On November 22, 1963, the 35th president of the United States, Mr. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was shot to death. Though that was many years ago, the memories are forever etched in my mind. I can still remember the very minute that I got the news that he had been killed. I was attending school that day, Clark Lee Elementary, undergoing one of my typical math lessons. It seems as though it was just yesterday that I was setting there in that chair with my new sports jacket draped over my scrawny shoulders making fun of my friend Harry over his new buzz haircut. It was about two o’clock in the day, as I remember, when the loudspeaker came on and the sound of the principal’s voice filled my ears. His usual stern, shrill voice was somewhere far away as we listened to him sob as he prepared for whatever it was that he was about to say. He immediately got my attention; I knew that this wasn’t going to be an every day announcement. “Faculty and students, may I have your attention, please,” he roared. “It is with great sorrow that I announce to you that our president…Mr. John Kennedy…has been assassinated…”
It was from that moment that my life, along with the rest of the nation, was turned completely upside-down. My adolescent heart had never known such pain as it knew at that very moment. I was stricken with grief. Tears flooded my beady eyes as I witnessed history in the making. People far and wide were torn between grief and disbelief as they mourned the loss of one of the finest men our nation had ever known. I remember my mothers tears and my father hanging his head in sadness as we watched of his murder that night on the evening news. It was unrealKennedy wasn’t just a man loved by the rich and famous, but he was loved by the middle and lower classes as well. Everything was different when he was in office; the world wasn’t like we know it today. Back then, people stood proud of the red, white, and blue; that’s the only way that he would have it. This country, in my humble opinion, has never known, and never will again, such a leader as Jack Kennedy. Though I was only eleven years old the day that he died, even then was I able to realize what an impression he had on the American people. He was and still is the closest thing that our land has ever known to royalty. I, along with many others, will forever remember him as a man that both lived and died by loving our country.
The president had been in Dallas, Texas that day, on his way to a luncheon to discuss politics and hopefully promote his campaign for the upcoming election in ’64.
He was in a motorcade when the shots were fired; they supposedly came from a school book depository building and were fired from by a man by the name of Lee Harvey Oswald. This would become a name that would forever be hated by the entire world. The bullets landed inside of his brain, leaving no hope for his survival. In the words of my father, "“...he [President Kennedy] was killed by a sick, sick man…” It was only two days later, November 24, that this sick man was shot live on national television by a man named Jack Ruby. As twisted as it may seem, Ruby became a hero to the American people. Though the second murder didn’t bring back the president, it brought justice to the man that took away our hero.
The mystery of the killing of John Kennedy has survived for over three decades. I believe, as many others, that he was not killed by Lee Harvey Oswald, but rather his murder was in some way directed to the MOB. There has been many beliefs of conspiracy, including covered up evidence and silenced witnesses. However, after thirty years of research and five investigations, the mystery remains. The assassination is still being investigated, but not by any federal body.