We were all looking forward to going to the custom car show at the Coliseum that weekend. Suddenly, teachers started crying. We were told that classes were dismissed.
We lined up for the 38 bus outside of JHS 143, as the news spread. We were shocked. We wore his campaign buttons with pride and even put them into the heels of our shoes, for taps, as we walked down the school hallways. His posters were in every bar around Fordham Rd. and Kingsbridge.
He was our Paul Bunyan. He was a war hero. He beat that sweaty POS, Nixon (and HIS campaign offices were EMPTY! Not like our hero’s offices, always jam-packed with kids asking for buttons and fliers.)
The next Sunday we watched our b&w tv’s as they brought Oswald down the corridor. Suddenly, BLAM!, some fat schmuck named Jack Ruby rubbed him out, in front of everybody! Sick shit. It was the day I realized that we — us kids — all had to go it alone, had to be self-reliant, and not trust any of them; the certainty of childhood, that adults could handle things and run a proper world, was obliterated. I was 12.
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