Today, Wednesday, 22 November 2006, is the 43rd anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, thirty-fifth president of the US. In the wake of yesterday's terrible, reminiscent shooting of Lebanese government minister Pierre Gemayel, so far today I've heard no mention of President Kennedy's horrific death. I was a kid at Southern University Lab School in Scotlandville, Baton Rouge, but like Americans older than me, I remember exactly where I was when the news came. It was music class at school. I seem to remember we were learning to sing "The Peanut Vendor's Song." And then somehow everyone is outside along the breezeways at school. People falling and crying and moaning. It's hard to imagine a thing that could bring to tears every single adult around you. But that's exactly what happened on a November Friday in 1963. It still makes me cry, too, and it's still hard to allow oneself to really think about even today. What is equally sad and seems too incredible to admit is John Kennedy's death was destined not to be the only 20th century assassination of a political figure in my country, and in my life.