In memory of an event to which I played unsuspecting witness 50 years ago,
I decided to share a poem that I wrote for a poetry class in 2012.
As young as I was, I am amazed at the clarity of the memory, particularly in the light of not really knowing what was going on at the time. Children do pay attention, but its frequently up to the adults around them to help them interpret what they see.
A Child’s-Eye-View of History
November 24,
1963—six days before my long-awaited seventh birthday
and begged-for blue
bike, I hope...
Anarchy and
anger crackle. A white-knuckled tension fills the room.
My mother—swept up in mass-hysterics— is crying.
“What just
happened?” I ask, sprawled on the couch
fevered, thick-throated,
too-sick-to-be-bored, but inquisitive
as frenzied,
frightening images unspool before my eyes. Dragged
unaware from my reveries of red-tasseled freedom,
I am witness to infamy.
Lying there, a junior
curator collecting memories
mined from endless
iterations of gray-scale images.
Popping-gun flash,
black-sweatered man drops
as chaos erupts
around him like brown-sugared anthills.
Along with my lamenting
nation,
I am witness—live, in black and white—to the ruby-tinted slaying of assassin.
“What just
happened?” I ask again.
I catch the
sweater-man’s name—Lee Harvey Oswald.
Who uses three
names?
Except for
red-faced mothers who are crying, or angry
when you hit
your little sister
or come in late
for dinner
because you were
riding your shiny, new birthday bike
around the block
and didn’t hear her call.
Is his mother angry,
or is she crying, too?
Margaret Lundberg
2012
I remember this, Margaret because your mother came running across the street to our house. She was crying when she told my mother that President Kennedy had been shot. Mom and I, ran across the street to your house. Was I sick too? I don't remember Val there. I don't remember you there either. I remember sitting on the floor at your house while our moms watched the TV. I did too, but I didn't quite understand the significance. In fact being at your house is the only thing I remember of the day.
ReplyDeleteThat's so funny, because I don't remember YOU being there!
DeleteThe poem is actually about Lee Oswald being shot of live TV, but it seemed apt nonetheless--although that actually happened on the 24th. I'm messing with history a bit, I guess! Maybe I wasn't home the day Kennedy was shot--I had mono at the time, so spent many days camped out on the living room couch.