1968

This is the week that Bobby Kennedy was killed back in 1968. I was 17. My pending graduation from high school should have been the highlight of that year for me. But I remember going to bed elated that Kennedy was winning in the California primary, only to awake to news of his death. I was devastated, again.

I was still reeling from the death of Martin Luther King, only a couple of months before.

I was devastated, emotionally with this latest blow, but also angry, very, angry.

The morning after Martin was killed, I erupted in history class after one of my classmates stated matter of factly, that she didn’t understand what all the fuss was about...he was just a troublemaker, she said. I was the only black in the class, one of just four in the graduating class...the only female.

I exploded, lashed out at my white classmates and stormed out of the room. I was mad and didn’t care what they thought. I hated every one of them. I was not tossed out of school. I was not suspended. Instead, my teacher, a white man, let it be. He found me where I had gone to stew and just let me talk. And after I vented, he never mentioned it again. My classmates quickly forgot, too. We just steered clear of anything dealing with civil rights. Since black history wasn’t a part of the curriculum when I was in school, it wasn’t too hard to ignore.

But me, I stayed angry. Hell, I’m still angry. I guess you could say I woke up...really woke up. I am truly surprised, but as I write these words, I can still taste the bitterness through the tears in 2008. Funny, you think you put things behind you, but it seems the door on that closet never really locks, and the memories come spilling out at the least bit of incentive.

The anniversary of RFK’s death pushed the door open again. He was more than a shadow of his big brother. He was new hope for the people. I still believed in government and non corrupt politicians, at that time. Maybe Camelot was still alive with Bobby. But it wasn’t meant to be. Fresh off his victory, he was gunned down in a kitchen by Sirhan, Sirhan who is serving time for the killing, or by the security guard, if you believe conspiracy theories.

Teddy became the man, but then, he screwed up at Chappaquidick and it seemed that Camelot was finally buried for good. I went from devastated, to angry to cynical. My innocence was gone. But I guess that is what growing up really is.

1968 was the year I grew up. I graduated high school, entered college and proclaimed my civil rights radicalism, amidst the deaths of my heroes. A part of me died with them. But a better me goes on. Rest in peace, RFK, MLK, and 1968.