I was 11 years old when Bobby Kennedy was shot at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. That morning, my mother came upstairs to wake us up for the second-to-last day of school, and I could see that she had been crying. When I asked her what was wrong, she whispered, "Bobby's been shot. Bobby Kennedy." I began to ask some questions, and she just shook her head as if to say, "Not now." It was almost like it was our little secret. She then quickly pulled herself together so as not to upset my five younger brothers and sisters -- who seemed oblivious to her state of distress, by the way -- and continued getting everyone dressed and ready for school.
Making my way down the stairs, I could hear a man talking. I knew that my father had already left for work, so I wondered who it could be. Then I realized the television was on in the family room -- something that had never been permitted on the mornings we had school. A reporter was clutching a microphone and speaking to the camera. My mother turned down the volume, hurried us into the kitchen where the weekday ritual of who wanted what for breakfast was supposed to begin. This morning was different, though. No one got a choice. She pulled four cereal bowls and four juice glasses from one cabinet, one box of Fruit Loops from another, and started pouring. After that, she grabbed my baby brother from his high chair and bolted back to the family room -- and later hugged us a little longer than usual as, one by one, we kissed her on the cheek before heading out the door for the walk to school.
My best friend, Nancy, was waiting for me at the main doors of our elementary school - just like every other day of that school year. Only today she was crying. I remember seeing her and feeling a little guilty about my lack of emotion about what my mother had told me that morning -- after all, I was only 11 and didn't understand the magnitude of what had happened -- all I knew was that I had to get my little sister to her classroom door before the bell rang. But Nancy was 12 -- almost a whole year older than me and wise beyond her years -- and she did understand. I was in awe of her. She grabbed my hand and didn't let go.
The rest of that day and the next were a blurry montage of my teachers in tears (even mean and nasty old Miss Kaczmirek), my best friend in tears and of course, my mother. I think my mother must have cried for four or five days straight. It wasn't until I became a mother myself that I understood why.
The world can be a horrible place at times and as much as you want to shield and protect your children from it all, you can't. You feel hopeless. I felt that way after the Oklahoma City bombing, the Columbine shootings, and of course, on Sept. 11, 2001. My boys watched in bewilderment as I sobbed for days at the horror of it all. They didn't get it. As their mother, I hope they never do.
