by J. Alan Beck

Created on: January 12, 2010   Last Updated: January 13, 2010

Running home.  That's what I remember most from that inconceivable afternoon: My diminutive classmates and I racing home to share the shocking news with our mothers.

Up past lunchtime the only unusual thing about the day were some mild temperatures in northeastern Ohio. A standard Friday, third grade-wise: I'm sure I watched the classroom clock during the minutes before noon, and then scrambled out with a classmate or two from my street (sans coats) for a quick lunch at home. Played with the cat, said hello to Ernie the milkman, and then dawdled the several suburban blocks back to commence third grade.

Our classroom was near the school principal’s office so we were first to get the early news. Our distinguished-looking (but terror-inspiring) principal quickly poked her head in the open door: “I'm sorry for interrupting, Miss Moore*. We have just heard on the news that President Kennedy has been shot.” That was it; nothing further than a mumbled “we'll let you know”. She disappeared down the hall to deliver the same message.

As extraordinary as that was, I got really concerned when our teacher put her head down on the desk with her arm over her face. The rest of us exploded in a confused uproar, but near the open door I could hear that we were quickly being joined by other rooms.  

After a minute our teacher recovered a bit, but then bizarrely told Todd - by far the biggest kid in all of third grade - to go tell the class across the hallway the “news”.  No new-fangled intercoms in our large school, so it was slightly possible that they hadn't yet been apprised. With distressed zeal fit for three third-graders, Todd careened out of our classroom and burst into the other class, screaming that the president had been shot. I still wonder if this is the indelible memory from that surreal afternoon for those poor souls.

Strangely, we weren't released from the neighborhood school just yet. Our teacher wasn't up to providing much guidance, burying her head on the desk again and oddly being comforted by one or two children. The rest of us more or less worried among ourselves as best as I can recall, and a few asked if we could go home. We may have had a television in the classroom but I don't recall anyone trying to use it. Eventually a shaky attempt at resuming the day's lessons might have begun.

At least thirty or so minutes of this had passed when our now red-eyed principal stuck her head in again: “I'm sorry, Miss Moore. I'm sorry to say that we've now heard that President Kennedy has died.”

If she also said “classes are dismissed” I don't recall it. The race home was underway in seconds. Jackets were grabbed from wooden lockers and many of us took off down the halls and out.

I'm not really sure why it seemed so important to convey the news to our parents. Perhaps it's human nature to share information when something extraordinary occurs. And I'm certain that some of us wanted to be consoled by our parents, or were seeking some type of further explanation. Or maybe just a confirmation.

Of course, there was little consolation to offer and no complete explanations for what had occurred. My mother was calm but sad when I breathlessly told her my “news”. Putting out some things early for dinner - perhaps to keep occupied: “Yes, I know, honey. I've been listening to the radio. It's very sad.”

For me, any sliver of doubt - or perhaps hope - that it all wasn't true crumbled with those simple words.

Like everyone we soon gathered around the black-and-white TV to watch numbly; our child-filled neighborhood dolefully vacant.  

The news was true. 

(*Note: Real names are not used.)

Learn more about this author, J. Alan Beck.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.