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.
 

 


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