Innocence Dashed

There was a time long ago when I believed we could make a change in America. I believed we could find ways to live in harmony, allowing differences not to hurt us but to unite us. Let’s bring home the troops from a misguided war, put families back together. I believed that glorious and wonderful things could happen if we only realized how easy it was to achieve peace. It all adds up to innocence dashed.

It started when John Kennedy campaigned for president. My awareness as a seven-year old heightened by watching my older brothers navigate a life much different than mine. Mid-60s and both brothers engaged, fully engulfed in the tide of dissent that had washed ashore in America. One brother seemed willing to stand up to just about anyone who got in his way. Of course, dysfunctional families increase those chances. My other brother fully immersed himself in the counter culture that pervaded in those times. He was all in for protesting, going against the rising tide of conformity, turning on, tuning in, and dropping out.

I learned about many societal ills without being caught up in the 60s hippie culture. Reading a lot at an early age. Manchild in the Promised Land by Claude Brown explained the poverty and misery of the black world. The story told was better than any history book. Stories of life in the rural south interested me as I tried to understand the mindset of hatred and bigotry. I was fascinated with how we had gotten to where we were. I knew back then that a Harcourt-Brace history textbook wasn’t going to cover life between the lines.

Television also played a big role in my own coming of age. I watched JFK debate Nixon even though at the time I understood little. With the events of November 22, 1963, however, it all became so real. We were unprepared for the unfolding events of that weekend and our innocence was indeed dashed. We returned from church that Sunday morning and there on the television Jack Ruby shot Oswald. Death wasn’t particularly a topic of discussion before that, yet there at such a young age it became quite factual.

Walter Cronkite reported and we watched the news reels show black men being torn apart by police dogs. Blacks were fighting for a better life. Ultimately, a reverend took up the charge and marched in peace, letting us know it could be done.

As the 60s wore on, we watched as the Vietnam War was brought into our homes every night at 6:00. For myself, I was glued to both books and the television set. I wanted to learn everything about this war that everyone was questioning. Had to understand the journey of blacks, of women, of the impoverished and subjugated. I wanted to help bring about change.

The Reverend Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were heroes to me. For this naive, eyes-of-wonder kid, these two key figures were helping to bring about change in a non-violent way. I was on board for that.

By the time we reached 1968, all hell had broken loose. The war was ramping up instead of down with images of My Lai on the television. Civil rights marches were getting increasingly violent. Then, King was shot. Not another assassination. The shock of this tragic event overshadowed a few months later when Bobby Kennedy was also shot. So much for the innocence of youth. So much for peace through peaceful measures. It was the time of innocence dashed.

The tracks were only a short walk from our front door. On the day the train rolled by, we lined up to pay our respects. I stood off to the side as the train slowly went by. Can’t recall if I saw anyone on the train and don’t even recollect seeing the coffin in that last car. Just stood silently and watched as it rolled south toward Washington, D.C..

I didn’t salute. At such a young age, proper respect had to mature. For me, to have gone through what I had, I think I was numb. There were no more innocent times. Such a tragedy that these two men were taken from us, especially when they only espoused peace and harmony. Such anger that welled up inside me at the country that simply couldn’t get it together.

We were on our own after that. Picking a cause to fight for became a bit less meaningful and with the horrors that piled up both home and abroad in the next few years, I was disillusioned to say the least. Innocence dashed. By the time Nixon resigned, I wasn’t even shocked. All these years later, I still remember that train rolling by. A lot of people in coffins were on that train already and those of us left stood silently as hope and peace rolled away.