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PART ONE:
It’s an old question from the sixties, frequently discussed and the perfect starting place for my story: “where were you when President Kennedy was shot?”
My good friend Michael John Piasecki had entered the seminary in September of 1962 to study for the Roman Catholic priesthood, and that’s how he ended up at a refectory table with five other seminarians on November 22nd of 1963 at 12:30 pm central time when the Rector turned on his microphone and all of us believed it was time to conclude lunch with the usual closing prayer when Father Harold Hennessy, M.M. announced: “the president has been shot in Dallas and is on the way to the hospital. Manual labor is cancelled, and those among you who choose may go to one of the rec rooms and watch the news reports.”
Piasecki and I had been assigned to the same dining table for November at Maryknoll College in Glen Ellyn, which used to be located about twenty miles west of Chicago. Maryknoll had dubbed itself “the foreign mission society of America.” Michael and I were sophomores hoping to become missionary priests in some exotic foreign land, maybe China or Japan. “MJ” – as my friend liked to be called had an interest in The Philippines where his father had served with the Army Corps of Engineers during the war: “My father was a pretty good spinner of tales and his many stories about his World War II experience on the island of Leyte intrigued me.”
My friend was a dreamer: “being a missionary priest in a foreign land became my alternate life’s adventure once I realized I was never going to become a big league baseball player. In fact, my father proclaimed me President of the 0 for club when I was still playing Little League.”
Shortly after we had been assigned to be roommates that first semester at Glen Ellyn, MJ confided in me: “I learned about Father Isaac Jogues, a Jesuit priest in American History. This French missionary ended up a holy martyr when a member of the Mohawk Tribe accused him of practicing witchcraft and killed him with a hatchet blow to his head; it happened on October 18th, 1646, when he was thirty-nine. When I was ten, I would begin each new year by carefully marking this date on my bedroom calendar after having read a biography telling the story of Jogues, and every single October 18th I say a Rosary while meditating upon the Sorrowful Mysteries for my martyr.”
I still recall - I am Michael O'Hara of Philadelphia - I still remember that at the Maryknoll College Seminary - MJ, myself, and about 398 other young men who had dedicated their lives to the Blessed Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus would pray every afternoon during the school year; we would walk outside on campus in the company of our priest-professors and pray that one-third of the Rosary, which was appropriate for the day : the Joyful Mysteries on Monday and Thursday, the Sorrowful on Tuesday and Friday, and the Glorious on Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday. We would honor Mary, our Mother in Heaven and pray for world peace; if the weather was too severe we would all gather in the Chapel, and in the presence of God in the Holy Eucharist, we would recite this special prayer...
I remember Michael simply sitting there at our lunch-time table on November 22nd weeping, when John O’Toole poked him hard in the chest: “what are you crying about fool?”
“I’m afraid John – what if he’s dead?”
O’Toole, who was a junior and had just received his cassock and collar on Halloween night, but was forever playing the mean-spirited bully, would proceed to mock my friend: “I hope he is dead, the misogynist!”
MJ seemed confused: “how can you talk about our president that way?”
“He was never my president!” O’Toole was from Yonkers and stated: “my father’s a Washington reporter and knows the truth – and he has told me everything.”
My friend attempted a response: “I have no idea what you mean. What’s a misogynist anyway?”
“Look it up – YOU CRYBABY!” O’Toole would not leave MJ alone and he pressed his left index finger into Michael’s sternum so forcefully that Piasecki cried out from this obviously painful stimulus.
Later in Recreation Lounge II – where we went after spotting O’Toole in Recreation Lounge I casually playing ping pong – I recall hearing CBS News anchor Walter Cronkite, who was crying as well while deliberately uttering his forever fated sentence: “President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States is dead.”
PART TWO:
“MJ” is the name I gave myself in 1953 when I knew I would be a big league baseball player after witnessing my first Major League game on a friend’s family television during Game 4 of one more “Dodger-Yankee World Series!” My father would not buy us a television until 1955...
I realized back then that “Mike” and “Michael” would never be adequate; “Mickey” already belonged to Dad and Mickey Mantle, the Yankee's young centerfielder who had taken over after Joe DiMaggio had retired; my middle name is John and that settled the issue – I would be “MJ!”
