The Big Days

 If I'm not mistaken--and I could be--it was a civics class, fifth hour, just after lunch when the announcement came over the squawk box that hung from the wall over the teacher's head, a man named Ruesink--could that be?--a soft-spoken, handsome guy, not a fireball. It was his class I was in when the announcement came. 

Strangely enough, it wasn't a total surprise. What seemed a rumor had slipped out during lunch because I remember thinking that the whole idea had something to do with "initiation day," the day the new lettermen were being hazed into the club of athletic letter winners. Weird things happened on "initiation day." A not-to-be-believed rumor sounded somehow fitting.

But when the announcement came over the system and it was the familiar voice of the school principal telling the story, I had no doubts: The President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, had been shot in Dallas, Texas. He was dead or dying. I don't remember the words exactly.

We didn't go home, but I don't remember what happened after that, not at all. What I'll never forget is the moment the news broke. That's with me as long as I live.

Amazingly, on 9/11 our neighbor's garage was on fire when, that morning, I walked to school. There was no way around it really. The local fire department was there trying to stanch the flames, but it was clear that the neighbor wasn't going to lose the whole structure, just what appeared to be some thing of an attic. 

I was taking my writing classes out to an old cemetery that morning, and while I was out there with them, the jets the hijackers commandeered took out the World Trade Center. We'd been gone, but the moment we returned, the whole campus knew the story.

I don't remember thinking about whether or not to take the next bunch of kids out to the cemetery. Strangely enough, a little road trip was much anticipated, and the weather that day, early September, was gracious. We went, but the difference between the two sections of Advanced Comp were unmistakable. 

That afternoon I taught a section of American literature--Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter. I was prepared, but everyone was watching tv then, the unfolding story on every channel. When I came to class, the students were there, as if there'd been no major tragedy, although they looked deadly serious. I told them I honestly didn't know what to do, whether or not to have class. When I gave them the option of leaving, none did. 

My classroom had no tv, so watching wasn't an option. Finally, I just started in on Scarlet Letter, as if there was nothing left to do but go on. What I remember best about that class was that it was particularly good. Strange. 

I don't know that I'll remember exactly where I was when last night's breaking news aired. I doubt I'll have memories. I'm much older now. When JFK was assassinated, I was a sophomore in high school. On 9/11, I was a veteran teacher, 53 years old. Not long ago, I turned 75.

But age doesn't account for the difference. What does is the fact that one didn't have to be a genius or a witch to conjure what happened last night. With four major investigations going on, Trump's oranging-around with the porn star was literally the least of his worries. That he'd be arrested seemed to me inevitable. 

Still, when it happened, it was momentous. The man who famously told a beloved audience in Sioux Center, Iowa, that he could gun down people on Main and not lose a voter got himself humbled. He'll turn a trick on it, rake in millions from people who see him as savior, but yesterday's striking news is only the beginning of his dance with iron bars. 

And no one was surprised. Even his impassioned followers, people sure the New York DA wants only to win the next election weren't shocked. The victim story Trump so loves had it in the tarot cards: he'd go down because the deep state, the Evil One, wants him gone, done, out of the picture. 

No one was surprised. Not me either.

But the warrant for his arrest is no less huge and historic. Never before has an American President been told to come in to be fingerprinted, to stand for a mug shot. Never before.

I'm guessing the moment won't have the sticking power of other major national events because the man has immunized us with his brutish behavior (a baseball bat over the head of the New York DA, calling the guy "an animal") that we've long ago grown accustomed to his vulgar bullying, his "American carnage," mean-spirited mission work. He's a man without shame. 

Last night, about five o'clock, will pass away soon because more will follow Be assured, Donald J. Trump is still alive and kicking.

Yesterday, on a quick-sale table in a grocery store I frequent, a whole bunch of baseball caps were strewn, bargain price. I've been telling myself to wear caps lately. I've got nothing up there to block the sun . I picked one up one of those caps, good-looking caps, brightly colored winter hats maybe. I didn't try one on because it suddenly occurred to me that all of them were imprinted with "45," nothing else, just "45."

You could pick one up cheap yesterday afternoon, but if you head over this morning I'm sure they'll still be some there, a real deal.