John Whitehead's Commentary
The One Brief Shining Moment that was John F. Kennedy
"Bright lights have no politics," writes Hunter S. Thompson, "and in any politics there are bright lights." President John F. Kennedy was one such bright light.
Kennedy arrived just as the post-war generation was gaining a sense of social consciousness and angst. That it was destined to be a time of social and political turmoil was forecast by Dwight Eisenhower. In his farewell address, Eisenhower startled his conservative supporters by warning the nation against business lobbies greedy for government munitions contracts and fat profits. Thus, even before Kennedy took the reigns of power, many believed an ominous cloud covered the American cultural landscape.
But for a brief 1,000 days or so, the cloud lifted. Inaugurated on Jan. 20, 1961, Kennedy declared, "The torch has passed to a new generation of Americans." He called the challenges facing his administration a "New Frontier," which he proposed to explore boldly, promising to seek "a grand and global alliance to combat tyranny, poverty, disease and war." Calling for idealistic sacrifices, he demanded of Americans, "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."
Hope for the future was the Kennedy theme and eventually his legacy. We who were young then drew our inspiration for involvement from Kennedy. It is one of the few times in American history that the young felt connected to the government. Even the dirt of politics wouldn't permanently stain us if we became involved in working for a better world.
Kennedy was a human magnet who attracted people who wanted to make a difference. With Kennedy, it was much easier to believe that you could shape history, that you could change the world. The idea that we could make a difference would eventually survive Kennedy and become the theme of the 60s generation.
Thousands of young people like me were inspired. Some of us responded to the domestic struggle for black civil rights, especially in the South. Others volunteered for the new Peace Corps (created by Kennedy several months after his oath of office).
The new president, however, took the oath of office during anxious times. Soviet-supported rebels were attempting a takeover in South Vietnam and Laos. Fidel Castro was threatening to provide the Soviets with a beachhead only a few hundred miles from Florida's coast, and the economy was in a slump.
Kennedy's initial response to such challenges seemed to forecast a heavy-handed president. In a nationally televised address, he decried an attempt by Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev to bully the Allies out of Berlin. This dilemma ended with a wall that divided Berlin for almost 30 years. And with the Cuban missile crisis in October 1962, the world was, it seemed at the time, headed for nuclear confrontation. The emerging New Left was understandably disheveled by what appeared to be the military-directed Kennedy administration.
Despite the momentary madness of the Cuban missile crisis, however, the direction of the Kennedy Administration still left a window of hope for peace, civil rights and the end to poverty. This was because Kennedy possessed a social conscience and he was willing to apply it to political realities.
In June 1963, a noticeable shift in the Kennedy presidency began to emerge. The president took a visible turn toward peace and the beginning of an end to the political intensity and frigidity of the Cold War.
Addressing students at American University on June 10, Kennedy rejected the collision course with the Communists he had pursued since the 1961 Bay of Pigs fiasco. A month later, Kennedy and Khrushchev signed a nuclear weapons treaty banning tests in the atmosphere, in space and beneath the sea. And on June 11, the president sent new civil rights legislation to Congress.
There were signs that Kennedy was moving toward disengagement of American military forces in Vietnam. This would begin with the withdrawal of 1,000 of 17,000 advisers by the end of 1963.
In addition, the president was quietly opening a dialogue with Castro, backing away from the Cuban exiles he had initially supported at the Bay of Pigs. Kennedy was also pursuing a truce with the Soviets--something that would be known a decade later as "détente."
Kennedy had seen the sinister haze of nuclear war and sought peace. His failure at the Bay of Pigs had taught him a lesson about the developing shadow government. Kennedy said he would "splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds." And maybe he foresaw the coming disaster in Southeast Asia. In other words, his clear direction seemed headed toward a confrontation with the military-industrial complex warned against by Eisenhower.
Thus, by November 1963, Kennedy had accumulated a long list of enemies who might seek survival of their interests in his death.
The murder of John F. Kennedy was the single most profound act of the 20th century. It stunned the world, began an assassination mosaic that dominated the 60s and altered irrevocably the flow of history.
Not until I saw Abraham Zapruder's home movie of the event did I realize the horror of what happened in Dallas. Zapruder screamed, horrorstruck, "They killed him! They killed him!" For a few appalling, petrifying seconds, time seemed to stop in Dallas' Dealey Plaza. Kennedy seized his neck and slumped forward, a bullet ripped his flesh, then his head jerked back like it was struck by a cannon. Half of his head splattered on the trunk of the black Lincoln convertible he rode in. A red halo of blood seemed to circle what was left of his head. Jackie Kennedy, cool under fire, climbed back on the trunk, retrieved her husband's bloody scalp and laid it on her lap.