I was inadequate when it came to dating or having a steady girlfriend; I was afraid of the opposite sex. And therefore, baseball became my “first real love” and had served as my distraction ever since the day I learned that the Philadelphia Phillies – “Our Whiz Kids” – would be playing those New York Yankees in the 1950 World Series; Dad and I did get to listen to one of the games during the series; it was a Saturday afternoon on our Emerson Radio inside our family’s grocery store; the Yankees won 5-2 and swept us “four straight games!”
That result was never truly important because simply being there with Dad and listening to his many baseball yarns made me feel like “the luckiest kid in the entire world.”
Joe DiMaggio was the “Bronx Bombers” centerfielder in 1950, and Dad spoke of this hero’s “great baseball feats” with reverence, like he was telling me about a saint: “can you even imagine it Michael?” – My father always addressed me as “Michael” when he wanted me to pay closer attention to his words: “just think about this Michael, in 1941 DiMaggio got a hit in 56 straight games.” I instinctively knew at six years old that baseball was going to become a way of life for Michael John Piasecki…
Three seasons later, during the 1953 World Series, I was downstairs listening to the World Series when Dad suddenly appeared, demanding to know what I was doing: "hope you’re not down here eating my candy.” My father was very strict, severe might be a better description, and I was always afraid of making a mistake in his presence; however, the Yanks new centerfielder Mickey Mantle had just hit a homerun with the bases loaded and my new favorite team was quickly leading by five runs: “HEY DAD, MICKEY MANTLE JUST HIT A GRAND SLAM!”
My father shrugged as if he didn’t care: “too bad.”
“But Dad, Mickey Mantle – he has the exact same name as you! Look at your sign painted on our store window: Mickey’s Market!”
My father then contradicted every theory I had come to hold about the Yankees and Dodgers that autumn of 1953 when he boldly stated: “I’m a Dodger fan.”
“Me too then Dad – I’m a Dodger fan too - forever!”
Prior to leaving me alone that afternoon my father spoke these words: “I really don’t care who you root for Michael, just don’t eat more than one piece of penny candy. Candy’s no good for your teeth.”
We already had eaten our customary Sunday lunch: “I ate a good lunch - didn’t I eat a good lunch Dad? - - - So - - - when I came downstairs, I took a piece of your penny candy – only one, one Greenleaf! That’s all I took Dad – I swear to God!”
“Michael, didn’t I tell you never to swear?”
I was confused about how easily we became antagonistic: “I’m sorry Dad, I’ll be better. I promise you – I’ll be better!”
“I’m going up to read my Sunday paper. I only came down because your mother was worried about what you might be up to. And Michael, you can root for the Yankees if you want, but I think they’re bums.”
I proclaimed: “that’s not right – it’s the Dodgers who are the Brooklyn Bums!” As soon as these words had escaped what father frequently called “your big fat mouth” – as quickly as I had contradicted my father – I winced anticipating a slap across the face, but Dad only smiled: “you’re right this time son, they are called the Bums in Brooklyn.”
The next summer when I was almost ten, my second teeth had begun coming in behind my baby ones and I had to have eight of those originals pulled and it wasn’t much fun; my father felt bad for me during this ordeal: “maybe I was wrong son, maybe I should’ve permitted you to eat more candy.” Then he gave me his biggest best smile: “just goes to show you, I’m not perfect either.”
I loved my father at that moment; I loved him for addressing me so tenderly and I loved him for letting me know that making a mistake was okay. The man had surely blessed me and I understood that I no longer had to be perfect…
PART THREE:
After JFK’s assassination I had begun observing every November 22nd in some special way…
It was only May but I was preparing for November 22nd, 1970 when today’s news from Kent State – stole the proverbial legs from beneath me, and the pain of gun violence in my beloved country, perpetrated this time by military men representing the Ohio National Guard, suddenly screamed out to be stopped...
How can this be happening in the United States of America?
Kent, Ohio – once “Tree City” after tree surgeon John Davey had planted thousands of trees throughout Kent County in the late 19th century – but now to be forever remembered as the city where “four college students were shot dead by their countrymen.”
Immediately I discovered myself tossed backward into the violent acts of 11/22/63, 4/4/68, and 6/5/68 – and once again MJ Piasecki ended sobbing like a baby because of his inability to do anything else…
Prior to the news from Kent State I was consciously preparing to make up for what had happened to me on November 22nd, 1969 when I was arrested by a uniformed Philadelphia policeman for refusing to obey his command that I leave the vicinity of Connie Mack Stadium, the home of my father's and my Philadelphia Phillies, where I had planned to honor my slain president by saying the Rosary.
