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1968
Mar. 31st, 2008 | 11:38 am
Exactly forty years ago today, I became interested in politics. I can remember the exact moment.
It was Sunday night and I was stretched out on the floor in front of the TV, not really watching it because whatever it was involved very important men in suits and ties, seen only from only the chest up. When I was nine this meant “boring,” so my head was down and I was in my usual reading position, lying on my stomach, a Nancy Drew book open on the rug before me. Behind me, Dad was tilted back on his recliner.
Something made me look up at the television and I stared, frozen in shock, my book forgotten. That most grown-up of all grown-ups, our president, was fighting back tears. “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term....” he said, and I was lifted a foot off the floor by a rebel yell Dad gave from behind me on the recliner. When I turned he had kicked the recliner upright and was sitting up straight, grinning, his eyes bright, his arms open in jubilation.
What this meant, he explained later, was that Robert Kennedy would be our next president.
That seemed only right. I could just barely remember President Kennedy. Mostly I remembered the fuzzy footage of the open car in Dallas, the funeral with the riderless horse being led behind the flag-draped coffin, Kennedy’s little son saluting. Evil had triumphed, but just for a while. Now Dad had announced the happy ending.
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It was Sunday night and I was stretched out on the floor in front of the TV, not really watching it because whatever it was involved very important men in suits and ties, seen only from only the chest up. When I was nine this meant “boring,” so my head was down and I was in my usual reading position, lying on my stomach, a Nancy Drew book open on the rug before me. Behind me, Dad was tilted back on his recliner.
Something made me look up at the television and I stared, frozen in shock, my book forgotten. That most grown-up of all grown-ups, our president, was fighting back tears. “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term....” he said, and I was lifted a foot off the floor by a rebel yell Dad gave from behind me on the recliner. When I turned he had kicked the recliner upright and was sitting up straight, grinning, his eyes bright, his arms open in jubilation.
What this meant, he explained later, was that Robert Kennedy would be our next president.
That seemed only right. I could just barely remember President Kennedy. Mostly I remembered the fuzzy footage of the open car in Dallas, the funeral with the riderless horse being led behind the flag-draped coffin, Kennedy’s little son saluting. Evil had triumphed, but just for a while. Now Dad had announced the happy ending.
( Read more )