“Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye,” or
You Can’t Escape Your Past

The other day my wife remembered her graduation from high school. I think it was a dream that brought back that long-ago day in the summer of 1963. She remembered how, for months after the “Big Day,” she kind of sleepwalked through life without much motivation or plan.

She did remember, though, finding herself in Downtown El Paso one of those days after graduation. She, and a lot of other people, found themselves looking up at a balcony in the old Cortez Hotel. Up there, waving and smiling at the cheering crowd, was President John F. Kennedy.

I remembered how, at almost that same time, I was going through my own graduation about 1,000 miles away in the Bay Area. And I recalled how, several months before my “Big Day,” John Kennedy came to speak at Memorial Stadium in Berkeley. I wanted to see that speech but my friend from the dorm, Edward, who happened to be a few years older than me, convinced me to walk over and see his girlfriend.

“Think of the choice we have in this country—Kennedy or Nixon. Is that a real choice?” I told him I supposed he was right. So I passed on Kennedy, who spoke to what was probably a full stadium.

And here I was, graduating from the University that summer of 1963. In my wallet I carried a plane ticket for Europe. I was ready, by that time, to explore a new world, a new way of life. I had grown tired of that cutesy-pie world of the Kennedys: the cute kids, Jackie’s pillbox hat and all those endless Kennedy imitators.

Before I left for the East, I went home to see my family in Los Angeles. I also made a stop at my old friend Ron’s house. While there, I saw Ron’s father, who came out to say goodbye. “I hear you’re going to Europe,” he said.

“Well, yeah,” I told him. “I’d like to see the world.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. And I know you’ll enjoy it.”

Gee, I never thought Mr. Fisher was much for foreign travel. “You should go,” he said. “And when you come back, you’re going to fall on your knees and kiss the soil of this country because then you’ll know what we’ve got here.”

“I suppose so,” I said, a little deflated. He and Ron wished me luck as I left. Then, there were the goodbyes at the old homestead. Before I knew it, I was off to New York City.

“Those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer” is what they were playing all over New York that summer when I was there. It seemed very appropriate. My cousin showed me around the city. We zipped around Queens on his motorcycle. Then we went to see the tall buildings. At the top of the RCA Building, I looked out over the skyscrapers and all that teeming Manhattan landscape. “This is it, Kennedy’s America,” I thought. “I guess you’re going to have to live without me for a while.”

The next day, the transatlantic flight was like a long break between two worlds for me. Once in London, hearing the “King’s English” in my ears and watching the cars driving on the wrong side of the street let me know I was “no longer in Kansas.”

I had a couple days in Ireland planned. How much more remote from America could I get, I wondered, looking at the columns in the squares in Dublin and seeing all those ruddy-faced people talking with that sweet Irish lilt. As I wandered down a side street I came upon a silent group of people gathered around a record store. Now, what was this?

Getting closer, I heard the familiar voice of President Kennedy. It seems Kennedy had visited Ireland not long before and people now stood in the street to hear records of his speeches. “Can’t escape him even here!” I thought.

Finally, it was time to move on to the Continent and board the train for my final destination—Spain. I was determined to absorb the culture there, and to learn Spanish. Some friends in Berkeley had talked of the Spanish Experience and how freeing it was. I thought about that as we crossed France.

Even before we got to the Spanish border I felt the pulse of the train quicken. Some of the Spaniards took out guitars, clapped and began singing Spanish songs. Yes, Spain was going to be different, I felt, and this was going to be a real change of culture for me.

“Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye,” Part II

Life in Madrid turned out to be invigorating. I fell into the life of the Pension, a kind of Spanish boarding house, as if I had been fated to be there. I met a group of Spanish guys there about my age, and we quickly struck up a friendship. They became my tutors in the language and culture of Spain. I got a job teaching English at a language school in the center of the city.

Every day I found myself discovering Madrid, taking long walks, or going out clubbing with my new friends. We went to movies—always in Spanish—and I even started to dress like a Spaniard. Yippee, I was thinking—this is the true foreign experience! I hardly saw any Americans anymore. I guess I’ve really gotten away from America now, I thought.

I can clearly remember that day in November. I was feeling especially energetic all day long. “What new aspect of this fascinating society will I discover today?” I asked myself. As I arrived at school that afternoon, one of my students approached me and said something about the president being shot. I was signing out some books and hardly looked up.

What president? I wondered. Spain didn’t have a president. And if he was talking about the U.S., well, they don’t shoot presidents there anymore. That’s something from the days of McKinley—or Lincoln. Ancient history.

I went in to teach my classes and, that night, gave one of my best performances. I was completely caught up in the material and the three hours flew by. As I left the last class, I noticed small groups of students clustered together in the lobby. “What is going on?” I asked someone.

“Haven’t you heard? Kennedy was shot. He’s dead.” My Spanish wasn’t so great at that time, but those words seemed to come in crystal clear. It all seemed so unreal to me.

Out in the streets, and on the subway home, it was like a pall had descended on the city, a sadness you could almost cut with a knife. People looked off into space as if they were each in their own private world.

At dinner that night in the Pension, my friends and I ate with the knowledge that something terrible had just happened in the world. As we finished, Antonio, one of the more talkative guys in the group, broke the silence and asked me if I’d like to go downtown to get a copy of ABC, the daily paper, which would carry the story.

I agreed and we walked out into the oblique light of those late night Madrid streets. Along the Fuencarral, the city was alive with foot traffic, and it seemed that everybody was headed for the Gran Via, the hub of the city. There, you could pick up the newspapers just as they were coming off the press. Seeing the headline in cold, hard print was a strange experience: I could now see with my own eyes what happened, but I still didn’t really believe it.

Making our way out of the crowd, we were approached by a reporter from ABC. “Que opina Usted de este suceso? What do you think of what just happened?” the reporter asked my compañero. Antonio pointed towards me and said, “This man is North American. You should ask him.” I remember mustering up my best Spanish to say something about how we had lost a great man and how terrible that loss was.

There was no work the next day. The whole country was in mourning. A couple of days later, I accompanied my Spanish friends to a small bar near the Gran Via where, with a roomful of foreigners, I watched a small black and white TV set up special to broadcast Kennedy’s state funeral. Instead of the loud, boisterous sounds typical of Spanish bars, there was now only the hushed talk of the people who gathered that day to share their collective sorrow.

I remember watching, saying nothing, but feeling sadder than the others would ever know. It was only when I saw the flag-draped coffin that I finally felt a true sense of loss. Not till then did I feel what it meant to be an American. I was half a world away, but the feeling of who I was came over me like a revelation.

As I sat in that bar in Madrid, Spain with a drink in my hand, I started to understand why that drink seemed to be forever caught in my throat and just wouldn’t go down.

I guess we can never escape some things. Nationality is one of those things. At 21, I was just learning that lesson by hard experience.

***

This story on John F. Kennedy is taken from the book, "47 Tales of a Lifetime," by Paul Geneson. Most of the stories are autobiographical or based on real-life events.
They are short, nostalgic and mostly humorous and they tell about life in the '60s, '70s and '80s. The cost of the book is $12, which includes postage. It can be ordered by contacting the author at: thegeneson@yahoo.com.