I was born in 1958 so I was five years old when JFK was killed. I was living in St. Louis, the third of four children. My father was a minister in an Episcopal Church near our our house. My mother was in graduate school. I recall Kennedy’s assassination as my first public memory, my first recollection of an event that took place beyond my family, house, and school. Its a vague memory: everyone spending lots of time one weekend in front of our black and white TV. Something had happened but I didn’t understand what. It affected me but it didn’t.
I even recall the day it happened. Someone into suddenly came our classroom at the Webster College Elementary School in suburban St. Louis and said something to my teacher and starting crying. I had never seen an adult cry before. When I shared this tender memory with my mother decades later, she informed me that on November 22, 1963, I was actually in kindergarten and I was attending a school in a different part of town.
Not for the last time, fallible memory stood corrected by eyewitness testimony. –