The Day They Killed My President
November 22, 1963 was a sunny fall day in Dallas Texas.
It was a warm spring day in Santiago Chile.
A year earlier my father had answered President John F. Kennedy’s call for young Americans to serve the cause of peace by living and working in developing countries. Dad, who was 48 years old and married with seven children, may not have been the typical young candidate Kennedy had in mind when he laid out his vision for the Peace Corps, but Dad joined enthusiastically as director of the third group of volunteers to work in Chile. He packed up his home and family and moved us thousands of miles south of the equator, where the opposite seasons were just one of the things we had to get used to so far away from home.
I was nine years old that November of 1963 and my sister was six. Exactly six. It was her birthday. She couldn’t wait for classes to end that Friday because Mom was organizing a party at home after school.
In the middle of the afternoon our teacher’s husband came in to the classroom and they began talking at her desk. They looked very serious.
"What happened?" I asked my friend Marisol, who sat next to me.
"Oh, I have a funny joke," she said, and began to tell it.
"No," I interrupted her. “What are they talking about?” I was afraid I had missed something important.
"Oh,” she said casually. “Mataron al presidente.” They killed the president.
“President Alessandri?” I asked her in surprise. I figured it had to be the President of Chile, because he used to walk to work in the morning all by himself, with no bodyguards or security. My father ran into him one morning near the Presidential Palace, and they stopped to chat. Dad told him all about the projects that his Peace Corps volunteers were doing in Chile and the President was very impressed by their hard work. Dad said he was a nice man, and I thought Marisol was taking his death very lightly.
“No, not Alessandri,” she said, shaking her head. “Your president?”
My President? I thought. How could that be? He was the reason we came to Chile. He can’t be dead.
I thought this was part of her joke, but Miss Betty looked very serious. I left the hard-hearted Marisol and went up to the front of the classroom for confirmation.
"Miss Betty, is it my president?" I asked. "Is it President Kennedy?"
She nodded. “Que tragico,” she said. How tragic.
I couldn't concentrate on my work and spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to cry. Nobody else in the whole school seemed upset, but of course he wasn’t their president. He was mine.
When classes ended I went outside and spoke to one of the women in the schoolyard who was waiting to pick up her children. She looked very solemn.
"I'm so sorry about your president," she told me.
Another woman patted my shoulder, and said she was sorry. Then I started crying, and cried all the way home. My sisters kept asking me what was wrong, but I was too upset to answer them. When we got home, they ran inside to tell Mom.
"She’s crying and won’t tell us why," they announced indignantly.
Mom had heard the news earlier in the day when a friend called. Like me, Mom thought it was President Alessandri and when her friend said that it was President Kennedy, she thought he must have had a heart attack. But the friend said no, he had been shot. When she heard I was crying, Mom didn't connect it with the tragedy in Dallas. She thought something had happened to me at school.
“I’m so sad about President Kennedy,” I gasped between sobs. I could barely get the words out.
Miss Betty called later to see if the party had been canceled. She thought we might be too upset to celebrate. But Mom told her that a cancelled party would be tragic for a six year old.
I couldn’t enjoy myself at the party that evening. It seemed wrong to celebrate when something so terrible had happened. I thought my family was heartless for going on with the party? Didn't they have any feelings? We were in Chile because of the Peace Corps, and now the man who started that program had been killed. I thought we should mourn, not celebrate.
Our neighbors, the ambassadors of Uruguay and Yugoslavia paid condolence calls. They knew what a loss this was. Bobby, one of the volunteers from our group, came to celebrate the birthday and to grieve with me. She heard the news that afternoon at La Victoria, the slum where she worked as a nurse. She was treating a sick child when a woman leaned in the window and told her that President Kennedy was dead.
“Was it an automobile accident?” Bobby asked.
The woman shook her head no.
“A heart attack?”
She shook her head again.
Another woman leaned in and put her finger to her head as though she were holding a gun, and Bobby realized he’d been shot.
She drove to the Peace Corps office in downtown Santiago and joined the other volunteers who stood around feeling helpless as they tried to get a radio broadcast. As Bobby looked out the window she saw the Marine guard come out of the United States Embassy across the street. He took down the flag, and put black ribbons on it. Just then the Chilean army band at the Presidential Palace down in the plaza began to play “Hail to the Chief” ... very slowly ... and as she watched, President Alessandri walked out of the palace and across the street to the US Embassy. The volunteers watched and wept.
On Saturday morning I got up early and sat on the front steps, waiting for Dad to bring home the morning newspaper. I pored over the stories and the pictures in El Mercurio, desperate to find out every detail of information. There was a picture of President Kennedy riding in the motorcade, another picture of him meeting with world leaders, a picture of him with his brothers and sisters (he had a lot of them, something else to personalize the situation for me) and yet another of him playing with his son John-John. There was Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy riding in the car in Dallas in her white hat and suit (I wouldn't find out it was pink until years later when I saw a color picture), and there she was on the plane watching sadly while the new president was being sworn in. There was a picture of President Alessandri leaving the US Embassy where he had expressed his condolences to Ambassador Cole. No article was too long or complicated, no picture too obscure for me to review in great detail. I soaked it all in and kept my lonely vigil on the front steps for several days until the story moved off the front pages.
The Chilean press covered the assassination in detail and the Chilean people were very affected by the death of John F. Kennedy, a man they revered greatly for his humanity, his courage, and his Catholicism. A week after the assassination Mom was in a taxicab, and the driver asked what her country would do now that the president was dead. He anticipated fighting as different factions struggled for power in the government. Mom explained how the United States presidential succession system operated, and assured him that everything would proceed in an orderly fashion.
The cabdriver was saddened by this loss. I knew just how he felt.
