I was four years old, and 50 years ago TODAY marks a special day in my then-young life. The President that I adored, and whose Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country was one of the first complete sentences I ever uttered, was in my hometown of Houston. More importantly, he was driving to Downtown up South Main Street, where my quasi-godfather, Mr. Gorisch, had a violin shop on the second floor. I was in a perfect spot to see him drive by as either my mom or Mr. Gorisch snapped a picture of him driving by and waving. Its blurry, but you can clearly tell that its him, and I was the happiest kid in the world, because John F. Kennedy was a hero to a boy without a father. Only now, in middle age, can I fully appreciate the role he played in my young life, as the surrogate father figure, the calming influence in what was a very chaotic childhood, a shining beacon of hope, not just to me but to the world. The next day, since I didnt have anywhere important to be at four years old, I was at home watching TV. And given that Presidential visits to what so many still view as the hinterlands of Texas were still a big deal back then, our local station (Im pretty sure it was KHOU-TV, Channel 11 since that was the only channel my grandfather, who we lived with, trusted) was showing live coverage of the Presidents itinerary the next day, in Dallas. Thinking back, I think that this actually may have been the beginning of my hostility and hatred for the Big D, which has never been bigger or more important than my hometown, and never will be. I used to think it was based in football, which every Texan understands no matter what side theyre on. But I was watching the TV, hoping to get another glimpse of my hero. My first inkling that something was wrong was the sight of a policeman on a motorcycle who, seemingly for no reason, suddenly jumped the curb and rode his bike onto the grass, before dumping it. As events unfolded, I sat glued to the TV, and while I dont remember any of the rest, what I do remember quite vividly was the news that the President had been shot. I think it was even before he was pronounced dead, because it was still light outside, and I dont think I have ever been so enraged in my entire life. My next actions probably are a better indicator than anything, because what I do remember was running into the kitchen, and getting a steak knife out of the drawer. I had been told how dangerous they were, with their serrated edges, and how I was never supposed to touch them, which I suppose to my four year old mind made it the perfect weapon. Then I went outside, and climbed onto the only mode of transportation with which I was familiar. (I actually had an electric go-cart but it was always in the shop) On my trusty red tricycle, I began my journey of vengeance, clutching my steak knife, and I cant remember a time when I have been as filled with rage and hurt as then. I had one simple and all-encompassing mission; kill the man who hurt John F. Kennedy. Unfortunately, my four year old world didnt encompass a lot of territory; my one landmark was the West University pool (which is where I lived, and boy does that mean something different today than it did back then), so once I pedaled past it I was in unknown territory. I dont remember how far I got, but I remember my mom, frantic with worry, finding me. And surprisingly, at least to me at that time, she wasnt mad. Her later explanation about my behavior was that this was the first time I had to confront the idea of death and what it meant. That may be; what I do know is that JFK was the first hero I ever had, and no matter what Ive learned about him since (and Im sure that there will be friends who are so happy to point out all the horrible things he supposedly did and how it was actually a good thing he was killed), nothing will ever change what he represented to a four year old boy in Texas, on November 22, 1963.
Posted on: Fri, 22 Nov 2013 02:40:42 +0000
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