A Memory of November 22, 1963

The following is from a memoir I wrote several years ago. The “Candy” in the story is a different woman from the Candy I have been writing about in this blog.

I was a senior in high school. My last class was architectural drawing. At the end of the class, the teacher always turned on a radio he had made on a piece of plywood. That day, when he turned it on, instead of music, we heard the words: “President Kennedy has been shot in Dallas.” No one said anything, until one student muttered/prayed aloud: “Lord, don’t let him die.”

When the final bell rang, in shock and silence, I slowly walked to my locker. Most of the other students hadn’t heard the news and the end of the day hustle and bustle was going on as usual. By the time I arrived at my locker, the hallway was empty, except for my friend, Candy, whose locker was next to mine. She was sitting on the floor in front of her locker, head in her hands, crying. When she saw me, she stood up; we silently embraced, and we both cried.

We probably would have remained in that spot the rest of the afternoon. However, suddenly our English teacher, Mr. G., a self-proclaimed right winger, came out of his room, dancing, clapping his hands, and singing: “They shot the damned Commie; they shot the damned Commie.”

When Mr. G. saw us, he stopped. Candy stared at him and said, “Shame on you, Mr. G.” Then she and I left the building, holding hands—and still shedding tears.