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#492948 added March 6, 2007 at 1:39pm
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So Many Tears

We were Baby Boomers, and there were so many 6th graders in our school district, that they had to move us from the elementary school to the basement of the junior high. There were three 6th grade classes, and each had 50 students. They were big classes, but still we bonded, for we were hidden away in the basement.

How I hated that school basement. It was cold and damp, and the only other classes in the basement were wood shop, metal shop and a rifle range. That meant junior high boys who, the kind who loved picking on 6th grade girls. How superior they thought they were.

The 6th graders were ignored by the junior high administrators. We weren't really a part of the school, just using it. But on November 22, 1963 we became a part of them. The school was suddenly united.

We didn't often get school-wide announcements piped into our classroomsin the dungeon, but we did that day.

The first announcement that the President had been shot came from some obscure office staff person. We later learned that the principal was crying in his office and couldn't give the announcement.

The radio broadcast was piped over the loud speakers and we all heard the announcement that the President was dead.

I was in French class when that announcement was made. Our regular teacher, the tall, strong man we had learned to lean on in this frightening, big, unfriendly school wasn't there to comfort us.

The petite French teacher told us to all bow our heads. She prayed and cried, then we recited the Lord's prayer together. One of my classmates began reciting Psalm 23 and we all joined in as we softly cried. Not one of us remembered that we weren't allowed to pray in school anymore, nor allowed to talk about the Bible. We all understood that the rules had suddenly changed. We could pray if we wanted to, and we wanted to!

The radio continued to be piped into the classrooms. TV's were brought in as well, but no one was left in the classrooms to hear. Girls had all congregated in the restroom to cry together, to weep loudly, to hold on to each other and wonder what had happened to our secure and comfortable world. The boys gathered in the hallway, and although most didn't weep and wail loudly like the girls, tears did trickle down their faces.

I don't remember the bus ride home that day, but I do remember being glued to the TV for the next few days. All other activities stopped.

My mother and grandmother and I sat around our little black and white TV, watching and crying. I think my dad hid in his basement work area, probably organizing his tools rather than be seen with tears in his eyes.

My brother was 7 and my sister only 5. I don't remember them sitting in the living room with us. Perhaps they were too young to understand. It must have been frightening for them to see their mom, grandma and big sister crying.

Who knew there were so many tears?

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