The 60th Anniversary of JFK's Assassination
Seems like only yesterday when I was marking the 50th on this site, in remembrance and reflections of That Day. Which ten years later, remain essentially unchanged. I reprise much of what I wrote then with some editing, including the poem it inspired.
November 22, 1963, was a transformative day in U.S. history. Akin to December 7, 1941 of the preceding generation, and September 11, 2001, of the millennial generation that would one day follow. And while I might think of January 6, 2021 as being of that ilk, that is to say, a day marked by a universal shock and a sense that the world we knew would never quite be the same, it isn’t.
Political tribalism dictates that storming the Capital to prevent an election of a President from taking place— while threatening leaders in government with death— is not a day of infamy. But rather, something unfortunate and overblown. But I digress. That is now; this was then. When we were still at such times as a nation, capable of being on the same page.
That Day
What could never happen here, happened here. The transference of innocence to vulnerability, and that naïve comfort of the familiar terrain of our world, was turned upside down. And it took just under nine seconds to become a United States of America that we no longer knew.
While it was not the only game changing moment in our history, the assassination of President Kennedy had a singularity all its own. It was what might be called, the First Great Tragedy of the Television Age; its potential only being more fully realized, just three years prior, with the first ever televised Presidential debates.
In a 1954 Hollywood film entitled Suddenly, Frank Sinatra starred as a would-be presidential assassin, aiming his rifle through a telescopic sight from a window high above ground level. But that was in the movies. Such things could not happen in real life. In the ancient days of a Lincoln, a Garfield, a McKinley, yes. But these were modern times. Men were up in space orbiting the earth, for God's sake.
of the three TV networks, wouldn’t resume
It rained on our parade of invincibility with bullets at a motorcade bearing the President in an open car waving to the crowd. That’s what presidents did back then. Where was the danger in that? And then Lee Harvey Oswald was shot and killed on live TV as if in a bad TV script? He went to his grave with a ton of unanswered questions. Sixty years later, conspiracy theories still abound. None to which I would any longer hold, as I so emphatically indicated last month. And once years before, in stark graphical expression.
So where were we on that Friday? Unborn for the most part. Not even one out of every eight Americans alive today, was old enough to remember anything about that day. Nor the theater of events that would unfold over that long weekend. When we sat transfixed before our sets—first time ever for “24/7-news” type coverage—for hours on end, culminating in the funeral that Monday. "Regular programming" in the realm
until Tuesday.
I was a freshman at Manhattan College (two years behind Rudy Giuliani), when first reports began to spread on campus, that Kennedy and Vice President Johnson had been shot. There were no readily accessible TV’s in the vicinity, and so we relied on an ear here and there, glued to a transistor radio, catching unclear or incorrect messages (Johnson of course was not shot). Which was then relayed to those clustered in the quadrangle as if in a third world village awaiting word. And these were what I have just referred to as modern times?
Why was JFK in Dallas anyway? I didn’t know. Nor was I aware back then, of the animosity that had been brewing in Texas over his pending visit. My agenda that Friday included placing bets in the school cafeteria for that weekend’s football games on “the ticket.” A small-time bookie sheet distributed by a classmate to a dedicated clientele. And while Kennedy was the cat’s pajamas at this all-male Catholic college, I certainly wasn’t following his doings as closely as the point spreads that November. The high drama of his presidency had taken place with the Cuban Missile Crisis in October of the previous year. In comparison, this autumn was benign.
But it was now time to go to the next class. And being the dutiful students we were, we went. Though as if sleepwalking through a bad dream. We were still unsure as to whether Kennedy was alive or dead as we entered that classroom. What happened then, is something I tried to capture in a poem I wrote thirty-five years after the fact. In tercets and rhyme, it seeks to mimic a classic poetic construct that we had been reading as part of the syllabus for that course.
Greek and Latin Lit: 101
Upon entering the room, you simply said
in a manner of fact, “Yes it’s true. He’s dead.”
And proceeded to go on with that Friday’s class.
That part where Medea serves up the last
of her children chopped up on a plate
for Jason, his ravishing appetite to sate.
And unsuspectingly he does.
And we knew just how vile a meal that was
on this day when the classics were undermined
by Dallas: A Tragedy for Modern Time.
Our time. And you took it away;
the right to succumb to grief kept at bay—
you venomous, vainglorious man.
You served up Medea at a moment when
butchered progeny was the last thing we needed;
with a smirk you watched as we sat defeated.
Was some point proved? Did we pass our test?
I’ve wondered why we stayed bound to our desks.
Too civilized I suppose to stomp out of the room.
We should have sent you right to your doom;
trampled underfoot and dragged across campus
as Achilles, passionate warrior that he was,
had done with the carcass of Hector.
