I post this at the end of Ripper's diary just before it fell off the page so I guess few saw it. Ripper suggested I make it into a standalone post so here it is.
I was in Miss Hanson's second grade class at our brand spanking new
Worthridge school when the principal came on the PA to call all the
teachers down to his office that day in November 1963. A few minutes
later a visibly shaken Miss Hanson came back to class and announced we
were all being sent home early, the president had been shot, and we
were to go to straight home. Walking those 6 blocks my friends and I
were sure it was the work of the Russians and World War 111
was about to start. At the age of 7 we didn't really know what that
meant but we'd never seen the teachers so distraught before so we knew
it couldn't be good.
All that weekend we watched the funeral procession on our black and
white tv, the incessant beat of the drums, John John saluting the
casket as it passed, Jackie in her veil. They reran the scenes nonstop.
On March 31, 1968 I watched LBJ make his "I Shall Not Seek, and I
Will Not Accept" speech with my Republican father. My dad hated LBJ and
I was 12 so I hated LBJ too. As Johnson began to talk I mocked him hoping
to goad my dad into changing the channel. The big ugly Texan and his
Johnny Reb drawl was making another boring speech and I was sure there
must be something better on. My father told me to shut up, the
president was speaking and I was to respect the office. So we watched.
Less than a week later I was confirmed in the Episcopalian church at
the big cathedral in Chicago. On the way there we sat in the car
silently at an intersection in the city for what seemed like an hour
waiting for what looked like the entire Illinois National Guard to pass
by in speeding big olive drab Army 4x4 trucks, rifles at the ready, on
their way to the West Side. I noticed my mother gripping the dashboard
with both hands, her knuckles white. Martin Luther King was murdered
the day before and a lot of the West Side was burning to the ground.
Some of those lots remain blighted and empty today.
Two months later I was at my new school in Downers Grove in 6th
grade. We'd moved the year before. It was the last day of the school
year if I remember correctly and we discussed Bobby Kennedy's
assassination when we were let out early with our report cards on a bright
sunny day. It was senseless. While still a nascent Republican I
couldn't figure why this Jordanian man killed RFK out of fear for his
allegiance to Israel. RFK was for peace in Vietnam, surely he wasn't
for more war in the middle east.
I was pretty sick of and very confused by these assassinations. I just wanted them to stop.
That summer I watched the Democratic convention in Chicago, 30 miles
away on TV, again with my dad. My father was never a fan of Mayor
Richard J. Daley. He was an arrogant ass merely interested in amassing
as much power as he could for himself as far as dad was concerned, I of
course agreed. We watched the police riot. Together we saw them
gleefully wade into the crowd bludgeoning anyone within reach with
their clubs. I watched dad's reaction, he was as troubled by what we
saw as I was. The next day I went to school and heard tales from a
classmate whose 17 year old brother came home with his head wrapped in
bandages. That night Dad and I watched Mayor Daley's infamous "the
police aren't there to create disorder, they're there to preserve
disorder" press conference. He pulled out baggies of feces as "proof"
that his men were provoked by the demonstrators.
Right then is where I began coming of age politically and thinking
for myself. My father accepted Daley's explanation for what we
witnessed live on television the night before wholeheartedly. I guess
he needed that reassurance from a authority figure even if he reviled him. I was amazed. I couldn't believe it. I argued with him to
no avail. We both saw what happened but he refused to believe his own
eyes and instead bought the excuses.
I still believed in Nixon's "secret plan to end the war". If I had
had the vote that fall I would have voted for him right along with my
parents. I remember my mother's angst, she was tired of voting for
losers. Once elected it wasn't long before Nixon's plan went by the
wayside and I started growing my hair long.
Within a year my parents couldn't understand me any better than they understood Abby Hoffmann.
My dad and I didn't agree on politics again for decades though we'd
argue all the time. He thought Nixon was railroaded out of office.
Reagan, from western Illinois like him was his hero. No appeals to
decency or common sense would change his mind. Nothing I ever said got
through.
I knew he voted for Obama in 2004 for senator but that was no test,
his opponent Alan Keyes was nuts. Even my Republican congresswoman all
but admitted she voted for Barack in that election.
But about a year ago, suffering from aphasia and unable to speak Dad
came into my office with a Obama fundraising letter in his hand
addressed to me. Pointing to his chest he made it clear he wanted to me
to help him contribute to the campaign. Happily I took his debit card
and sent in $50 in his name. Dad died in April but I still get emails
from the Obama campaign addressed to him. So when I can I double up on
donations for both of us. I know he'd approve.