Clearly, more than a man died in Dallas on that sunny day in November 1963. The American Dream left on the funeral plane with the fallen president. The age of innocence had ended.
Just two days after Kennedy's death, Lyndon Johnson signed a national security memorandum restating that the United States' goal in Vietnam was helping the Saigon government gain a military victory. Johnson immediately began projecting a strong military image. And the movement toward détente ended. But Vietnam, the war to end all war-glory, depressed national morale, eventually drove Johnson out of office and divided America.
By 1968, revolution was in the air. But the revolution imploded on itself. Affirmations of peace and love quickly faded into cynicism as the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Sen. Robert Kennedy became part of the assassination mosaic. Indeed, Bobby Kennedy was probably the only hope for carrying the political energy of the 60s forward. That all ended as he breathed his last breath on a hotel floor in Los Angeles.
In March 1970 at Kent State University, National Guard troops opened fire on student demonstrators and onlookers, killing four unarmed students. Elsewhere, the walking wounded from Vietnam were everywhere. The "New Frontier" without the Kennedy inertia to drive it forward had become a lost world.
Even the government seemed to be unraveling. In June 1972, the Watergate scandal, which implicated Nixon, was unearthed. By 1973, the presidency was on the brink of collapse.
Watergate crushed whatever idealism was left after the Kennedy assassination, which convinced Americans that they could not trust their neighbors; Watergate convinced Americans that they could not trust their president.
From there, the Ford, Carter, Reagan, Clinton and Bush administrations flushed over us. But none of them restored the youthful hope Kennedy had given us.
The soft thump of Kennedy's scalp on the trunk of the car carrying him that November day 40 years ago in Dallas was the signal that a shift had occurred. Some savage maniacs had shattered the great myth of American decency and hope--something we have never recovered. Thus, we are left with a profound dilemma: where do we go from here?
Kennedy arrived just as the post-war generation was gaining a sense of social consciousness and angst. That it was destined to be a time of social and political turmoil was forecast by Dwight Eisenhower. In his farewell address, Eisenhower startled his conservative supporters by warning the nation against business lobbies greedy for government munitions contracts and fat profits. Thus, even before Kennedy took the reigns of power, many believed an ominous cloud covered the American cultural landscape.
But for a brief 1,000 days or so, the cloud lifted. Inaugurated on Jan. 20, 1961, Kennedy declared, "The torch has passed to a new generation of Americans." He called the challenges facing his administration a "New Frontier," which he proposed to explore boldly, promising to seek "a grand and global alliance to combat tyranny, poverty, disease and war." Calling for idealistic sacrifices, he demanded of Americans, "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."
Hope for the future was the Kennedy theme and eventually his legacy. We who were young then drew our inspiration for involvement from Kennedy. It is one of the few times in American history that the young felt connected to the government. Even the dirt of politics wouldn't permanently stain us if we became involved in working for a better world.
Kennedy was a human magnet who attracted people who wanted to make a difference. With Kennedy, it was much easier to believe that you could shape history, that you could change the world. The idea that we could make a difference would eventually survive Kennedy and become the theme of the 60s generation.
Thousands of young people like me were inspired. Some of us responded to the domestic struggle for black civil rights, especially in the South. Others volunteered for the new Peace Corps (created by Kennedy several months after his oath of office).
The new president, however, took the oath of office during anxious times. Soviet-supported rebels were attempting a takeover in South Vietnam and Laos. Fidel Castro was threatening to provide the Soviets with a beachhead only a few hundred miles from Florida's coast, and the economy was in a slump.
Kennedy's initial response to such challenges seemed to forecast a heavy-handed president. In a nationally televised address, he decried an attempt by Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev to bully the Allies out of Berlin. This dilemma ended with a wall that divided Berlin for almost 30 years. And with the Cuban missile crisis in October 1962, the world was, it seemed at the time, headed for nuclear confrontation. The emerging New Left was understandably disheveled by what appeared to be the military-directed Kennedy administration.
Despite the momentary madness of the Cuban missile crisis, however, the direction of the Kennedy Administration still left a window of hope for peace, civil rights and the end to poverty. This was because Kennedy possessed a social conscience and he was willing to apply it to political realities.
