I suppose much is being written in these days about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  It seems to be more intensely remembered this year perhaps because it has been fifty years since it occurred.  Or maybe, that’s just true for me.  It was a time when I, perhaps we, lost our youthful innocence and began that growing-up-too- fast time of our young lives.  It was the day our Camelot died.

Biology class began with a lab, something we all looked forward to.  Our teacher, Mr. Hooks, was a favorite among the mixed group of freshmen, sophomores, juniors and a few seniors.  We talked.  We laughed.  Probably too  much so according to the standards set by many of our other, far stricter teachers.  Mr. Hooks even let us listen to the radio over our state-of-the art, new school intercom.

That’s how we knew.  It was one of those moments when you lean an ear closer.  Did I really just hear what I thought I heard?  I looked with wide eyes and a puzzled face at my lab partner, questioning with an expression of disbelief.  Mr. Hooks had not heard.

One of us, I don’t remember who, yelled out, “Shut up!” We could only point to the intercom where once again, the news was being repeated.

“President Kennedy has been shot.”  There were gasps and murmurs.  Then total silence.

Even today, I get an overwhelming sense of sadness.  This was MY President – the first to whom I had really paid much attention.  This was the President of my youth who exemplified the hopes, the dreams, the promises of change.  Young.  Handsome. Heroic.  Not a king, but a prince to be  sure with a princess bride.  In a time of Camelot and perceived perfection.

The next few days were surreal.  We went to school but didn’t really. We were drawn to church.  We huddled together and prayed.  Our eyes were glued to the television, our ears to the radio. We sought answers but none came.

But mostly, our hearts were broken.  Idealism gave way to reality.  And we cried.  We cried over our loss, our nation’s loss.   Over the loss of a life so young.  But the loss on November 22, 1963 was even more than we knew. 

The innocence of youth, once stolen, can never be regained.  And Camelot is never perfect.