Area Woman Recalls Seeing Dreams Of Millions Crushed
(The
Knickerbocker News, Albany, NY, Nov. 22, 1983, pp. 1 & 10)
by Mary Woodward Pillsworth
(Special to The Knickerbocker News)
Note by Peter Whitmey: Through Mark Zaid, now a lawyer in Washington D.C. but in 1992 a law student in Albany, New York, I learned that he had been able to meet with Mary Woodward, who has lived in that city for many years. He kindly showed my article to Mary, although I wasn’t able to learn her reaction to it. However, back on Nov. 22, 1983, Mary had written an article about her experience in Dallas twenty years earlier, and Mark kindly sent me a copy of it. Here it is in its entirety:
For one who stood on the sidewalk in front of the Texas School Book
Depository that fateful Friday afternoon, the 20th anniversary of the
assassination of John F. Kennedy rekindles a host of memories, reflections and
emotions.
One of the most striking realizations
regards the conflicting nature of time—a phenomenon which seems able to move
in opposite directions while standing still.
How can something which seems more vivid
in memory than yesterday’s dinner have happened 20 years ago? Or can it really
have been only 20 years ago? Often it seems at least two lifetimes ago.
Certainly the country today bears little
resemblance to the one over which John F. Kennedy presided, and to the young
people coming of age in the ‘80s, the Kennedy years are, indeed, “the olden
days”.
Twenty years ago, I, too, was just coming
of age and, having inadvertently been place at the scene of one of the most
momentous events of the 20th century, my life, I am sure, was changed
forever. Changed not in any dramatic way, but on that subtle level of
consciousness which shapes one’s perception of both self and the world around.
On that Friday afternoon I was a young
reporter and copy editor on the staff of THE DALLAS MORNING NEWS. I also was one
of the Kennedy kids, the name coined by the press for the horde of under-30s who
had worked energetically and enthusiastically for his election only three years
before.
We were a political force relatively new
in American politics, a group of dedicated people totally caught up in the
charisma of one man—a man who made us truly believe everything was possible.
We could be anything, do anything. We sensed we had the power not only to
control our own destinies, but by virtue of commitment, sacrifice and a spirit
of unity, we could change the world for the better. We did not just feel that
way; deep in our souls we truly believed we were the vanguard destined to lead
mankind down the road to Utopia.
As I stood on the curb wildly cheering our
White Knight and his Lady Fair, three shots rang out, and the magic spell was
broken forever.
Something larger than a single man, more
important even than the president of the United States, died in Trauma Room I at
Parkland Memorial Hospital. The hopes and dreams of millions of people around
the world were as crushed as that pathetic bouquet of bloodstained roses which
lay on the floor of the Lincoln Continental. For many of us, it seemed as though
we had been suddenly, viciously robbed of two irreplaceable possessions—our
youth and our innocence.
In the time span of three shots from a
mail-order Italian carbine, a good part of a generation metamorphosed from the
idealism of youth to the cynicism of middle age. Many of us would spend the
ensuing 20 years trying to adjust and become comfortable with our sudden
maturity.
The torch had been passed, but,
ironically, it seemed to skip a generation. We had placed our faith too firmly
in the hands of one man, and without a leader, we retreated from activism to
withdrawal. Having grown up in the 1950s and come of age in the early ‘60s, we
would ever afterward be labeled “The Silent Generation.”
The days immediately following the
assassination were filled with the high drama of national tragedy. Surely
nowhere was the tragedy felt more keenly than in Dallas, which was forced to
carry the additional burden of blame which the entire world in its desperate
frustration seemed anxious to heap upon the beleaguered city.
Time has not dimmed the sense of
discomfort I felt two years later while living in Brazil and someone would
inquire where I was from. President Kennedy had already been elevated to popular
sainthood, and people would audibly gasp when I hesitatingly responded
“Dallas.” They seemed genuinely amazed I did not have horns and cloven feet.
Guilt by association became a cross reluctantly borne by anyone remotely
connected to the city.
Probably the most frequently asked
question of any eyewitness to such a catastrophic event is, “Are you sorry you
were there?” The answer is the same and without qualification. No, I am not
sorry. I am sorry for what happened, but it was beyond my control. It remains
the most emotionally draining experience of my life, and I have spent countless
hours pondering the “what ifs.” But, as a journalist, as well as a person
with a passion for history, I cannot regret being even on the fringe of an event
of such historical significance.
