Reflecting on November 22nd, 1963 and the assassination of our President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the loss of a nation… and of the world.
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Up until I was eight years old, life was a scattered recollection of emerging awareness of the world around me. Then, while climbing the stairs to the second floor of John J. Audubon Elementary school in Chicago, Illinois - I overheard an older guy descending the stairs telling his friend: "Did you hear? The President's been shot!"
The news meant something big, then and there. That feeling was reinforced within the minute it took to complete my trek to the classroom. The somber teacher, the being sent home early, the stunned walk home through a hushed neighborhood. Then the look of my mother and the tears she could not hide when we got home.
The following day we drove to my grandparents and spent the subsequent days in a vigil around their TV trying to absorb what had happened until our President was laid to rest. It's the earliest period of my young life where I remember a sequence of many days. Sort of a brutal slap in the face letting me know that the outside world does make a difference to my own little world.