 |
| Photo courtesy of National Park Service |
A Story From the Life of Steve B.
Ghostwritten by Fernando D.
Up Close and Personal With Lyndon B. Johnson
Everything was fine until that moment. I looked up and found several guns practically in my face; time slowed down. My hands went cold and my heart began beating at the speed of light.
I couldn’t move.
I was paralyzed.
A man started yelling at us, “Move, move!” Yet I wasn’t scared. Maybe it was because I didn’t understand.
People are told quite often to always stand strong and not allow anything to bring them down. It’s the “American way;” bend but don’t break. I was young when the John F. Kennedy shooting happened, but looking back, I’m quite surprised with the way America reacted.
My version of the aftermath began when school let out for winter break. I was ecstatic to finally have school off and finally be able to spend time with my grandparents, like I always had.
I ran home to find my mom standing in the kitchen. Jumping up and down, I told her how happy I was to be able to get out of the “hell” that I perceived kindergarten to be.
“Steve, we’re going to Texas.”
“What?!!” was my only response as I laid my school bag down.
“We won’t be going to your grandparents’ house like we usually do.”
“But mom!” I whined.
It was no use. I stood helplessly looking at her, like a dog begging for treats, only to be denied. How could I be betrayed this way?
My mother leaned up against the counter, towel in hand. “Your father and I already made the decision,” she responded. “We want to visit the birthplace of your brother. Also, we can go see the Lyndon B. Johnson family ranch while we’re there. It’s important.”
I was angry. It would be the first time in my six year life that we weren’t going to spend Christmas at our grandparents house in Kansas. I loved spending time with them; they treated me like royalty. Nevertheless, a few days later I found myself in Dallas, Texas.
You could tell the place was distraught as soon as you got there. People in Dallas were untrustworthy of any and every stranger they met. After all, John F. Kennedy had been shot only a month ago, but I didn’t know that at the time.
The first few days moved by quickly, and the day to visit the LBJ family ranch came. After a few hours driving from Dallas to San Antonio, we were there and on our way through the complex.
All was well and good inside our Buick LeSabre wagon as we wound through the ranch complex. Some time passed by and we crossed the Pedernales River. Then, out of nowhere, the “Texas White House” seemingly came into my vision. At first, I was surprised with how small it was. I expected to see a mansion larger than every house combined on my street, not a two-story house. The small size certainly didn’t live up to my expectations, but it looked cozy and lovely. The sun gleamed off the white bricks and white roof that made up the building; simple but elegant. As I stared at the building, we drove around to the backside of the complex, and I was stunned. I couldn’t imagine the rear being nicer than the front. It looked amazing. A large flagpole stood in the middle of a perfectly mowed field. Directly behind was a covered pool next to a tennis court. How lucky was the Johnson family to have the privilege of living there? Apparently my mother thought the same.
“Bob, brake a bit, I want to take a picture,” she said.
My mom rolled the window down to get a clear picture with the Canon. But then, as dad was decelerating, secret service men began appearing out of nowhere. They came from everywhere, behind the bush, underneath the bridge, one even jumped down from a tree. The entire group of them ran at us, guns pointed and yelling. I was frozen in the backseat of the wagon, paralyzed, unable to move a single limb. My heart started pumping faster, adrenaline rushed through my veins. I heard my mom scream in fear. Then, a secret service man pointed a gun directly at my head. The situation would inflict terror in most people, but not me. I wasn’t scared because I couldn’t make sense of the moment at the time. Why did they care that we took a picture? What was so important about it? My mom wasn’t going to harm anyone? I just didn’t understand what was happening. In my stupor, I found myself cowering in the backseat as a secret service man rushed to the car and ripped the camera out of my mother’ hand. Violently, he yelled, “Move, keep moving.” And so my father sped up again.
An hour passed and I found my family sitting atop a hill looking over the LBJ ranch and its surrounding land. My parents were quite anxious about what happened, and so the yelling began. At first it started as a debate as my parents argued about some silly topic, but then grew into a full fledged yelling contest. They were arguing about the state of the country, yelling at each other about how destroyed and panicked the country was with the recent shooting of JFK. But then, my father paused when it was his time to respond. He looked like he was choking back something he wanted to say. But then he spoke.
“Clara, this country is in a state of despair, and Johnson ain’t helpin’ but a bit.”
“I know, Bob.”
Out of nowhere, dad became angry again.
“Goddamnit! This country is awful, you get out of ya car and the Secret Service kill ya.”
Oddly enough, the country had been demolished with that single bullet, the trust of almost everyone along with their beliefs in American prosperity thrown out the window. An object shorter than the length of one’s finger threw the nation into a frantic panic. Not to mention it happened during the Cold War, with the mounting violence in Vietnam, and at the height of the Civil Rights Movement. It was at that time that America was brought to its knees, demolished and torn, all because of such a little thing. I didn’t understand it at the time, but that moment made the “American way” not the American way anymore.
