hospital. We were united in our Catholic Faith and given the grace of Hope.  We were people who did good and bad, journeying each day to hopefully see God face-to-face. 

Here I am, 50 years later, humbly thanking our Lord Jesus for the many times I was able to personally encounter Him and carry Him within me through the Holy Eucharist.  I thank God for the many blessings and challenges received in my life.

And yes, I still mourn the loss of a fellow Catholic, who was struck down through violence – the young father and leader of our country.  May he and all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.  As Americans in the 21st century, may we stand united in Hope and resolve to build a better future for generations to come.  This is truly God’s grace and part of Kennedy’s legacy, an enduring message for us today.