The Death of My President
by Alden Davis
February 11, 2024
 
John F. Kennedy was my president. When I first taught school his Pulitzer Prize winning book Profiles in Courage was on the bookshelf for my eleventh-grade English class. Everyone knew that during World War II he was the commander of PT 109. PT boats were small, fast boats armed with torpedoes in order to cut enemy supply lines and harass enemy troops. They were expendable and it was no surprise when PT 109 was rammed by the Japanese. Heroically, John took an injured crewman’s life jacket strap in his teeth and towed him through the night waters 3 ½ miles to safety on an island. This was when he aggravated the back trouble that would plague him the rest of his life. For his heroism he was awarded the Purple Heart. Only partly recovered from his injuries, he returned to duty as commander of PT 59 which soon rescued 40 or 50 Marines from sure death at the hands of the Japanese. By this time, he was in such poor health that he was discharged from the Navy. He left with the rank of Lieutenant.
 
John’s older brother Joe had been the son that Joe Kennedy, Sr. wanted to back in politics, but Joe died toward the close of the war. A few years after the end of WWII, wealthy Joe Sr. backed John instead. John easily won a seat in the House from his working-class Boston district. 
 
Eventually, John ran for President in 1960. All the young people I knew cheered for him. When he won the Democratic nomination, I thought he was the perfect candidate. He was a young, charismatic, rich and handsome war hero. His wife was beautiful and his children adorable. What more could anyone ask for in a president? 
 
Of course, I knew nothing of what he planned to do as President. I had no idea there would be a Bay of Pigs or a Cuban missile crisis. I had never heard of a Cold War. And I certainly had no idea about his connection to Marilyn Monroe and numerous other lovely ladies. Forgive me. I was young and naïve. Of course, I voted for JFK.
 
Soon after John was elected President, I became single again. In 1963 during the 3rd year of his presidency I was back in Jacksonville and back in social work. I had been away for three years studying for my Master’s and subsequently teaching school. But once single, I returned to my first love – social work.
 
On November 22, 1963 I was in the office. Eight of us worked in a unit. We were housed in a large rectangular room with our desks lining the walls, all facing the middle. We were all female and I, at 27, was next to the oldest. We were all white. Florida employed black social workers too, but they worked in all-black units on a different floor. Our beloved supervisor Bob Mausert had a one-room office just next door.
 
In this close environment we knew a lot about each other, for every word anyone said was heard by the entire room. Everyone cared about everyone else, at least a little bit. For instance, we all tolerated little Sheila’s transistor radio, for we knew playing soft music helped her concentrate.
 
That day we were all busy with paperwork for the end of the month reports when suddenly Sheila screamed, “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “The President!  He was shot in Dallas, Texas!
 
We crowded around her desk as she turned up the radio. Our faces were white and most of us were crying. I was too stunned to cry. I remember watching the scene as if I were far away. It didn’t seem real. People just didn’t shoot our President. 
 
Bob Mausert heard the commotion and ran in from his office. Several young women flung themselves into his arms and sobbed on his shoulder, for Bob was like a father to us.
 
As we stood around, bewildered and unbelieving, word came from our director, austere Pansy Mattair, that the office was closing for the day. We were sent home. We straggled out of the building and sobs began anew, for we saw Moses the janitor lowering the flag to half-mast.
 
 
John Kennedy’s funeral was three days later on November 25, 1963. Government offices across the country were closed as a nation mourned. I had met my future husband a month earlier, but he was in the Navy and was at work. Later I learned that the Navy band that he played in had performed for John just one month before his trip to Dallas. Today I was at home alone. I lived in an apartment building that was one of three surrounding a grassy courtyard. 
 
Articles on the Internet say that JFK’s funeral procession down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol only took 47 minutes. It seemed much longer. I sat on the sofa where I could see my black and white TV, facing the picture window overlooking the courtyard. Hundreds of U.S. servicemen in full dress uniform marched solemnly in the funeral procession. Chopin’s “Funeral March” could be heard over the tramp of boots and the measured clop of horse hoofs. I was deeply moved by the riderless horse with the boots facing backward in the stirrups. It is the historic symbol for a fallen head of state. 
 
Then the caisson with the flag-draped coffin passed, drawn by six white horses. I was very sad, but I did not cry.
 
Finally, the cameras turned to the Kennedy family. Little John, Jr., fondly called John-John by the press, was three years old on this very day. He and his sister Caroline stood with their mother Jackie. As his father’s coffin approached John-John raised his small right hand and saluted. The photographer who captured that poignant moment had only seconds, but he managed to snap the picture. I still did not cry.
 
Then, far away on the other side of my apartment complex an unseen bugler began to play “Taps.” The lonesome, clear notes were the only sounds that could be heard. I slid off the sofa and crumpled in a heap on the floor.
 
Then I cried – for our lost President, for the loss of innocence and for all the young men who have died too soon.
 
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