In memoriam: John F. Kennedy, America's fallen hero

Like many Americans of my generation, I know exactly where I was fifty years ago this day: sitting in my 5^th grade Catholic elementary school classroom, getting grilled in geography by Sister Evelyn Marie, when Gus the janitor entered the room and whispered something to her; and then, with the strict admonition that we were to study our maps of Uruguay, she disappeared, and then reappeared to ask one of the older girls to take the lesson, something almost unheard of. Then there was a hurried conference with another nun, their heads so close together that their faces could barely be seen beyond the black veiling of their bonnets, with the bordering of white lawn.

Then the news: The President has been shot while visiting Dallas, and we all sank to our knees in prayer, and some of the girls began to cry, and then the questions, “Why would someone kill President Kennedy?”, and the reply, “We don’t know, but we are calling your parents to come and take you home, those of you who can walk, are free to leave after prayers on the PA.”

Then the sound of the principles voice, Sister James: “People (we were never addressed as children), a great tragedy has happened, we must pray for the President and his family, ‘In the name of the Father . . .” the moment seemed surreal, and this our first Catholic president.

No one knew at the time if this was a plot by the Communists (our sworn enemy), what we would now call a terrorist attack, and no chances were taken by the national authorities, as they were.

Once at home, all TV programming had been cancelled and we could see the replay of the stalwart Walter Cronkite manfully trying to hold back his tears as he made the fateful announcement that the president had died.

From that moment on, it seemed that we were engulfed – all of America – in a swirling maelstrom of disbelief, fear, and anger. How could this happen? Who was responsible? Why, oh why?

We watched the Zapruder film in horror, and watched as the President’s hands flew to his neck and then his wife Jacqueline, in her shocking pink Chanel suit, and matching trademark pillbox hat, leaning into hold him, and then climbing on the back of the presidential limousine, to do what?

Later we learned, much later, that she was trying to retrieve a piece of JFK’s skull to place it back onto his head to save his life.

Then the image, that evening as the cargo lift brought the President’s body back to Andrews Air Force base, his heavy coffin glimmering darkly, and then as Jackie emerged, hand-in-hand with the Attorney General, Robert F. Kennedy, his brother. The sight of this lovely lady covered in her husband’s blood made my mother shriek, “Look at all the blood,” and then afterwards the sight of her struggling with the locked door of the ambulance so that she could ride with his body, brought another anguished cry from Mother: “For God’s sake, somebody help her.”

And then returning from Mass that following Sunday another horror when Lee Harvey Oswald, the alleged assassin, was shot on live TV.

Our innocence, if there ever was, one, was fading.

Much of the horror was made up of disbelief because John F. Kennedy was such a vital man: war hero, Harvard graduate, author, member of Congress, Senator, wit, and bon vivant; a shining example of what post-War America was made of – or, as David Halberstam noted, the best and the brightest, he who had taken Irish America, beyond prejudice, and who as the first Roman Catholic president, had “made it,” in the parlance of the day.

He moved with grace and authority, the trademark smile, often a grin, especially in those still wonderful press conferences where his wit, and intelligence soared, and delighted, even to his own bemusement, as he batted questions with the ease of man much older, and wiser.

Accompanied by his beautiful wife they both looked, and seemed more like movie stars than movie stars. Move over Liz Taylor!

Who can forget those glittering White House dinners with Pablo Casals, Robert Frost, Frederick March, and the sight of the Shah of Iran (then an ally) and his wife Farah on the portico of the White House, and then after dinner, entertainment by the Joffrey Ballet, where a Jerome Robbins ballet was performed, "Ballets U.S.A."

This was a far cry from the Eisenhower’s and Fred Waring!  America, as the New York Times reported, had come of age – no longer Europe’s country cousin.

Jackie, as we knew her, ushered in an awareness of the best that America could bring, in music, in décor, and in a newly restored White House, and on Valentine’s Day, 1962, in a televised special we could “ooh and aah”, over the results, as she spoke in that whispery voice, the details of provenance and acquisition.

Her appeal, as was his, was incandescent, but, perhaps JFK, tongue firmly in cheek, said it best, in during the 1961 state visit to Paris, “I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris!” The line brought down the house, as we would say, in America.

Jackie shimmering in gowns by Oleg Cassini and for the dinner at the Versailles palace, a Givenchy (as a tribute to the French), even managed to dislodge the frozen visage of President Charles De Gaulle, who when discussing French history with her, told the President that his wife knew more than a French woman.

