Just after midnight on this day in 1968, Robert Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles by Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, a 24-year-old Pakistani immigrant. Kennedy had just won California’s Democratic presidential primary, and he was exiting through the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel. Juan Romero, a 17-year-old busboy, was shaking his hand when Sirhan began firing. Several of the men with him tackled Sirhan, including writer George Plimpton, Olympic athlete Rafer Johnson, and football star Rosey Grier. Romero knelt by Kennedy, and put a rosary in his hand.
His brother Edward “Ted” Kennedy delivered the eulogy, his third for a dead brother:
“My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life; to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it. Those of us who loved him and who take him to his rest today, pray that what he was to us and what he wished for others will some day come to pass for all the world. As he said many times, in many parts of this nation, to those he touched and who sought to touch him: ‘Some men see things as they are and say why. I dream things that never were and say why not.'”
I took the above picture in the summer of 1991 while visiting D.C. and Arlington. It is one of my favorite pictures, and it captures my memory of Bobby Kennedy. I remember sitting with my father on the living room couch in our Philadelphia row home, watching the news coverage of RFK’s funeral. I remember being confused: was he the President? My Dad told me no, his brother had been President, but he was shot too. Just a few months earlier, my kindergarten class had been swept into a classroom with dozens of other students to watch the TV news about another man, Martin Luther King, who had been shot that morning.
Nineteen sixty-eight is so far away from us now; I doubt the spirit of the sixties will ever return, but it still pains me to remember the promise and potential, to think about what could have been, to know that we were violated.
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