At 18, in college I was a slacker.
A **** that refused to attend
a class much before eleven.
My thoughts not extending
far beyond tomorrow’s game.
Still a little groggy from
Too much beer the night before,
Eyes reluctantly barely open,
I found and took my seat.
The class was in a Lecture Hall,
Theater seating for a hundred.
A class filled to near capacity,
For a Professor everyone loved.
“American History One O One”,
Taught by Doctor Weatherspoon,
A very cool Professor.
He was a very exacting man,
Always prompt and to the point,
A wonderful Lecturer and Historian.
Leaving out most of the trivial ****.
And yet on this morn,
It appeared he was late.
The clock on the wall
Informed eighteen minutes
Past Eleven and counting.
A highly unuseal event.
Lateness was not in
This Educator’s play book.
The seated students were growing
Ever more restless with chatter.
No teacher in class after twenty minutes,
Meant the students were free to leave.
One or two kids were already getting up,
to do just that, make a clean escape.
The side door to the raised stage opened,
Doctor W. appeared, standing alone.
This enlightener of young lives, he
Who brought insight to our minds you see,
was himself quite blind, couldn't see a thing.
He was nearly always in the company of
A teacher’s aid, his hand upon her arm.
A human “Seeing Eye Dog” of his very own.
That day there was no aid present,
He was alone, standing in the doorway,
Only a solemn expression showing,
His ever present dark glasses slightly,
Askew upon his serious, ashen face.
Slowly, hesitantly he edged forward
Appearing unsure of himself,
even slightly confused.
When he thought he must be near
the center-front of the stage stopped,
slowly turned to his right,
Facing the room filled with his students,
We, who had fallen by then nearly, mute.
To silly kids that seldom took anything seriously,
All at once, nothing in that room seemed humorous.
In a flat halting, chocked up voice he announced,
“The President has been shot.
Down in Dallas.
I regret to inform you,
our President is dead.”
An audible gasp,
a collective sigh of shock was heard,
someone cried out; “Oh my God no!”
He held up his right hand, palm out and
Gently moved it right to left, a slow Parade
Wave it seemed. Beseeching us for calm.
The room went instantly silent again.
In a broken voice he continued,
“I think we should all adjourn for the day,
Yes, no class today. Perhaps no other classes at all.
Yes, you should go home now, be with your families.”
He began to softly cry, took off his dark glasses,
Took a white linen hanky from his suite pocket,
Dabbing it at his sunken, sightless eyes.
We had never seen him without his dark glasses,
Looking for the first time, upon his naked human face.
“Yes, it’s best you go on home now,
I’m so sorry; I don’t know what else to say.”
Then in a moment of stress and confusion,
He turned, did a 180,
facing about, the wrong way.
Slowly he began to walk forward,
hands outstretched before him,
towards the solid, rear brick wall,
of the stage. Headed for disaster.
A football teammate of mine,
jumped up on the stage and
Raced to catch the Professor.
Gently taking him by the arm,
ending his error in navigation.
Then my friend guided our Mentor
to the exit door.
All of us, nearly 100 remained seated,
a strange compelling hush,
weighing heavily upon us.
A stunned silence for sure,
that I shall never forget.
Our respected teacher’s emotional,
Confused response only deepening
our own feelings, of loss and dread.
Then we were left alone, together
to ponder what it all meant.
No cell phones, no instant news
Abounding, like birds on the wing,
Filling the air, here there and everywhere
to see and hear. Home was where we
Saw and heard things of import back then,
Home is where we should be.
And that is where most of us went.
Gradually over the next few minutes,
One by one, students rose and silently,
Slowly, reverently walked from the room
As if they were walking from a Church,
after some emotionally wrenching occasion.
A few and not just females were openly weeping.
There is no way to explain all this any better,
There is no real way for you to fully understand,
How it was, how it felt, unless you, yourself were there.
I dare say that anyone over the age of ten on that day,
November 22, 1963 will ever forget where they were,
What they were doing, when they first heard the news
Of the assignation of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
A year and a half later I was in the Military,
doing what I thought I should.
In part perhaps, as JFK had inspired.
“Ask not what your country can do for you.
Ask what you can do for your country.”
My older brother joined the Peace Corps,
I joined the Marine Corps, both answering the call,
As we saw fit.
On that day in November ’63 the entire country
went into a profound and deep National mourning
that lasted for weeks.
That has over time turned into a National Haunting,
That still to this day, half a century later, persists.
Some things, some events, truly are unforgettable
Remembering a time most older Americans would
rather forget. A time our current elected leaders, of
both Parties should recall and work together to make
"Camelot", that "shinning city on a hill", a reality for us all.
Imagined or real a worthy goal.
(Definitions: "Assignation"; An appointment with time
or place. Destiny.
"Assassination"; An act of political ******.
We can all be the judge of which actually fits.
I say it was his charismatic star power that
killed the President. The ballistics' were but the
lethal messengers of his fate.)
