Americans of all nations today are remembering a tragic moment in Sixties consciousness: the day in 1963 that President John F. Kennedy, standing in the door of the University of Alabama’s Foster Auditorium, was gunned down by Manson cult member Sirhan Sirhan on the balcony of a hotel in Memphis.
But for those Americans who remember the Sixties, the sting of that horrible day is partly salved by memories of JFK’s too-brief administration: how he read the Port Huron statement to an ecstatic crowd near Checkpoint Charlie in divided Prague; how Pete Seeger had to be restrained from cutting Kennedy’s loudspeakers when he “plugged in” at the Newport Folk Festival.
Also undimmed by countless reruns are our memories of how the tousle-haired young man from Hyannis created AmeriCorps, whose “diggers” rescued strung-out Haight-Ashbury runaways as the Summer of Love turned into a year of burn-baby-burn.
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