And now each time at that vector,
that November day crossing of another year,
I taste the irony in your name Professor Lear.
And can only wish you an afterlife fixed
to a barge floating down the river Styx
winding its way through the sewers of Dallas
encircling the sins of betrayal and malice.
And each time in passing pray you are sprayed
with the brains that flew from that motorcade.
In response to my whereabouts that day, I tell
how you taught us, you bastard, the classics so well.
Word of the Month
aperçu
a·per·çu /ˌapərˈso͞o/
noun
plural noun: aperçus
The word is often spelled with a cedilla, a French accent that softens the C
so that it's pronounced like an S: aperçu.
1 : a brief survey or sketch: outline
2 : an immediate impression; especially: an intuitive insight.
Etymology
French, from aperçu, past participle of apercevoir to perceive, from Old French aperceivre, from a- (from Latin ad-) + perceivre to perceive
First Known Use
1809, in the meaning defined at definition 1.
Used in a Sentence
(as taken from Ian McEwan's novel "Lessons," 2022)
He could ransack the world's literature for out-of-copy aperçus
on life's transitional moments.
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Nov. 2004-2018
Parts of the site under reconstruction
Quote of the Month
― Haruki Murakami
“Is it possible, in the final
analysis, for one human
being to achieve perfect
understanding of another?
We can invest enormous time
and energy in serious efforts
to know another person, but
in the end, how close can we come to that person's essence?”
But what about all that crime? “You can’t walk down the street without taken’ ya life in ya hanz!” So will go the narrative, voiced or written (more eloquently perhaps), by those who don’t live here. Or once did, and left for one reason or another. Who don’t walk down its streets and through its varied neighborhoods. Which are really unique little towns within themselves.
Many play back in knee-jerk fashion, what they hear and read in media that is invariably hostile to New York, regardless of the issue or subject matter being addressed.
Yes, there’s crime. Always has been. But nothing even close to what there was for example in the late sixties to late seventies. You didn’t want to be on the subway the night of Martin Luther King’s assassination, and those nights immediately following, as I would be enroute to Washington Heights to visit a girlfriend. She'd been living with her grandmother temporarily, while in search of an apartment of her own.
In conjunction with a personal “eye test,” if one were to do a little homework, one would see that NYC is not anywhere on the top ranking lists of the most dangerous cities in the U.S. No matter which source is doing such reporting.
Take Forbes magazine for example. Hardly a publication in concert with left-leaning politics (which are often claimed by opposing parties and movements, as to be the root cause of why America is going to hell without even the need of a handbasket), here are a few eye-catching charts taken from its site this past January. Which I’ve laid side by side.
That’s no typo. As far as large cities go, New York is shockingly safe. And with the mass shooting tragedy just a week ago in the quaint city of Lewiston, Maine, I couldn't help but take note of this chart as well.
Apparently, the 63,000,000 tourists coming to New York City this year, 80% of whom are Americans, are undaunted by the overblown violence reports in the media. And that number of visitors has been increasingly returning to pre-pandemic levels.
Following the misinformed and resultant misplaced anger regarding crime, the matter of economics will then rear its ugly head. And not without reason. Yes, “The City” (as we call it), is an expensive place in which to live and work. I’ll spare the charts here, but the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn, came in at 1st and 4th places respectively, among the top 10 U.S. cities. (Et tu Brooklyn?)
Oh, that dastardly rent! Frank Lloyd Wright once said: ”New York City is a great monument to the power of money and greed...a race for rent.” The crusty old guy would be appalled that it now costs $30 to enter the Guggenheim Museum; a landmark marriage of architecture and art, that he left us with in 1959.
Rent is always part of any New York discussion. Especially when comparing what you’re currently paying, to “back in the day.” Just as cars are an inevitable topic in any chit chat in LA (where I once spent a large chunk of my life—a long story). A particular topic centered on how to get your beloved vehicle to move from point A to point B in reasonable time. And which Freeways to avoid in the process.
But while you don’t need (or can afford) a car in NYC, people who once lived their lives in dependence on such transport, arrive here in droves all the same. As if in response to that siren call with its aspirational refrain of “If I can make it there/I’ll make it anywhere.”
On the assumption that one can swing it economically, and is undaunted by the alleged crime wave, one should be predisposed toward a love of the arts and history. (I once lived within walking distance of George Washington’s place. (156 years after the fact, of course)
Appreciation for the aesthetics in all things is helpful. Buildings, parks, good restaurants, diverse people, and even energy itself. Which is palpable here. And one should enjoy the act of simply walking the streets not knowing where a day might lead, and what surprises might be encountered along the way. And/or jumping on the most extensive and efficient public transportation system in the world. (I can go door-to-door to Yankee Stadium in as little as 30 minutes. And yes, without putting my life on the line). Though there is almost always the option of hailing a cab with the upward thrust of an arm. (Uber has started to become a rip-off. Beware). And finally, it helps to enjoy the dynamics of networking and the intense social scenes at neighborhood watering holes.
