Dead Kennedys
Today is November 22. Those of us of ALTE age remember exactly where we were and what we were doing, November 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was in 5th grade at P.S. 152, Inwood, Manhattan. Our teacher, Mr. Hassett, was crying. I had never seen an adult man cry, except my father, when my parents divorced, and he left our home. The news coverage was non-stop. Johnson sworn in. John-John saluting his father. Jackie, stoic. Then Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald in the stomach, live on television. It would be almost a decade before I studied “surrealism,” but this was it in real life.
Soon after, Robert Kennedy, shot dead in California as I, a junior high student, watched the primary election returns from Eugene McCarthy headquarters in Hackensack, New Jersey. With Kennedy in the race for President, McCarthy had no chance.
No one wanted to look behind the window dressing of a family with so much tragedy even if Joseph P. Kennedy was a Nazi sympathizer, even if he and Rose lobotomized their mentally handicapped daughter. The Kennedy’s were American royalty, and sometimes people died for that.
It shouldn’t be surprising that from this family of alcoholics, womanizers and murder victims we get to RFK. Jr. How does one surpass the ghost of Chappaquiddick? Introspection is not possible in a family where winning is everything. He’s going to save us from vaccines, from doctors, from memory itself. And, in fairness, how does a child survive seeing one’s father and uncle shot down in cold blood? No years of therapy can fix that.
Kindness, it seems is a word that has been erased from the language. If there ever was such a thing as kindness. Our parents were survivors. They survived the Great Depression. They survived World War II. Many served in the military. Many in combat. Others survived the death camps of Europe. We were raised in the shadow of genocide and the terrible sacrifices our parents made. They would have us believe the world could be better, that we could make it better, that their sacrifices had meaning.
Not true. Americans have elected a president who is selfish, mean and mean-spirited. Whatever he acquires for himself is not enough, will never be enough. There is no sense of community, only anger, no dream of making the world a better place.
And it’s Thanksgiving, an opportunity for America to whitewash (a perfect word in this context) the tremendous harm done to the people who were living here first. No thanks. That’s not to say I lack gratitude. I am very grateful. Half of us did not vote for a rapist.
I am grateful for family, grateful that I have ample food, a comfortable home. Despite losses, I have had much good fortune. I am grateful for ALTE, that it gives me an opportunity to share my thoughts with all of you. I am grateful for all of you. I hope you can celebrate Thanksgiving in a way that is meaningful for you. Best in Showoften airs on Thanksgiving. It’s a hilarious movie. Maybe you will catch it on TV. Perhaps you like football. I don’t, I will admit, but please do something you like. Something you enjoy. You will be glad you did.
Of course, I will give Arlo the last word–
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ALTE is mounting an art-and-poetry show at the Puffin Gallery in Teaneck, NJ, with an opening on Saturday, December 14th at 4 pm. Save the date! Details to follow.
Also, our new issue, on the theme “Father,” is now posted at the Alte website. Have a look!
Ah yes, I remember it well. It was shortly after 1 o'clock and we were in class. Sigh. Camelot gone..
Junior high, Spanish class. Mom crying in the kitchen. Had never seen her cry before.
I'm not sure it takes the Kennedy clan to produce an RFK.