In June 1963, a noticeable shift in the Kennedy presidency began to emerge. The president took a visible turn toward peace and the beginning of an end to the political intensity and frigidity of the Cold War.
Addressing students at American University on June 10, Kennedy rejected the collision course with the Communists he had pursued since the 1961 Bay of Pigs fiasco. A month later, Kennedy and Khrushchev signed a nuclear weapons treaty banning tests in the atmosphere, in space and beneath the sea. And on June 11, the president sent new civil rights legislation to Congress.
There were signs that Kennedy was moving toward disengagement of American military forces in Vietnam. This would begin with the withdrawal of 1,000 of 17,000 advisers by the end of 1963.
In addition, the president was quietly opening a dialogue with Castro, backing away from the Cuban exiles he had initially supported at the Bay of Pigs. Kennedy was also pursuing a truce with the Soviets--something that would be known a decade later as "détente."
Kennedy had seen the sinister haze of nuclear war and sought peace. His failure at the Bay of Pigs had taught him a lesson about the developing shadow government. Kennedy said he would "splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds." And maybe he foresaw the coming disaster in Southeast Asia. In other words, his clear direction seemed headed toward a confrontation with the military-industrial complex warned against by Eisenhower.
Thus, by November 1963, Kennedy had accumulated a long list of enemies who might seek survival of their interests in his death.
The murder of John F. Kennedy was the single most profound act of the 20th century. It stunned the world, began an assassination mosaic that dominated the 60s and altered irrevocably the flow of history.
Not until I saw Abraham Zapruder's home movie of the event did I realize the horror of what happened in Dallas. Zapruder screamed, horrorstruck, "They killed him! They killed him!" For a few appalling, petrifying seconds, time seemed to stop in Dallas' Dealey Plaza. Kennedy seized his neck and slumped forward, a bullet ripped his flesh, then his head jerked back like it was struck by a cannon. Half of his head splattered on the trunk of the black Lincoln convertible he rode in. A red halo of blood seemed to circle what was left of his head. Jackie Kennedy, cool under fire, climbed back on the trunk, retrieved her husband's bloody scalp and laid it on her lap.
Clearly, more than a man died in Dallas on that sunny day in November 1963. The American Dream left on the funeral plane with the fallen president. The age of innocence had ended.
Just two days after Kennedy's death, Lyndon Johnson signed a national security memorandum restating that the United States' goal in Vietnam was helping the Saigon government gain a military victory. Johnson immediately began projecting a strong military image. And the movement toward détente ended. But Vietnam, the war to end all war-glory, depressed national morale, eventually drove Johnson out of office and divided America.
By 1968, revolution was in the air. But the revolution imploded on itself. Affirmations of peace and love quickly faded into cynicism as the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Sen. Robert Kennedy became part of the assassination mosaic. Indeed, Bobby Kennedy was probably the only hope for carrying the political energy of the 60s forward. That all ended as he breathed his last breath on a hotel floor in Los Angeles.
In March 1970 at Kent State University, National Guard troops opened fire on student demonstrators and onlookers, killing four unarmed students. Elsewhere, the walking wounded from Vietnam were everywhere. The "New Frontier" without the Kennedy inertia to drive it forward had become a lost world.
Even the government seemed to be unraveling. In June 1972, the Watergate scandal, which implicated Nixon, was unearthed. By 1973, the presidency was on the brink of collapse.
Watergate crushed whatever idealism was left after the Kennedy assassination, which convinced Americans that they could not trust their neighbors; Watergate convinced Americans that they could not trust their president.
From there, the Ford, Carter, Reagan, Clinton and Bush administrations flushed over us. But none of them restored the youthful hope Kennedy had given us.
The soft thump of Kennedy's scalp on the trunk of the car carrying him that November day 40 years ago in Dallas was the signal that a shift had occurred. Some savage maniacs had shattered the great myth of American decency and hope--something we have never recovered. Thus, we are left with a profound dilemma: where do we go from here?
ABOUT JOHN W. WHITEHEAD
Constitutional attorney and author John W. Whitehead is founder and president of The Rutherford Institute. His most recent books are the best-selling Battlefield America: The War on the American People, the award-winning A Government of Wolves: The Emerging American Police State, and a debut dystopian fiction novel, The Erik Blair Diaries. Whitehead can be contacted at staff@rutherford.org. Nisha Whitehead is the Executive Director of The Rutherford Institute. Information about The Rutherford Institute is available at www.rutherford.org.
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