Twenty-Five Years Later

As this is written on November 22, 1988, the pop-cultural atmosphere is a-swamp with remembrance of things Kennedy. All the old made-for-TV movies have been trotted out for the umpteenth annual rerun. Public television has provided a steady procession of the usual talking heads mouthing about what it all meant. And if you were really feeling bored and alienated, you could always seek refuge in fiction, where Don DeLilo's Libra, an imaginary biography of Lee Harvey Oswald, rides the best-seller list.

Twenty-five years down the road, the Kennedy assassination stands as an unmended rend in the fabric of American history. In popular perception, the bullets that killed JFK also killed the shiny, idealistic promise of the '60s. Deprived of the leader who could have carried us forward together, the nation descended into an orgy of war, upheaval, and alienation. That's a debatable historical analysis, at best. But it is popular perception, and that makes it real.

The sense of loss over what might have been, and the sense that we are still adrift in a strange land all these years later, is compounded by the fact that, in popular (and historically justifiable) perception, Kennedy's murder remains an unsolved crime. We keep picking it over with the hope of finally discovering who really killed him and why, and thus laying the demons to rest. But we're also afraid that finding out who really did it and why might only unleash even fiercer demons.

We're afraid that the answer might turn out to be the dirtiest of all the dirty, little secrets which we now know abounded in the days of Camelot. We fear what truth might lie in that back closet full of CIA murder squads, armed and angry Cuban exiles, and multiple Mafia connections. So "Uncle" Walter Cronkite is trotted out, as he was on a recent episode of Nova, to reassure us that Oswald acted alone. That leaves us free to obsess, and to mount obsessive memorials.

THE BEST EVIDENCE for the Kennedy years as a period of lost promise came not from any of the contemporary meaning-mongering and punditry, but from the live assassination coverage of 25 years ago re-shown during the week of memorials. In viewing this stuff, much of the sense of promise, like the accompanying sense of loss, centers on the person of JFK. In the footage of JFK at work, I, for one, saw things I had forgotten, or never knew, existed in an American president.

For instance, he was literate. He spoke naturally in actual English sentences and paragraphs. Content aside, his rhetoric had texture, momentum, a sweeping frame of reference, and a sense of humor. Of course, Reagan, when scripted by Peggy Noonan, could hit some of those same high notes. But the difference in watching Kennedy, with or without a script, is that there was obviously an active intelligence at work behind the TV-handsome visage. It's only in such a comparison that you begin to realize how hollow our current leaders, at least the white male ones, are.

And check this out: President Kennedy went to Mexico, and they loved him. This I learned from a 25-year-old canned obit. Can you imagine a U.S. president meeting cheering throngs in a Third World capital today? Today our presidents are hooted down as neanderthal warmongers even in the supposedly friendly climes of Western Europe.

I realize that behind the exultant greetings, Kennedy's appeal was made more of ephemeral promise than of policy. And yes, I know that counterinsurgency was perhaps Kennedy's truest legacy to the Third World. But still, it pleases me to be reminded that my country hasn't always been a global villain or laughing-stock. Is that reactionary?

But it wasn't just JFK. Everywhere I looked in the 25-year-old footage there were telltale signs of unpackaged humanity of the sort you rarely see in the surface-bound and image-wise '80s. There's former President Harry S. Truman being grilled by the press for an emotional reaction to the shooting and stubbornly maintaining his Midwestern reserve. Finally the reporters surrender, and the last question is, "Mr. President, what are you going to do now?" "I'm going to go in and sit down, if you fellers would let me," the president emeritus replies. Yes, there was a time in public life when one could keep private feelings private, and tell the media where to go.

More astounding, in those days, even the men and women of the media sometimes showed evidence of understanding that some things are real--i.e., not a story. Imagine this: Sometime on assassination weekend young Teddy Kennedy met the press to convey his parents' gratitude for the prayers and condolences sent their way. Teddy completed his brief statement. The assembled reporters were--silent! Finally one of them said, "Thank you, Senator. We're very sorry."

And that was it. No hyenas braying for blood, no "Is your mother in shock?" "Was she in tears?" "Was your father conscious?" Not even a "When will Bobby make an announcement about running against LBJ?" The reporters actually accepted a genuine human moment at face value and behaved like human beings. Take that, Geraldo.

Another revelation: The archival funeral coverage was free of those painful in-your-face close-ups that news and sports camera operators of today regularly use to invade the privacy of their subjects. Also, during the presidential funeral procession and ceremony, there were actually stretches of several minutes duration during which the announcers fell silent. To '80s ears trained on empty chatter, the silence was jarring. All you heard was the cadence of the funeral march, the turning of the caisson wheels, the clatter of horses' hooves, and the rushing of the chilly wind. It had dignity. Yes, dignity -- on TV.

Danny Duncan Collum is a Sojourners contributing editor.