On November 22, 1963, I was hired by Peace Corps headquarters at Lafayette Square [in DC] and was shopping at Garfinkel’s when I heard that John Kennedy had been shot. That death tore me out of the ‘50s and flung me into the ‘60s.
Peace Corps Director Sargent Shriver, a vestige of Kennedy glamour, once appeared in a white linen suit, tanned and gorgeous. I worked for a moody Baptist minister, a Texan and friend of Bill Moyers. Another Texan, Lyndon Johnson, was willing to lose the Dixiecrats to the Republicans because of his civil rights stand. While on a Peace Corps recruiting trip to the U. of Alabama, Gov. George Wallace gave a speech. I happened to be standing at the door when he exited and extended his hand to me. He had tried to stop integration at that same door the year before, and I refused to shake his hand. He said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?” Uppity women and blacks just didn’t seem to “know their place” anymore.
reporter, writer, wife, mother, stepmother, grandmother, photographer, singer, knitter, swimmer -- not all at the same time songbird@birdsonawireblog.com
