I was in third grade and more than a month away from turning eight. I will always remember the day John Kennedy was shot.
My class had just returned to the classroom after having participating in a bomb drill. Attending school in Mobile, Alabama had it perks. We actually had bomb shelters on the school grounds. Usually, the class would remain where we were, squat beside our desks, place our arms over our heads and pray. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized protecting my head during an atomic bomb was ludicrous. Had I known the reason for the drills, I would have run out into the midst of the bomb. I really don’t relish the thought of living through one.
As my class settled in and returned to work, there was an announcement over the PA system that our President had been shot and killed. My teacher immediately began to cry. When she had composed herself, she dismissed the entire class. I was terrified. I just wanted to find my sister who attending the same school in the fourth grade.
As my sister and I walked home from school, we tried to console each other. We thought the world had ended, just like our great-grandmother had taught us would happen.
As it turned out, the world had ended, just not like we had been taught in the bible. Innocence had died by the hands of those who shot our president.