Now is the Time for All Good Men

start Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now stop

Sixty-four words a minute. I had broken my previous record of fifty-six words a minute by eight words. I stopped typing and turned to Juanita, who was the fastest typist in our class, to tell her she'd better watch her back because I was catching up with her when screams erupted in the hallway outside our room. For several long seconds everyone sat motionless at their typewriters trying to make sense of the sudden fracture in our calm clickety clack world.  Running bodies flashed across the threshold of the door, then a student stepped inside our room and said, "President Kennedy has been shot."

I stood up and walked out into the hallway. Some students, like me, stood with blank expressions, showing no emotion. Intermittent screams broke through the chaos as the breaking news traveled throughout the school. Some students were crying and holding on to each other for comfort while other gathered together in large support groups. I was all alone with my numbness. I walked past them all--these people who when tragedy strikes run toward each other rather than slip away, like me. They cannot see me vulnerable; they cannot see me cry; they cannot see me fall apart; they cannot see me lose control. 

I walked out the front door and down the sidewalk to 56th Street. I crossed the street, walked down Edlou to Austin Drive, turned left to the second house on the left. My parents had not left for their factory jobs yet, but they and my little sister were nowhere in sight when I opened the front door, walked quietly down the hallway to my bedroom and closed the door. I kicked off my shoes, slipped under the covers on my bed, and stared at the ceiling while that student's inconceivable words kept repeating in my mind: President Kennedy has been shot. President Kennedy has been shot. President Kennedy has been shot. 

On Friday, November 22, 1963, sometime after noon, while I was beating my prior record of fifty-six words per minute in Typing Class, President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed by a sniper in Dallas, Texas. The world was in shock; Americans were devastated and weeping, crying, wailing for their loss. I was devastated too, but I trusted no one, not one person to share my grief.