On November 22, 1963, sixty years ago today, President John F. Kennedy was shot and died in Dallas, Texas. As with other moments when time, or at least the world, stops, I remember where I was and how confused I felt at the time. I was nine years old and in Mrs. Wilson’s third grade class that afternoon. Someone came to the door and whispered, leaving her in shock and tears. A few minutes later, a television was rolled into the room, and we all watched the news reports in grainy black and white. As I recall, school was let out early, and I went home with my sister, where we watched into the evening.
Controversy swirled around the shooting, which was my first exposure to conspiracy theories. To this day, the question, “did Oswald act alone?” remains the litmus test for whether one believes in conspiracy claims. As a rule, I dismiss those who espouse such things, though I do like to think that Elvis was abducted by aliens and is still alive out there somewhere.
In ten more years, there are likely to be relatively few alive who will be able to say where they were on November 22, 1963. Caroline Kennedy is the only surviving Kennedy left today, and we are fortunate to have her dignity and to appreciate her lifetime of service.
Tragedies continue to abound and confound our world, but we continue to have hope for a future free of such events. I hope to last long enough to contribute to that dream.
