November 22, 1963. It’s a date engraved in my mind. It has been 50 years since this horrible event occurred.
I’ll bet you know what you were doing when you heard Walter Cronkite announce the unbelievable news. To me, it’s as if it happened last week.
U.S. president John F. Kennedy, age 44, was assassinated on Nov. 22, 1963.
At the time, I was teaching my Grade 3/4 class about the solar system. I heard a knock on my door, opened it and saw it was the principal, Gordon Whalen who had knocked. He looked shaken as he related this horrific news to me. He went on to inform every teacher of the same terrible event.
When he returned to his office, he clicked on the PA system so that we could follow the events as they were reported. I was very upset, but realized I had to remain calm for my pupils.
Briefly, I explained what had happened. Most of the children had heard of Kennedy. His youthfulness, vigour and eloquence had charmed people around the world, including me.
His lovely wife, Jacqueline, and young children, Caroline and John Jr., made the White House seem more like a home than a stuffy, official residence.
Although Mrs. Kennedy was young, she possessed the poise and calmness of a much older woman. Seeing photographs of the children playing under the president’s desk gave the Kennedy White House a sense of lightness and fun. That’s what I found so attractive.
I devoured magazine articles about the presidential Kennedys and about the extended Kennedy family.
Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas, Texas, shocked me to my very core. What and who was behind it? Why? The horrific event caused me to watch TV in the daytime for the first time and throughout that weekend. At my parents’ home, we were all continually checking the news as more and more details emerged.
Then, I saw the piece of film taken by Abraham Zapruder, which showed, dramatically, that indeed Kennedy was shot in the head.
Sunday after Mass, the TV came on again and before my very eyes Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald to death. What was happening? It was too frightening to imagine.
That evening after supper, we were glued to the television again. My mother kept asking me to accompany her to play bingo in the church hall.
My reply: “This is history happening before my very eyes, I will be teaching this some day.”
Finally, Mom said, “If you don’t want to come, that’s fine, but I’m going.”
My fiancé whispered in my ear that since we would be married soon, I should go with her. So, I gave in.
As we descended the stairs into the church hall, the ladies started clapping.
It was then I noticed Alex’s mother and sisters, and my own sisters. Finally, it dawned on me that this was a wedding shower for me.
And so, strangely, the assassination became inextricably woven into my wedding preparations. Watching the state funeral cortege on TV was very sad and implausible to me.
Alex and I were married on Dec. 28, 1963.
Erna de Burger-Fex is a writer and retired teacher.
