Memories that refuse to go away ...

Memories have a way to let us know that we are indeed getting old. You have heard how some seniors cannot recall what they ate for lunch, but they can vividly recall what they had for breakfast 50-60 years ago? Truth of the matter is that important memories tend to stick around for a much longer period than the lesser ones.

I want to share a snapshot of a distant memory that has remained with me for the past 54 years.  In doing so, I am aware that father time continues to tick and that I am entering the winter of my journey.

It Was 1960

I was a sophomore at San Jose State University. Although I had served in the US military, I had not bothered to become a US citizen. As a result, I did not pay much attention to politics or political campaigns. I had more pressing things on my mind like being a father, husband, finishing college, and starting a career.

In 1960, we were in the thick of the Presidential campaign. A young, energetic and good-looking guy from Massachusetts was running as a Democrat, and the sinister looking Richard Nixon for the Republicans. 

On the way to class one day I came across a huge crowd. I could no longer proceed, so I decided to park my scooter and take a look at what was attracting this mass of people. Soon a motorcade appeared with security people flanking it on both sides. Sitting on the open moving car’s back was John F. Kennedy, waiving to the crowd and shaking the hands of those who approached the car. All of the sudden, I too began to run behind the car and sprinted ahead so that I could shake his hand.  It was a magical moment. I then quietly proceeded to my classes, changed forever. 

His hand was soft and very warm, his face appeared tanned, and his voice an unmistakable trademark. Nice to see you, he said.  

That evening I shared the event with my young wife Cassandra, who was an avid Democrat. Soon I began to follow this young candidate’s journey to the White House.

I recall his inauguration call in January 1961 to: Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country. I was never more proud to have decided to remain in this country. Cassandra and I spent many hours discussing the idea of joining the Peace Corps. Many of our friends did. But, with a young child, the notion was unrealistic.  Yet the fervor generated by this young President’s leadership remains indelibly sculpted in my soul. 

JFK was larger than life. He was the beacon for the idealism of my generation.  His call to action was real and lasting.

It Was 1963

Inspired by this young President, I applied for American citizenship and became a naturalized citizen that year.  After the ceremony, the Daughters of the American Revolution greeted us with small American flags.  As I was leaving the hall, I saw two tables: one with the sign Democrat and the other with the sign Republican.  My late father-in-law took me to the Democrat table and asked me to register.  He said to me: We are Democrats.  I followed his counsel and registered. 

I remember vividly that fateful November day in 1963 when I walked into my office where I was working and heard from the senior person with whom I was sharing the office: the President has been shot in Dallas. I asked if he had survived the assassination, and I was told that he was being taken to the emergency room. Sadness overcame me. I felt lost and in a sort of daze.  How could this happen? I did not know what to make of the situation. It was not real, it was not happening, it must be a bad dream.  

Reality soon sat in when a senior executive stopped by our office and tried to get us to refocus on our jobs. A comment he made has remained with me also:  the chickens are coming home to roost.  What did he mean by that?  Why did he seem so cold hearted?  Why was he saying that? 

I joined the millions who watched the funeral procession on TV and cried.  I still remember little John, the President’s son, saluting his father's passing caisson and Jacqueline standing next to Robert and Caroline.  It was the end of a very short era.  My enthusiasm dimmed; my skepticism awake.

My disillusion was complete years later when Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated.  From then on, I have ignored politics, pretty much.  The last time I voted was in June 1967 for Bobby.  Then I did not vote for 20 years. 

It is now 2014

Much has changed since that faithful year.  Not all the changes have been to my liking, but overall, I have had a good run. 

Many folks now seem to be asking: what can the country do for me rather than what can I do for the country. Political parties seem more interested in winning elections than doing what is best for the country. 

Maybe, these are the lamentations of an old man who is having problems evolving.  Maybe this old man is overwhelmed by nostalgia and suffers from incurable melancholia. Maybe.  Maybe. Maybe.