I would be cited and then released, but eventually I would be compelled to christen 11/22/69 as “the second worst November the 22nd ever.”
For 1970 I was planning to buy a comparable model of Oswald’s “killer-rifle” from Klein’s Sporting Goods Store in Chicago – my very own futile gesture, rooted in an unrealistic rationalization that if only I had bought the assassination gun instead of Oswald, my president might still be alive…
It was a grand scheme to make up for what had occurred on 11/22/69, when I was arrested, and therefore unable to mark the assassination as planned – thus spoiling my hope for honoring President John Fitzgerald Kennedy in my own special way on the man’s sixth anniversary of his dying…
Milton P. Klein, the owner of the Chicago sporting goods store that had sold Lee Harvey Oswald the murder weapon responded to my gun-purchasing overture…
Dear Michael,
It seems to me that you and I are family. Your letter was a blessing. Thank you. I’ve always been a sad person, but ever since our president was murdered with a rifle purchased from my store, November is the worst month of the year, November the 22nd the worse day. To answer your questions, Oswald’s rifle was imported from Italy to New York and I purchased the gun from the importer to sell in my store. The president’s murderer bought the rifle and the added scope together for about twenty dollars. I forget what the shipping cost, but the whole sale was likely no more than twenty-five. Twenty-five dollars and the price of three bullets to kill a president! The gun was a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle, a popular World War II souvenir. I sold guns because they made money. When I was a young man my father owned a pawn shop and dealt in guns. He taught me the business. I had a family and selling guns helped feed my kids. I don’t sell them anymore. The gun you want can no longer be imported. In 1968 the federal government passed a new gun law in October. The law bans dealers like me from selling guns through the mail. I hope this information is helpful. I really appreciated your letter and understand your pain.
Sincerely,
Milt Klein
After Mr. Klein’s surprising letter telling why he could not legally sell me a replica of Oswald’s rifle, I felt a sense of relief. What could I have possibly been thinking? I had attempted to order the gun after not really considering the consequences of such an act. I had asked “Klein’s Sporting Goods Store” in Chicago to mail this specific rifle, which I described as “my symbol” to prevent further gun violence in the United States with clarity of purpose: “if a good man like me purchases this weapon, it will not be available for a bad guy like Oswald.” However, Mr. Klein’s clear explanation that he could no longer buy World War II souvenirs because they could no longer be imported from Europe helped lighten my troubles surrounding guns and gun violence, I mean if I was willing to buy one gun to keep it out of the hands of a murderer – how much more powerful was the 1968 law: “House Resolution 17735” that became known as “the gun control act of 1968” and prohibited the importation of such rifles, and the reselling of them to “mail order assassins” like Oswald; President Lyndon Baines Johnson signed the bill into law on October 22nd, 1968 – four years and eleven months after my beloved JFK had been murdered in Dallas…
Lee Harvey Oswald actually ordered his murder weapon in March of 1963. The eventual assassin employed an alias: “A. Hidell” and paid Klein’s for the gun to be delivered to his Post Office Box in Dallas…
Without some legal way of purchasing a replica of Oswald’s rifle, my plan for a symbolic November 22nd, 1970 was foiled; however, it thrilled me that the future purchase of such guns had been halted by the pen and I recalled: “the pen is mightier than the sword” - mightier even than the gun!
I had no idea where these seven words originated, but I repeated them aloud over and over and over again, until I felt consoled by the mere sounding out of such a powerful sentence…
And instead of buying a gun to commemorate November 22nd in 1970, I boarded a Greyhound Bus on November 19th – bound for Dallas and “Dealey Plaza,” where I would discover the “Texas Schoolbook Depository Building” and its infamous sniper’s nest still standing…
On November 22nd a man on the street who was among the thousands of spectators that November 22nd – a man who called himself “Junior” and said he worked at the depository building, told me the following story: “I work here at our main building and have for seven years. I remember Lee Oswald. We were hired that October on the same day, just us two. They needed a guy at the depository in receiving and another to drive a jitney truck over at their main building four blocks from this spot on Houston Street. I was sent there because I had experience driving the jitney and Lee did not. That’s the honest to God’s truth young fella. I’ll swear to it – HONEST INJUN!”
This guy calling himself “Junior” seemed convincing enough to me, and therefore how could I possibly protest or attempt to deny the fellow his rightful place in American History?
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