Born: May 29, 1917, Brookline, MA
Assassinated November 22, 1963 in Dallas, Texas
I remember November 22, 1963 as if it were yesterday. I can remember exactly where I was when the death of President John F. Kennedy was announced. I remember the shock and disbelief, the inevitable acceptance of the reality that he was gone, and the grief that followed a long time after.
I was a young black girl in high school at the time, but I felt the loss as if he was a member of our family. We had come to know and love him as a man of compassion, understanding, determination and integrity. I had heard many people say he was a breath of fresh air to a nation that was dying from the cancer of racism; that he represented hope for a cure to that seemingly incurable disease, and finally that he was their light in the midst of darkness
As a teenager, having grown up in the south, there was a depth and understanding, that, to me, could only come from having experienced racism first hand. I could sense the deep hopelessness that my parents felt at the time of the President's assassination, but I could never really know all that they felt. Having lived in the south most of their life, they had experienced far more years of racism than I had experienced in my short years on this earth.
Looking back on that day, I can now understand the depth and extent of their grief as they watched President Kennedy's body proceed to Arlington National Cemetery and listened to the final taps echo in the distant sky. I now know that they wept and grieved the death of a promise of hope that was buried on that fated day in 1963.
In Memory of President Kennedy and all who have lost their lives in the name of peace and equality