The year 1968 was the first year I really became aware of the universe I was going to be part of. Sitting uncomfortably between an innocent childhood and an uneasy adulthood. I was starting to be on my own. I finally traveled outside of a five block radius for my schooling and separated from my cocoon of grade school pals. Heck, this would be the first summer I had my own little seat plan for the Mets out at Shea Stadium every Saturday.
About the world, I was a little ignorant. And it was certainly bliss.
Indeed, I was becoming more aware of the world even before we went into assassination mode. I had a class in school called "Current Events." The teacher was a guy with big ears named Mr. Cawley. The required textbook? You needed to subscribe to the New York Times, which was delivered to you in your homeroom.
For the first several weeks, Mr. Cawley spent his time detailing how the news stories were grouped in the New York Times. Hell, he even tutored us on the correct way to fold the paper for reading on a crowded train. But, once that housekeeping was out of the way, we essentially were required to read the front page in class and then discuss it. The news stories cascaded out and not in a good way.
Vietnam.
Anti-war protests.
Urban riots.
And, for years when my dad brought home the Daily News every night, all I had paid attention were the pages which told you what time a movie started. Or what Dagwood was up to with Mr. Dithers.
For the first time, I noticed a world and its problems.
Then we had Thursday, April 4. I was watching the nightly "I Love Lucy" rerun on New York's Channel 5 Metromedia when they cut in with the news about Martin Luther King Jr.. In those days, both my parents worked nights so my only adult supervision in the house was my grandmother. I ran to share the bulletin. As usual, there was cynicism.
"He preached non-violence but every place he went, there was a riot."
Thanks, Grandma who returned herself to a black and white image of Merv Griffin interviewing Xavier Cugat and Charo.
Not much longer into the night, we heard the stories about anger and violence and stores being burned to the ground in places like Harlem, New York.
I went to school the next day and there was a different feel immediately. Given the fact that Mount Vernon, New York was a town quietly divided along a 50/50 racial composition for years, you would think there would be issues. I mean, a prominent Black man had been killed by a White gunman. Well, somebody in my school administration probably had the same sense so they acted proactively. The entire school was summoned for an assembly where calming words were spoken. And, for some strange reason, we were serenaded by one of the big radio hits of the day.
Paul Mauriat's "Love is Blue."
Nothing really happened at our school, but I remember my English teacher, Mrs. Taylor, telling a harrowing story. She lived in Manhattan and, in her morning commute, had passed by Harlem buildings in flames.
Naturally, we gobbled up all the accounts of these stories in the New York Times during Mr. Cawley's class.
Dr. King was barely cold when horror hit us again in early June. And that news, which happened in a time zone three hours earlier, came to me in a very different way.
As I said, my dad worked nights and usually came home about 1AM. We had developed a little sweet ritual. If the Mets were playing on the West Coast, he would always leave me a little note on the kitchen table telling me what the score was when he got home. I would find it in the morning. Well, on the morning of June 5, the note wasn't about the Mets but the fact that the Dodgers' Don Drysdale had moved closer to setting a consecutive shutout innings streak.
And, oh yeah, a little postscript on the baseball news...
"Bobby Kennedy shot."
Oh. Thanks, Dad.
Heck, I had seen him only last fall on the steps of Mount Vernon's City Hall. At this juncture, Kennedy was still alive in a Los Angeles hospital. So, when I arrived at school that morning, there was no mourning. We were instructed to pray...an odd circumstance in a public school. I remember that my homeroom teacher was an older lady, Miss Flynn, who also happened to be my typing teacher. She led a morning prayer and broke down in tears midway through.
Again, I watched a numbness set in as we glued ourselves to the TV for all the details and the funeral coverage. America had been sucker punched again.
The ignorant child was now fully awake.
The summer of 1968 found me going about my usual business. My first year of seats every Saturday with the Mets. Playing softball in the neighborhood lot. A Strat-o-Matic baseball league with my best buddy Leo.
All around the mundane, we heard the news.
More violent protests.
Riots at the Democratic convention.
More turmoil in the war we were losing in Southeast Asia. Every time a soldier from Mount Vernon, New York lost his life in Vietnam, my hometown stopped for a moment to reflect.
Was any of this going to ever stop?
Well, I had moved into adulthood in a big way. And, from my vantage point, none of it ever stopped.
The difference between 1968 and 2018 is fifty years. And really little else about life in America.
Dinner last night: Steak and shrimp stir fry.
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