I think for our generation, those of us who are in the 50s
or so, our 50 system, the world seem
to become unraveled or whatever.
On November 22 and this is the day
that John F Kennedy was shot.
And of course that's probably something so beyond some of you
that so distant, so long ago that probably does not
have too much meaning.
And if somebody, you know, started shooting presidents
today, they'd be doing us a favor so.
[LAUGHTER]
You couldn't possibly understand what the hell it meant
for presidential candidates.
So anyway.
"November Twenty-Second."
"November Twenty-Second I was 19 and working as a roofer.
The Moon Street Apartments in Albuquerque.
I was shingling a gable.
An elderly woman came from across the street.
She either asked us if we knew or else told us
the President had been shot.
It was about 3 o'clock.
She mentioned Dallas a few other things then went back.
Shortly afterwards, the chuck wagon came.
I sat on a bundle of shingles watching as men below gathered
around fires.
My step-father climbed back up the ladder said a Black man,
a carpenter told him he had lost a friend.
He shook his head sadly not knowing what else
or more to say.
We went back to work, the world is now coming apart
and all the men and all the women,
and all the Mexican wetback brick-layers at a penny a brick
could never put it back together again."
That's a hard thing too.