I Remember 11/22/63

Math class. 5th period. Paducah, Kentucky.

That's where I was.

Mr. Wise was in the middle of trying to funnel something into our adolescent heads, something even HE had no interest in. I had him two periods in a row; math in 5th and science in 6th. He was better in science. But even that wasn't his field. It hadn't taken us too long into the semester to discover that his true love was history. And at least in science we were able to pull him off topic with some regularity. Math, on the other hand, was all numbers; no history reprieve there.

So, when Mrs. Champion appeared at our door, we all correctly interpreted the interruption. This was no simple "Please send so-and-so to Mr. Cromwell's office." Other teachers didn't bring that kind of request. No, this was to be one of those rare teacher-talks-with-teacher things that could be counted on to provide us several minutes of relief.

Or so we thought.

Mr. Wise stepped into the hall, and, of course, closed the door so we couldn't hear. Teachers rarely allowed students to listen in on their conversations. But we could see them through the little view pane, and the conversation appeared to be intense. Shortly, Mrs. Champion disappeared from the view pane and the door swung open about a foot. Mr. Wise stuck his head into the gap, told us to work the problems on the next page over, closed the door, and left.

We had only just begun to realize that the assigned problems were new material which we had not yet been taught, when the door again swung partially open, and Mr. Wise again stuck his head part way in.

With no discernible emotion, he announced, "The President has been shot."

He then closed the door and left.

From there, time seemed to stretch, almost unbearably. We did not do math. After what seemed a very, very long time, the bell FINALLY rang.

Most of my fellow students grabbed their books and headed out into the hall to get to their 6th period classes. A handful of us stayed in place. This WAS our 6th period classroom. Science. With Mr. Wise. For that few moments of relative silence, we just looked at each other, not really having any idea what to say.

Then, noise poured in from the hall in the form of our fellow scientists who were all talking about the President. I caught snatches: "...shot...assassination attempt...Dallas...motorcade...hospital." Then, when the 6th period bell rang, by some telepathic mutual consent, everyone stopped talking.

And we sat there. In silence. No one opened a book. No one made any pretense, whatsoever, to study science. I really could hear the wall clock tick ... tick ... tick. It went like that for about a half hour.

Then, once again, the door cracked open and Mr. Wise poked his head through the slender opening.

In the same emotionless voice as before, he said, "The President is dead."

He then closed the door and left. We did not see him again that day.

For that matter, we did not see him again that week. When the final bell rang that afternoon, we were done with school for a while.

We were about to learn some lessons I am certain none of our teachers had ever envisioned as a part of our development.

Reality had intruded. We had a President to mourn.