John F. Kennedy lying in state, November 24, 1963

On Friday, November 22, 1963, 55 years ago, I was a third-year medical student sitting in a lecture room on the second floor of Freedmen’s Hospital, Washington, D.C. The lecture began at one in the afternoon. I don’t remember the topic but I do recall the general restlessness of the class as the half hour approached because we were anxious to get to our clinical assignments at two. Soon after one-thirty we were told that President John F. Kennedy had been shot and his condition was still unknown. We were told to go to our next assignment; mine was the tumor clinic.

My instructor in the tumor clinic was Dr. LaSalle Lefall, an assistant professor recently returned to the Howard University College of Medicine after a fellowship in surgical oncology at New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Medical Center. Lefall, a strikingly handsome man, was at the beginning of what would become a glorious career; he would go on to become the chairman of the surgery department and a leader in American surgery, elected, in later years, as president of the American Cancer Society and of the American College of Surgeons.

LaSalle D. Lefall, Jr., M.D.

When I arrived at the clinic most of the patients had already been told to reschedule. Lefall and I sat there and wept together when the awful news of Kennedy’s death crackled on the radio. One of my most vivid memories is of this powerful man––he looked like an end on a professional football team––sitting in a chair, holding his head, both of our tears streaming down.

Two days later, Sunday, November 24, Kennedy’s body was lying in state in the Rotunda of the Capitol. My wife, Kate, and I knew we had to go there to pay our respects and, I think, to begin mending our broken hearts. After the eight relatively uneventful years of the Eisenhower presidency, John F. Kennedy, more than any other person, embodied the principal role of a President: to unite and inspire the people. A brilliant speaker, with a great sense of humor, high intelligence built on a firm understanding of history and art and literature, his abundant charisma had already made him a hero for many Americans.

We determined to go to the Capitol as soon as our five-month old, David was, asleep. Both of our children began sleeping through the night after their seven p.m. feeding when they were about a week old (that’s another story for another time). It was far too cold to take him with us. But how could we leave him alone? We had no regular babysitter to call. At the time, we lived on the second floor of what was called a ‘garden apartment.’ Our downstairs neighbor was a cardiology fellow at Georgetown and we asked him and his wife to keep an ear out in case David woke. We left the door to our apartment unlocked (this was 1963!).

With a tremendous amount of guilt and anxiety we almost turned back a dozen or more times as we drove downtown, somehow able to find a parking space about four blocks from the Capitol. The fantasy that we would surely be home before midnigth was shattered when we came to the east side of the Capitol building and found the end of the line of partly frozen patriots to be more than a mile from the building. Generally when we are on a long line conversations begin with the people around us. Strangers become friends. There was no conversation that night, no sound other than the brisk wind that made the wait almost intolerable. The line was moving, albeit quite slowly, it was quite cold––below freezing–– and we were too far away to see the Capitol. As we would later learn, more than 115,000 people filed past the coffin.

JFK was dazzling at press conferences (find one on YouTube to see what a President looks like)

Three hours later, at almost eleven, we were still about a half-mile away. The line was shuffling slowly forward but it was clear that we would not get there for at least another two to three hours. The bitter freezing cold that seemed to chill our bones and the mounting guilt about leaving our infant son alone––what if he wakes up, what if the phone rings, what if there’s a fire––forced us to give up. We were home before midnight and David was fast asleep.

The next morning it had warmed a little and the sky was clear and beautiful. Kate and I, along with many millions of people around the globe, were glued to the television as the sorrowful funeral procession slowly brought JFK’s body from the White House, where his body first lay in repose, to Arlington National Cemetery. Jacqueline Kennedy walked behind the black caisson bearing the flag-draped coffin. The steady rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat of the muffled drums was mesmerizing. I wanted to see if we could hear the sounds with the volume off and opened the window. We lived in the northwest quarter of Washington, more than two miles from the procession of family, dignitaries, citizens and world leaders––foreign dignitaries came from most of the countries of the world. On that sun-drenched, clear and beautiful day we could hear the drums as clearly as if they were in front of our building. There was no activity in Washington that day other than the funeral; no traffic, no business, no schools. Only the sound of the drums.

That long, tragic weekend was horrible. So many indelible images––John-John saluting, the visible grief, that magnificent rider-less horse, stirrups with boots facing backwards, skittery and scared, chomping at the bit, the procession of world dignitaries, leaders of government and  led by society and,the towering Charles de Gaulle leading dignitaries from all around the world. DeGaulle’s face was decorated with grief and sorrow.

Charles de Gaulle, Kings, Queens and Emperors

 

I still regret that Kate and I were unable to pass through the Rotunda that night for our President. On many of my visits to Washington I go to Arlington National Cemetery to stand before the eternal light that Jacqueline Kennedy had created. When there I think about John and Bobby, about the years since that Camelot time and, especially, about what was lost to America on that dreadful day.

We believed in America before that day. We trusted government. All Americans wanted to “do for their country.” We believed in the future. Long ago I realized my children’s generation, and the generations that followed, have been cheated of the sense of goodness and security and completeness that was our country. We have come so far from that magical time. Historians will tell us that the loss of common courtesy and decency came with the ascendency of the far right when Newt Gingrich became the Republican Speaker of the House. But he wasn’t smart enough to create anything, his great skill was in exploiting the darkness of our country, capitalizing on the national ennui that started in 1963.

For me the erosion of America began in Dallas that awful day JFK was murdered. From there the constant lies of the Vietnam war that came from the White House, Congress, and the generals symbolized the LBJ years and continued the destruction of our national fiber. Nixon, who I once believed to be our worst and most dangerous President until the disaster of 2016, further eroded the fabric of America. When he proclaimed on national television “I am not a crook,” we knew he was a crook. By then faith in America was no longer a part of our upbringing. Carter almost managed to restore that faith but history conspired against him and us. The decline continued as Reagan and then 41 allowed the worst elements of their party to grow and fester. Clinton carried the torch for a while but then his weaknesses overshadowed the patriotism he tried to inspire. 43 meant well but was woefully inadequate for the job of inspiring and leading. And President Barack Obama, more than able to inspire us, more than able to lead us, was thwarted by the awful and continuing bigotry and myopia of the GOP.

It is my intention to visit the John and Robert Kennedy gravesite again in March when I return to Washington in March for a meeting. I still find solace when I am there.

I am still looking for the next John F. Kennedy and the next Bobby. I want to be inspired again.