November 22, 1963: It was a mild, sunny afternoon when my classmates and I returned from recess to our second-grade classroom at Lincoln Elementary in Nanticoke, PA. Our teacher, Mrs. Brown, was visibly shaken as we settled into our seats. She solemnly announced that the President had been shot and that school would be closing early so we could all return home.
At that age, I didn’t have a clear emotional reference point to process such heavy news. I stepped outside, found my fifth-grade sister, and together we walked down the street toward home. When we arrived, the television was on. Our mother greeted us with the news that the President had passed away. The rest of the day was consumed by a continuous stream of news coverage. I don’t recall playing outside. It was a bit difficult for a typical second grader like me to fully grasp the gravity of what had happened that day.
On Sunday, after lunch, my sister and I went to the living room to watch TV. To our dismay, all three channels were still broadcasting news. This time, we witnessed something unforgettable: Lee Harvey Oswald being escorted by police toward a waiting car. Suddenly, a man in a black hat appeared in the lower corner of the screen, lunging forward and shooting Oswald. Chaos erupted on the television, and my sister and I sat frozen, trying to make sense of what we had just seen.
Eventually, we went to the kitchen to tell our parents. They joined us to watch the replays, which seemed endless. Though we all tried to resume our day, I’m sure my parents were burdened with concerns they kept to themselves. That week was saturated with news—the funeral, the analysis, and the collective mourning of a nation. Tumultuous times, to say the least.