November 22, 1963 was a sunny fall day in Dallas Texas.
It was a warm spring day in Santiago Chile.
A year earlier my father had answered President John F. Kennedy’s call for young Americans to serve the cause of peace by living and working in developing countries. Dad, who was 48 years old and married with seven children, may not have been the typical young candidate Kennedy had in mind when he laid out his vision for the Peace Corps, but Dad joined enthusiastically as director of the third group of volunteers to work in Chile. He packed up his home and family and moved us thousands of miles south of the equator, where the opposite seasons were just one of the things we had to get used to so far away from home.
I was nine years old that November of 1963 and my sister was six. Exactly six. It was her birthday. She couldn’t wait for classes to end that Friday because Mom was organizing a party at home after school.
In the middle of the afternoon our teacher’s husband came in to the classroom and they began talking at her desk. They looked very serious.
"What happened?" I asked my friend Marisol, who sat next to me.
"Oh, I have a funny joke," she said, and began to tell it.
"No," I interrupted her. “What are they talking about?” I was afraid I had missed something important.
"Oh,” she said casually. “Mataron al presidente.” They killed the president.
“President Alessandri?” I asked her in surprise. I figured it had to be the President of Chile, because he used to walk to work in the morning all by himself, with no bodyguards or security. My father ran into him one morning near the Presidential Palace, and they stopped to chat. Dad told him all about the projects that his Peace Corps volunteers were doing in Chile and the President was very impressed by their hard work. Dad said he was a nice man, and I thought Marisol was taking his death very lightly.
“No, not Alessandri,” she said, shaking her head. “Your president?”
My President? I thought. How could that be? He was the reason we came to Chile. He can’t be dead.
I thought this was part of her joke, but Miss Betty looked very serious. I left the hard-hearted Marisol and went up to the front of the classroom for confirmation.
"Miss Betty, is it my president?" I asked. "Is it President Kennedy?"
She nodded. “Que tragico,” she said. How tragic.
I couldn't concentrate on my work and spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to cry. Nobody else in the whole school seemed upset, but of course he wasn’t their president. He was mine.
When classes ended I went outside and spoke to one of the women in the schoolyard who was waiting to pick up her children. She looked very solemn.
"I'm so sorry about your president," she told me.
Another woman patted my shoulder, and said she was sorry. Then I started crying, and cried all the way home. My sisters kept asking me what was wrong, but I was too upset to answer them. When we got home, they ran inside to tell Mom.
"She’s crying and won’t tell us why," they announced indignantly.
Mom had heard the news earlier in the day when a friend called. Like me, Mom thought it was President Alessandri and when her friend said that it was President Kennedy, she thought he must have had a heart attack. But the friend said no, he had been shot. When she heard I was crying, Mom didn't connect it with the tragedy in Dallas. She thought something had happened to me at school.
“I’m so sad about President Kennedy,” I gasped between sobs. I could barely get the words out.
Miss Betty called later to see if the party had been canceled. She thought we might be too upset to celebrate. But Mom told her that a cancelled party would be tragic for a six year old.
I couldn’t enjoy myself at the party that evening. It seemed wrong to celebrate when something so terrible had happened. I thought my family was heartless for going on with the party? Didn't they have any feelings? We were in Chile because of the Peace Corps, and now the man who started that program had been killed. I thought we should mourn, not celebrate.
Our neighbors, the ambassadors of Uruguay and Yugoslavia paid condolence calls. They knew what a loss this was. Bobby, one of the volunteers from our group, came to celebrate the birthday and to grieve with me. She heard the news that afternoon at La Victoria, the slum where she worked as a nurse. She was treating a sick child when a woman leaned in the window and told her that President Kennedy was dead.
“Was it an automobile accident?” Bobby asked.
The woman shook her head no.
“A heart attack?”
She shook her head again.
Another woman leaned in and put her finger to her head as though she were holding a gun, and Bobby realized he’d been shot.
She drove to the Peace Corps office in downtown Santiago and joined the other volunteers who stood around feeling helpless as they tried to get a radio broadcast. As Bobby looked out the window she saw the Marine guard come out of the United States Embassy across the street. He took down the flag, and put black ribbons on it. Just then the Chilean army band at the Presidential Palace down in the plaza began to play “Hail to the Chief” ... very slowly ... and as she watched, President Alessandri walked out of the palace and across the street to the US Embassy. The volunteers watched and wept.
On Saturday morning I got up early and sat on the front steps, waiting for Dad to bring home the morning newspaper. I pored over the stories and the pictures in El Mercurio, desperate to find out every detail of information. There was a picture of President Kennedy riding in the motorcade, another picture of him meeting with world leaders, a picture of him with his brothers and sisters (he had a lot of them, something else to personalize the situation for me) and yet another of him playing with his son John-John. There was Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy riding in the car in Dallas in her white hat and suit (I wouldn't find out it was pink until years later when I saw a color picture), and there she was on the plane watching sadly while the new president was being sworn in. There was a picture of President Alessandri leaving the US Embassy where he had expressed his condolences to Ambassador Cole. No article was too long or complicated, no picture too obscure for me to review in great detail. I soaked it all in and kept my lonely vigil on the front steps for several days until the story moved off the front pages.
The Chilean press covered the assassination in detail and the Chilean people were very affected by the death of John F. Kennedy, a man they revered greatly for his humanity, his courage, and his Catholicism. A week after the assassination Mom was in a taxicab, and the driver asked what her country would do now that the president was dead. He anticipated fighting as different factions struggled for power in the government. Mom explained how the United States presidential succession system operated, and assured him that everything would proceed in an orderly fashion.
The cabdriver was saddened by this loss. I knew just how he felt.