November 22, 1963

   

          I can see the image in my mind as clearly as HD television.  Mr. Gilbert, our principal, standing at the door of Miss Price’s 4^th grade class with a somber look on his face.  We knew something was wrong. 

          “The president has been shot,” he told us.  That was it.  We didn’t know anything more.  I’m not sure what happened next, but it was only a short time before Mr. Gilbert was back with the stunning news, “The president is dead.”

          We were taken into the school auditorium where the school’s only television was showing images of Walter Cronkite reporting in his shirtsleeves.  School was soon dismissed, although I don’t remember an announcement.  I do remember walking home. 

          In my memory, which has been filtered by a half-century of age, a car stopped and the driver said something to me.  My mind has reconstructed the memory to a mysterious woman asking me if I knew about the president. 

Last weekend we made a visit to Alabama to visit my mother.  We celebrated her birthday on Saturday and it was good to be with her and see everyone in the family.  I took two of my children by the old school building that has since been converted into an Arts Center, and showed them where my 4^th grade class was located.  There were numerous specials on television about the Kennedy assassination.  We were talking about the assassination one night and I asked mother how she heard the news.

          “I heard the terrible news on television,” she said. “I needed to go to the store and knew that you children would be coming home soon, so I was driving to town when I saw you walking down the street.  I stopped and told you that I would be back home in a few minutes.”

          So that mysterious woman who had become a stranger in my mind was actually my mother!  Funny how the mind plays tricks on us.

          But in a way it was telling.  As a child, my mind was not preconditioned by political bias.  JFK was not very popular in Alabama, primarily because of his stand on Civil Rights.  But I wasn’t old enough to be political and my parents didn’t discuss politics with us.  I was inspired by Kennedy.  We tried to imitate his Boston accent.  (Alabama boys speaking with a Boston accent!)

          His words, “Ask not what your country can do for you, . . .” resonated with me and stirred me as did Martin Luther King’s lofty rhetoric.  My world was shattered on November 22, 1963.  All the adults had their own political bias, as I do now, but 50 years ago I was innocent—until that fateful day.

          The next summer my grandmother took me to Washington, DC.  We rode the train, visited the monuments and memorials, saw the Declaration of Independence and spent hours in the Smithsonian.  We went to see John Sparkman, the Alabama Senator from our hometown.  We toured the White House. 

          My grandmother told me she would buy me a souvenir.  I looked and looked but finally settled on a small bust of JFK.  I know it must have cost more that my grandmother had planned to spend.  And I still remember the shop owner giving me a lecture on the fact that “this is not a toy.  You don’t play with it.  If you drop it, it will break.”

          He probably didn’t think I would get home with it.  Maybe my grandmother didn’t either, but I did.  In fact, it’s in my office today.  And when I look at it, I remember November 22, 1963.  That was the day my world changed, and our nation has never been the same.

A First Class Veteran In Pain

He sits in a wheelchair at Lexington Health Care due to both legs being amputated. "Are you in pain?" I ask. He nods his head yes.

Junior Anderson has known pain before. In 1944, near Naples, Italy, he was shot in the left leg while dragging a wounded soldier to safety. Risking his life for his fallen comrade and for the cause of freedom, he was rewarded with three bronze stars, a purple heart, the Victory Medal, Good Conduct Medal and several campaign medals. Then he came home.

The decorated war veteran who was wounded in action, who was willing to lay down his life for our freedom, came home as a second-class citizen. You see, Staff Sgt. Junior Anderson, who was a part of the 370th Infantry (Combat Team) of the U.S. Army during World War II, is a Buffalo Soldier. He is one of only two Buffalo Soldiers who survive in North Carolina. Buffalo Soldiers served our nation from 1866 to 1951. It was a name given to African-American cavalrymen by Native Americans.

Anderson came home to a society where black citizens were not treated as equals, regardless of their military service or sacrifice. It was the same society I grew up in where my friends Herman and James were not allowed to walk down Main Street simply because they were black. Even so, James went to Vietnam where he served his nation with valor and courage like Anderson. He was every bit a first-class soldier. I stayed home and went to college. James could not afford to go to college, so he went to Vietnam and was killed. His body came home where he was still a second-class citizen, even in death.

Anderson came home a wounded warrior. His fight, however, was far from over. He has been fighting another battle in recent years as he has suffered two strokes, survived colon cancer and endured three different amputations due to gangrene. His wife, Peggy, shared with me that the struggle is more than physical. She has encountered one obstacle after another as she tries to get him the treatment he needs through the VA Hospital. She dreams of bringing her husband home, but at this point their house cannot accommodate a wheelchair. That situation can be corrected.

The Banks Miller American Legion Post 255 recently honored Anderson. You may have seen the inspiring article in The Dispatch on Oct. 9. There are also some grateful citizens who are working with Lexington Housing CDC to make the necessary renovations to their house so he can return home. Please contact the agency if you would like to help a war hero come home.

Words are not adequate to express our gratitude to Anderson. Valiant in war, victimized at home, and now suffering from numerous illnesses, yes, he has known pain. On this recent Veterans Day weekend, we will try to say thank you. Thank you to Staff Sgt. Anderson; thank you to all the courageous men and women who served faithfully and risked their lives for freedom. And thank you to my friend, James, and all who never came home. "Greater love has no man than this, that one lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13.

If ever there was a first-class citizen, it is Junior Anderson who sits in his wheelchair at Lexington Health Care. I shook his hand and said, "Thank you Mr. Anderson. Thank you for your service to our country. Thank you for all you have done to make me free." He meekly lowered his head and nodded it affirmatively. I saw the tears in his eyes. I'm not sure if he saw the tears in mine.