When I was ten I could
never have imagined being fifty years older. To my young self it
seemed an unimaginable, unbearable thing to be old. I was sure that
I'd never see it. Nor did I care, because back then, even being twice
ten, seemed aeons into the future.
My father would have
been 44, my mother 37, John F. Kennedy was 46 and his wife Jacqueline
34. Irish Catholics were,
at that time, tremendously proud of President Kennedy. It seemed a
great thing to my parents' generation that an Irish-American Catholic
was the 35th President of the United States of America. We
Catholics might be getting treated as second-class citizens in
Northern Ireland but, at least, one of our own was the leader of the
free world.
It was dark when the
news came. Daddy was feeding cattle in the byre and Mammy sent me out
to tell him. I knew it was serious news but was still surprised at
Daddy's reaction.
President
Kennedy has been shot.
His poor face crumpled
with dismay.
After the assassination
Kennedy's portrait was hung in many an Irish home. Our neighbours
even had a portrait of Pope John the 23rd, JFK and Bobby
Kennedy, all in profile, hung in their kitchen. As the younger
Kennedy died 5 years later I must have been 15 or 16 and I remember
thinking it was terribly kitsch.
Time passed and the
Kennedy lustre faded. As rumours and scandal emerged the Kennedy
icons were quietly removed from kitchen walls. I was far too young to
revere the family so experienced none of the disappointment that the
older folk felt.
It used to be said, do
you remember where you were when you heard the news that Kennedy was
shot? I surely do. It takes me right back to the Murphystown Road, on
a cold dark November evening when the warmth and light of our
Irish-American dream began to evaporate. A strange time for a child.
Two evenings later and we were visiting the McAuleys and the grown
ups were full of the news. The television was switched on to see the
latest and it was then that I saw that Kennedy's alleged assassin had
himself been shot and killed whilst in police custody.
Never a JFK and clan fan. But then I'm heathen catlick.
ReplyDeleteBut where were you Brighid?
ReplyDeleteI was babysitting my younger cousins and switched on the TV for the late evening news, that was how I heard of the assassination of JFK.
ReplyDeleteI was in a Spanish class at Sr High. There was much ado but we were not sent home.
ReplyDelete