This was something that Kennedy knew well of his Sorbonne educated wife who had spent her junior year at college, abroad, far from Vassar, at that august, and quintessentially medieval university, polishing her flawless French.

Of course, all was not glitter and glamour, as the long-suffering travails of Black Americans began to simmer and rage, as they demanded their rights, and were met with snarling dogs, fire hoses, and the contorted face of Gov. George Wallace of Alabama who vowed that Negroes (as they were known then) would not enter Alabama schools, and stood relentless in his vow for segregation, in the school's doorway, as the president and Robert planned their strategy.

This relentless drumbeat was not settled until after Kennedy’s death, with legislation by President Johnson, but it gave us one of the administration’ most soaring speeches, when Kennedy said, “We are confronted primarily with a moral issue.... It is as old as the scriptures and is as clear as the American Constitution.... One hundred years of delay have passed since President Lincoln freed the slaves, yet their heirs... are not fully free. They are not yet freed from the bonds of injustice... this Nation... will not be fully free until all its citizens are free.... Now the time has come for this Nation to fulfill its promise.”

The loss seemed irreparable even with the state funeral that Monday, when the figures of President De Gaulle, Prince Phillip, Emperor Haile Selassie, and King Baudouin of Belgium walked down 16^th street behind the coffin and the rider- less horse, in Washington, DC, to St Matthew’s Cathedral where the funeral Mass was held.

Now, on the 50^th Anniversary of Jack Kennedy’s death we seem to have shrunk, to have lost our size, and something of our spirit, even the sense of majesty gained that Monday, is lost.

But, despite the Irish wake that is in our hearts today, let us amidst the keening, remember the bright light that was his, (as his wife described it that Thanksgiving for the old "Look" magazine); and remember the promise, the hope, and the dash, of our fallen hero, and his lady, that once there truly was a Camelot.

Freedom in Illinois: Same-sex marriage comes to the land of Lincoln

Now that Illinois is the 16th state in the union to allow same-sex marriage, it gives me pause to realize how far, as a nation, that we have come on so many social issues, many that once plagued some of America’s most marginalized people; but as we move closer to the ideals enshrined in Thomas Jefferson’s stirring words, “life liberty and the pursuit of justice," the words now ring forth.

For gay and lesbian people the long and tortuous road toward freedom is over, and the ability to ensure that their families are protected, along with the fundamental rights afforded to other Americans, albeit heterosexual.

And, it is to my mind what gives the Religious Freedom and Marriage Fairness Act the greatest measure of success. For far too long they have depended on a labyrinth of laws and elaborate wills and codicils to ensure that estates, visitation rights and travel benefits are protected; the byzantine nature of which sends the mind reeling.

Some may say that this was a victory of party, but others, myself included, see this one that protects the privacy of all citizens and that gives measure to the full rights and responsibilities, so dear to the Bill of Rights, of which our freedoms are enshrined upon.

Less of a legislative victory than one that helps ensure, as William Bradford noted, the shining city on a hill - that beacon, and bastion of freedom that have made America the land of the free and the home of the brave.

While some have indicated that there is much remaining to be done, they are correct, but for those who need even a fundamental change, then this is indeed where fundamental change can begin: the right to marry the person of your choice, to have and to hold , to cherish, and to honor, in sickness and in health.

While Abraham Lincoln rightly called for the “better angels of our nature,” it also behooves us to take a turn, not merely a step, towards a more perfect union, because a house divided cannot fall.

Next Thursday as we sit around the banquet table, let us be thankful for the land that God indeed has blessed, and marching inexorably, united and joined in a path towards a justice and freedom for all.

The acquittal of George Zimmerman in the death of young Trayvon Martin was a surprise to most of the country. And, in anticipation, lines had already been drawn in the sand as police officers prepared for riots.

The emotion that came over me was one of profound sadness, and disbelief, and a gnawing sense that things might, not, could not ever be better between blacks or whites in America.

With nearly six decades in life as black man in America, flashbacks from many places appeared in a montage: the classic example cited by President Obama, on Friday, of being followed in a department store in St. Louis, where I finally confronted the salesperson with, “If was a thief, I wouldn't waste my time on a pair of blue jeans, I’d hit your jewelry department.”

But, the almost daily occurrence on Chicago’s North Side where I live, work, and pray, is the almost inevitable occurrence of white men feeling for their wallets and or smart phones (the tell-tale rectangular bulge in their front pocket is a dead giveaway) and the anxious look on their faces, as I pass by, on the street, despite my clothes (casual or Sunday coat and tie, Bible in hand), or balancing groceries in both hands, or even lugging a large bag of laundry.

