Forty Years
It’s hard to believe it’s been that long.
I awoke with anticipation and worry. Did Bobby Kennedy survive the night? He had not been doing well when I had gone to sleep the night before but doctors were saying there was hope.
I half-ran to the family room to switch on the TV so it would have time to warm up while I washed my face (you had to do that back then). As I came down the hall I saw that my sister had gotten there first. The news was written on her face.
Maureen was sitting on dad’s chair quietly sobbing. We weren’t really taught to be demonstrative so, not wanting to embarrass her, I did not make my presence known. I did watch her though.
I was ten at the time, and though more politically savvy than your average ten-year-old—and all of today’s dittoheads--the only thing I really understood about Kennedy was that he was JFK’s little brother: JFK was America’s only Irish-Catholic president, and that was good enough for this Irish-Catholic kid.
My sister, on the other hand was old! She was thirteen. She knew who the next president should be.
I can still recall the utter sadness I witnessed that day.
I cry now at the memory as I write this.
I realize now I cried as much for my sister as I did for Bobby.
RFK’s assassination was a personal tragedy for me. Those bastards! They made my sister cry!
I’m glad the truth is finally coming out.
A new feature documentary, “RFK Must Die: The Assassination of Bobby Kennedy” will be released in England, later this month (click HERE for the link).
When it gets to the US, please make an effort to see it.