I was fifteen years old. It was a sunny November day. It was cold in our neck of the woods in Marion, NC. I was wearing a new jacket mom had bought me. I was sitting at the back of my freshman English class that day, listening to Mrs. Martinot drone on about run-on sentences or something. My head was in the clouds. I had a part time job helping James Dodson with his roofing business, but we were shut down for the winter, and so I had my afternoons all to myself. I was thinking I might take Sammy--my springer spaniel puppy--out in the woods surrounding our farm and hunt.
Suddenly, just after lunch, the principal came into the room and whispered something into Mrs. Martinot's ear. She immediately burst into tears and left the room. I will never be able to remove that image from my mind. Mrs. Martinot, teacher, mother, wife, the best teacher I ever had. I'd never seen her lose her temper. Never seen her get emotional at all.
Until now. November 22, 1963. That date is burned into my memory, and I will never forget how my stomach sank as Principal Davis stepped in front of us and shuffled his feet and glanced around the room, unsure how to begin.
"Guys, we've just got word that President John Kennedy has been shot in Texas."
I'll never forget the gasp that rippled through the class. I glanced over at my buddy Clark and saw tears welling in his eyes. I felt like crying too. My stomach felt torn in knots and my feet were clammy. But somehow I managed to maintain clarity. I saw the world more clear than at any other time.
I'd never been political. But this was the moment that rocked me to my core. The moment that led me from an awkward teenager to a die-hard political radical.
These are the moments that change our lives. Through death, through life, these are the moments that change our lives, our minds, our hearts, even the very soul of our society.
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