My point is not to bewail the ignorance of these occurrences, but to show that the fear, both conscious or unconscious, points to the different realities that blacks and whites in the United States live in; and why in the African American communities the verdict that acquitted Zimmerman is so painful, so much the punch in the gut that says to many of us, no matter our station in life, no matter how hard we've worked to protect our children, is that this country’s “most intractable problem”, as Bill Clinton noted, is race.

Pure and simple.

In Los Angeles last week a group broke away from some peaceful protestors and began rioting, destroying property, and assaulting pedestrians; but later were quickly quelled by police in riot gear.

The destruction in a black neighborhood, like Crenshaw is ironic, and the subject of another blog entry; but suffice it to say, as the New York Times noted, the contrast between the Rodney King verdict and that of Zimmerman “showed how much, and how little, has changed.”

When Barack Obama was elected president, the promise beheld, or believed, was that America had reached a turning point in race relations that a new dawn was breaking in the city on the hill.

But, that dream has been deferred; perhaps it was only a chimera?

Certainly, the fact, as the President noted, “that African American young men are disproportionately involved in the criminal justice system; that they're disproportionately both victims and perpetrators of violence. It's not to make excuses for that fact -- although black folks do interpret the reasons for that in a historical context. They understand that some of the violence that takes place in poor black neighborhoods around the country is born out of a very violent past in this country, and that the poverty and dysfunction that we see in those communities can be traced to a very difficult history.”

But, it does point to the fact that the judicial system, law enforcement and the body politic have to take a second look at state laws, such as “send your ground” as being part of the problem in American race relations.

The work to be done, as the President said, with his trademark eloquence, is paramount and must begin, along with the requisite soul-searching and discernment that he emphasized.
And, the partnership that he espoused for all to come together is important, but mostly we have to have a will to change, a will to discern, and a will to build a more perfect union, and to see those better angels of our nature.

The first settlements in America were faith-based and freedom of worship was its hallmark; so let us start anew, with a Christian response that is based on what nearly all of the world’s religions have: compassion.

Let that be our well-spring where we can truly be the New Jerusalem, the city on that hill, which John Winthrop envisioned, giving credence to the dream that Martin Luther King imagined of little black and white children, playing hand in hand. 

Not the dream deferred, but the dream renewed.

Changes that we can't believe in: Chicago Cubs owners plan betrays school children and neighbors

When I read today that the City of Chicago had reached an agreement with the Chicago Cubs owners, the uber Ricketts family to renovate the iconic Wrigley Field, part of my reaction was relief that we did not have to read more about it, or hear the defensive posture of Tom Tunney as he hunkered down to protect his base, but when I read, in the ubiquitous Chicago Sun-Times that the Cubs “application for a Class L property tax break for Wrigley”, my reaction turned from relief to anger, as the thought for the very wealthy Ricketts family getting a break while over 30 schools in low-income neighborhoods were closing because of our city’s cash-strapped budget.

I also felt, much like Chicago Teacher’s Union that a successor must be found for this mayor, whose political chutzpah seems to exceed even that of his legendary predecessor, Richard Daly.

While Mayor Emanuel has said that he has the responsibility to bring the city budget from bleeding red-ink, into solvency, and that school closings were a necessary part; to hand the Ricketts thousands, if not millions, of dollars in tax relief seems immoral, as we hear of concerned parents and children whose children will have to travel great distances, often in gang infested territory to get to their new schools, my stomach churned.

And, then I thought back to the late 80s and the area around Wrigley, New Town, as we called it then, with Wrigley Field serving as an anchor to a gently aging neighborhood with its brick townhomes, and neighborly feel.

Now, all that is to be changed, and despite crowd annoyances (I cleaned the beer cans from my lawn after every night game) of that era, the surrounding  area will be transformed from a true neighborhood to a McVille replete with hotels, rides, more night games, more souvenir shops, more lights, more noise and the onslaught of electronic billboards, making what was once a space for all of Chicagoland to gather, to one that is solely centered on profit, and profit only; much to the detriment of a social space, and a time-honored game.

As a former sportswriter I can well appreciate the atmosphere of a game, and the need to keep the enjoyment constant, but this wholesale foot-on-the neck approach by the Ricketts and the complicity of the mayor makes me, as my godsons would say, just shake my head.

Wrigley we hardly knew ya.