On a personal level, my mood shifted
relentlessly between despair and exhilaration. The exhilaration sprang from the
excitement of the young reporter on her first newspaper job being caught in the
eye of the storm. Yesterday’s nobody, the youngest, and most inexperienced
member of the staff, was today’s star attraction.
By sheer chance two equally young and
inexperienced co-workers and I had been the only members of the press at the
scene, and I had been selected to write the only eyewitness account for THE
DALLAS MORNING NEWS. Now, everybody, it seemed, wanted to speak to me, from the
plainly curious to other reporters representing newspapers around the world, to
the Dallas police, Secret Service and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
I was pointed out in the Zapruder film,
and my picture appeared in several leading national magazines, applauding and
cheering him at the exact moment President Kennedy sustained his fatal wound.
Over the years I have read the various
conspiracy theories and am always asked for my opinion. The truth, of course, is
that I possess no more knowledge than another other innocent bystander. I only
know what I saw and what I heard. My testimony before all the investigative
bodies recounted three shots fired from the direction of the grassy knoll—one
shot, a long pause—followed by two more shots in very rapid succession.
The account is at odds with the official
Warren Commission Report (for which my testimony was never requested), and for
that I have no explanation. The discrepancies did, however, come to the
attention of such conspiracy theorists as Mark Lane and James Garrison, who, at
various times, have solicited my cooperation, but which I have always declined.
As the official mourning period came to an
end and normalcy began to reassert itself, like most people, I tried in small
ways to keep the flame aglow. I served in the Peace Corps, debated the new world
order in small groups of friends, voted in every election, tried to keep the
memory alive as I marked the passing of each anniversary, bored my children with
endless conversations about “the legend,” but never again did I put myself
on the front lines. I had done that once, and I could never be that vulnerable
again.
Time passes and becomes a leveler; our age
has caught up with us. Chronologically, as well as psychologically, we have a
middle-age perception of the world. We have been tempered by the times and
events through which we have so far lived, and, finally, we are coming to terms.
We are, I feel, on the verge of reasserting our role in shaping the future.
We have learned a great deal and have paid
an extraordinarily high price for our knowledge. We understand that idealism and
blind faith may not solve the problems of the world, but neither, we have found,
will cynicism and withdrawal.
Much was lost, but much was gained. As I
survey the post-Vietnam, post-Watergate, leaderless world in which my children
are maturing, I sadly realize that, despite the tragedy, we are privileged to
have lived in such an era, to have basked in the reflected aura of a Kennedy’s
intelligence, wit and grace, to have lived in a time when we felt such pride in
being an American.
Despite revisionist accounts of the
administration or the personal shortcomings of the man, there really was for one
brief, shining moment a Camelot, and we were part of it.
Such a period may never come again in my
lifetime, but at long last I feel the urge to try again. It is our debt to the
next generation.
For the first time in 20 years, I am
politically active and actually looking forward to participation in the 1984
elections. [Ronald Reagan was re-elected overwhelmingly the Democratic
candidate, Walter Mondale of Minnesota, followed by the election of George Bush
in 1988, William Jefferson Clinton in 1992 and 1996, and George W. Bush in
2000—PW.] I am able to become involved with the complete realization the
only reward may be bumps on the head from banging it against a brick wall.
That’s OK. The world needs a few dedicated head-bangers. It’s an honorable
role.
*****
Note by PW:
The front page included a photo of Mary, a
photo of JFK and Jackie on Houston St. and the famous photo of Oswald being shot
by Ruby. Page two included the equally famous photo of “John-John” saluting
his father’s casket.
The front page also included an insert
entitled “Questions and Answers” which stated that the Warren Commission
concluded three shots were fired, all from the sixth floor of the TSBD; that the
HSCA concluded with 95 per cent probability that four shots were fired, based on
the acoustical evidence obtained from a Dallas police radio recording. The
fourth shot, the committee said, probably was fired from in front of the
motorcade, but it was pointed out that the HSCA’s conclusions were disputed by
experts from the FBI and the National Research Council. Finally, it was pointed
out that both the WC and the HSCA had concluded that two shots had struck the
President [one of which allegedly went through both JFK and Connally].