The JFK Assassination and I

In 1963, I was eleven years old.  I don't recall the JFK assassination being reported in school that day.  I remember getting home from school to find the TV on and my mother in front of it, watching the breaking reportage.

At eleven years old, I'd like to think I was old enough to feel shock, grief, anxiety, or uncertainty abut what the future might bring.

No such luck, folks.  The major feeling I remember from those days of non-stop television coverage was on Saturday morning, when my Saturday morning cartoons weren't broadcast.  I was shocked.  I was outraged.

At eleven, I should have been at least starting to get a sense of belonging to the outside world.  I should have paid at least some attention to more than comics and television and (occasionally) school.

But  my priorities then weren't what I now wish they'd been.  I was a self-centered little git.  I pay more attention to government and politics now.  (Though I must admit that sometimes I feel it's more from a sense of self-defense than actual interest).

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