From the editor: A place, in time

It startles you the first time.

You are driving down Elm St. toward the point where the towering blocks of downtown fizzle to an end when the realization comes. That is the Texas Schoolbook Depository building. That is the Grassy Knoll. This is Dealey Plaza, where the world stopped for a moment, where a new generation was cast adrift, where the imagined America began to unravel.

On Nov. 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy—America’s youngest president—was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald in Dallas, Texas.

It was 50 years ago, yet the sights and sounds of that day continue to burn intensely in the nation’s psyche: The sudden pitch in a radio announcer’s voice as he tells listeners “it appears as though something has happened in the motorcade … Something is terribly wrong;” the gasp that still escapes when we see a particular frame of the Zapruder Film;  the pause and trembling lip as CBS anchor Walter Cronkite struggles to maintain his composure when reporting the time of death; the confused crowds waiting at the Trade Mart, where Kennedy was scheduled to speak, as the limousine speeds past on its way to Parkland Hospital; the look of fear on a father’s face as he sprawls on the grass, shielding a son. An hour earlier he had taken the family to Love Field and watched the President and First Lady arrive. He had then rushed them over to the end of the motorcade route, hoping to give them a memorable day.

It is all very urgent, very much in the present, even after five decades.

Thousands died at the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, 2001, but the events of that time are almost too broad to grasp and perhaps unfinished, at least in our minds. Thousands died at Gettysburg, but the Pennsylvania field now contains mute artifacts.

Dallas speaks to us still.

The city’s sentiments at the time were well known. That morning in 1963, the Dallas Morning News published a full page advertisement, purchased by local businessmen, questioning the administration’s policies in scathing terms. Under the heading “Welcome Mr. Kennedy to Dallas” the piece asked why he did not support a McCarthey-esque film by the discredited House Un-American Activities Committee telling of communists in the U.S.. It pointed out that Dallas rejected him in 1960 and would do so again in ’64. It accused the President of ignoring the Constitution and questioned why he “scrapped the Monroe Doctrine in favor of the ‘Spirit of Moscow?’”

In the aftermath of the assassination, Dallas was nationally regarded as the “City of Hate.” In polls, more than 80 percent of the nation blamed the residents of Dallas for the horrible day.  A Detroit cab driver, upon learning his fare had traveled from that city, reportedly kicked the man out of his vehicle. Long distance operators were suspected of pulling the plug on calls from the tainted town. When the Dallas Cowboys arrived at their hotel in Cleveland that weekend, bellhops refused to carry their bags. The crowd at Municipal Stadium turned ugly, and many of the players were unsure of their safety. At least one Texan in Europe was greeted with “that’s where they kill presidents.”

We did not yet know how the 1960s would change in the wake of Oswald’s act. Others would fall to assassins bullets. The war in Vietnam would escalate. Cities would erupt into violence in the long, hot summers. The combination divided generations and wove a thread of distrust through the culture.

But on what had been a glorious, crystal blue November day of excitement and adoring crowds, Nellie Connally, riding in the front seat of the black limousine with her husband and governor John, turned and beamed “Mr. President, you can’t say that Dallas doesn’t love you.”

Her Texas twang drew out the word “love,” emphasizing it and adding intangible meaning. Then the car turned from Houston St. onto Elm St., toward the triple underpass and Stemmons Freeway.

It’s all there. Love Field is now the city’s second airport. The Trade Mark squats alongside Stemmons Freeway, appearing dull and dated. The house where Oswald lived, the spot where he shot officer J.D. Tippit, the theater in Oak Cliff where officers wrestled him into custody—it’s all there.

I lived in Dallas for many years. The first time I drove into Dealey Plaza, I did so without quite knowing the city’s layout. The realization crept into me as familiar images swept by. It is arresting.

Cross Houston St. and head downhill toward the triple underpass and the Texas Schoolbook Depository building looms on the right. On the asphalt in front of the Grassy Knoll, an ominous white X marks the spot where America slammed to a screeching stop and then gathered itself and endured the paces of the following decades. The infamous 6th Floor of the building, where Oswald perched that day, is part of a museum.

Even when crowded inside, the silence is palpable.

Dallas wears this moment badly. Shortly after that November day, 50 years ago, almost 90 percent of city residents reported a feeling of shame to pollsters. Joe Dealey, a grandson of the man for whom the triangle of green grass, bright white stonework and black asphalt was named, once told a reporter “we are a tormented town.” Younger generations have perhaps shaken the day into the recesses, thanks in part to a television soap opera—“Dallas”—and the emergence in the 1970s of the Cowboys as “America’s Team.” But the scars are still visible.

And there’s another aspect. America’s youngest President called out to the masses that made up the Baby Boom generation. They were young and idealistic. They responded to him. They associated his administration with an active and inventive future, from the Peace Corps to the moon. For parents of the day, he was—like many of them—a war veteran returning to home, family and a vigorous nation.

The new generation and Camelot still speak to us. The images are crystal, shattered against a city and a time. So we continue to feel, with Dallas, the pain of that day five decades gone.