Bobby

Robert Kennedy's assassination happened on the day of my sixth grade graduation in 1968. I had a new navy-and-white-striped mini-dress to wear for the ceremony. It was the beginning of summer, and I felt fresh and pretty and happy. The phone rang and my mother answered it. She put her hand over her mouth, then turned on the television. "Bobby Kennedy's been shot," she said.

The Knotts Berry Farm vision of America that had always perched in my head took flight right then, forever.
I sobbed, "What's wrong with this country?,” slamming out the door. I faintly heard my mother's puzzled, "Well, Tracy!" as I ran down the sidewalk to school.

The farewell-to-grade-school we'd looked forward to turned into a quiet non-celebration. Sixth-graders trudged across the stage to polite clapping from distracted parents watching from tinny folding chairs.

But at the program's finale, the principal stepped up to the microphone. Brimming with excessive cheer, she said, "I want to tell all you children so you'll stop worrying -- the radio has announced that Bobby Kennedy really wasn't hurt very badly, and he's going to be just fine."

We all cheered! Families hugged. Teachers dabbed happily under the corners of their cat-eye glasses. The last day of school/first day of summer  was redeemed, because Bobby was. We were going to walk out of that crappy gymnasium with its fire-retardant drapes with smiles on our faces, because Bobby Kennedy wasn't going to die! We were going to have a happy ending after all, and he was going to be our new President Kennedy!

I felt the petticoats under my short dress crackle and shift. Euphoric, I ran into the schoolyard . There is nothing more empowering for a girl than the Tilt-a-Whirl of mad twirling, and the skirt of my navy-and-white-striped dress swirled high around my hips, as the whole of summer arched and stretched its bones before me.