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On November 22, 1963

Sister Mary Gisela was admonishing the eighth grade choir for not projecting loud enough when the Mother Superior of our Catholic school ran in and whispered something into her ear before running out again.

Sr. Gisela looked horrified, then she announced that our President had been shot.  We needed to kneel and pray for his recovery – now! 

She led us in prayer as we wrapped our minds around the incredulity that people existed in this world who would dare shoot a President.  

We remembered the celebration of the day before when President Kennedy had visited our city and the love we all felt for our charismatic, Catholic president.

Soon after, Mother Superior walked in again and we listened as she addressed us.  Our President was dead, killed by an assassin’s bullets. 

School was being called off and our parents were coming for us. 

I was too numb to cry. I was thirteen.  I didn't understand that such ugliness could exist in the world.  Not then.   

Comments

  1. I had just observed a naturalization ceremony with my class at the courthouse when I found out. Imagine how those new citizens felt to find out their President had been murdered by his own government.

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