As you might guess, I think that New York is the best city in the world. But what do I know about the world really? Though I’ve travelled a bit in my life, it’s nowhere as frequent as a professional I’ve known for a long time, whose work is internationally driven, and who is at the top of his game. I’ve asked if he might share a few thoughts on the topic at hand.
*
Bill Gertz is Chairman of the American Institute for Foreign Study (AIFS), a leading organization in the field of educational and cultural exchange. A native New Yorker with more than 40 years experience in International Education, he’s a graduate of SUNY Binghamton, where he studied Journalism and majored in European History. Later, completed the Strategic Marketing Management Program at Harvard Business School.
In 2019 he received the Institute of International Education Centennial Medal which honors the leadership of those who have made outstanding contributions to international education.
He resides in Fairfield Connecticut with his wife Evelyn, a classical guitarist. His personal interests include world travel, cultural writing and he is an avid collector of modern art.
I’m a New Yorker
By W.L. Gertz
I’m a New Yorker.
When I’m flying back to the U.S. from abroad and people ask me where I live, I say “New York” instinctively. Truth be told I haven’t lived in New York City for 35 years.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, I moved to the Village in the 1970s. It was another gentrification movement, but I managed to find a tenement railroad apartment on Morton Street for $260 a month. When I moved out a dozen years later the rent was $360.
We loved the mix of Portuguese families, your struggling writers and even famous folks like E.G Marshall, Poet Joseph Brodsky and John Belushi. Those three lived on my block.
I rarely went above 14th street as we had everything we needed—cheap restaurants, bookstores, music venues, fish and cheese stores and Zitos the famous bread store. Best pizza at John’s, the Peacock, the Riviera and Caffe Reggio.
But time marched on. We had a son and there was no place to live cheaply. We were freelancing and money was uncertain.
So I found a job in Connecticut, and we moved. We were lucky to have a
great life, but we will always wonder if it was the right move. But enough about my familiar story.
I love cities. NYC is my favorite but not by all that much anymore. I don’t mind the noise (I have a small place on the Upper West Side) or the occasional roach. Crime is crime that can happen anywhere. I’ll take my chances. Weed is everywhere, which is annoying.
Maybe the energy is there, maybe not. I was in the middle of some great movements back then, but I was in my Twenties and Thirties. Now I’m 72.
The cities that rival NYC are London, Paris and Amsterdam. Three places I could easily live. Paris St. Germaine area (the 6th) is like the Village but minus the small shops. But it has the Seine which more than makes up for it. Sitting in cafes and going to bookstores is what I love best, and Paris is great for that. The parks, sites and museums are world class.
Amsterdam is more of a people scene. Youthful and vibrant with interesting food scene and sustainability culture. It was where I landed 50 years ago so I’ll always love the discoveries I made then.
I spend the most time in the Kensington area in London. I walk to work and have my favorite hole in the wall Chinese restaurant. I know the folks in the hotel like I used to know the shopkeepers in the village. I rarely leave Kensington when I’m in London.
There are many other world class cities but I’m usually just passing through the others.
NYC is home and my memories—good, bad indifferent —are ever present. It was a time rather than a place for me. But I would not have missed it for the world.
Clock-movement Erratum
In the November MuseLetter of one year ago, I wrote:
“The U.S. Senate passed the Sunshine Protection Act, which would permanently keep the country in daylight saving time and end the biannual clock-turning. The measure, championed by Sen. Marco Rubio, R-Fla., passed by unanimous consent. 'The time has come,' Rubio added."
(“And Marco said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. Marco saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. And behold, he was reelected.”)....
Thus it will come to pass, that Sunday at 2 AM this November 6th, we will “Fall back” for the very last time. (“Marco does murder sleep.” Act II, Scene 2).
Cute. But I was wrong. Dead wrong. I guess when the Senate passes an act these days, it doesn't mean what it used to? Or was the source I was quoting in error? Don't think I haven't lost sleep over this. So, mea culpa.
This Sunday, November 5, 2023, at 2 a.m. local time, our clocks will go back an hour. More or less by themselves, as they are embedded in virtually every tech device that we own including our kitchen range. Perhaps only an old clock you can't bear to part with, will require a hands-on adjustment. Like the one I got upon retirement from the day job twenty years ago? Which I've always thought was a sort of macabre gift to give a retiree as it is a reminder that death was now in field goal range, with the game on the line, and time winding down. But, as often, I digress. (A proclivity which began around the age of reason).
And as I sign off, it is the bewitching hour.
finito
muse-letter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought, especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre November 2018
Parts of the site under reconstruction
"
"