Heart Talk

0
520

Remembering November 1963

 

By James Utt
By James Utt

I was a junior at Tustin High School in 1963. Like most of my classmates, I was no fan of the president. I had grown up in Orange County after all. He was too soft on communism. He wanted to bring socialized medicine to the United States. We laughed at comedians who mocked his eastern accent.

It was a Friday and our thoughts were not on the president, who we believed would surely lose a bid for re-election. Plans for the weekend were being made. Many bragged about “hot” dates they had arranged. Others talked of things their family was going to do during the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. I had not yet mustered the courage to ask a girl out on a date and my divorced mother would take us to her mother’s for a small, but loving, Thanksgiving dinner. At least this coming Sunday, I could watch my favorite sports team, the Los Angeles Rams, on our fuzzy black and white television.

We were startled out of our thoughts about upcoming fun as wild rumors began to blaze across the quad. “There’s some kind of prison break in Dallas.” “Shots have been fired.” “That’s where the president is today, right?” “I heard that the governor of Texas is dead and the president has been wounded.”

By the end of lunch, the rumors had boiled down to the belief that President Kennedy had indeed been shot. No one knew how seriously though. A strange hush descended over the normally rowdy student body as we trudged up the stairs to our sixth period classes. Mrs. Brubaker was my English teacher and a rarity in Tustin, a liberal Democrat. And a great admirer of the president.

She told us in quivering tones that the teachers had received word that the president had been shot, but no one knew if he was alive or dead. There would be no teaching that day as we would await word from Dallas.

In 1963, the main building of Tustin High, a beautiful, old two-story structure would probably have crumbled into dust if a large earthquake hit. My English class looked out over the large lawn in front of the school. My desk was in the very back of the room and I often gazed out the large windows when Mrs. Brubaker failed to hold my attention.

The room that day was as quiet as if we were taking a final exam. A whisper, a note passed, nothing else, each alone with their thoughts of how the world might have just changed. Toward the end of class, I looked out the window and saw a school janitor make his way toward the flag pole in the middle of the lawn.

“Mrs. Brubaker, you should come back here,” I said breaking the silence that had held sway for 30 minutes. As I sat at my desk, she put her hand on my shoulder and strained to get a better view.

The janitor lowered the American flag to half staff.

“Is that done if the president is only wounded?” she asked hopefully. I knew.

“No, Mrs. Brubaker, they lower it only if the person is dead.”

Warm tears spilled from her eyes unto my shirt. More tears, a muffled moan, an unsteady walk back to her desk. The rest of the class rushed to the windows and saw the flag. Now we all knew. Girls covered their faces, boys tried to affect a stoic appearance. How do 16 year olds behave when they learn the leader of the free world has been murdered? We weren’t sure.

Just before class ended, the vice principal came to our room and made a formal announcement that President John F. Kennedy had been shot dead in Dallas. Our lives, our world, had been shaken. We had questions, concerns, but no answers.

As the bell rang, we departed the distraught Mrs. Brubaker. The smartest guy in class leaned over to me and whispered, “guess that means Goldwater has it made in the ’64 election.” Guess he wasn’t that smart. But who is at 16?

Inspired by teachers like Mrs. Brubaker, James Utt became a high school teacher and taught for 38 years. He has never forgotten that day.

Share this:

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here