Dallas - JFK

By far the most fascinating aspect of my trip to Dallas was visiting the site of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  I had been there once before, but only for around ten stress-filled minutes.  You see, typically when one wants to visit the site of the JFK assassination, one should not be driving a giant Penske moving truck.  Unfortunately, though, this was the case as my father and I were driving a truck with all of my family's possessions as we moved from Phoenix to Indianapolis.  Try to find a parking space behind the Texas School Book Depository in the middle of the day with a twenty-six foot truck.  Our efforts were thwarted then, which left me even more hungry to see what I already considered a must-see location in my lifetime.

For whatever reason, of all the stories my dad, a history teacher, told me as a kid about everything from the American Revolution to the Battle of Iwo Jima, the JFK story was always my favorite.  The aura of the Kennedys.  The turmoil of the sixties.  The controversy.  The conspiracy theories.  The morbid curiosity of seeing someone's head explode in front of hundreds of people.  My heart starts pounding just writing about it.

Another amazing aspect of the site is how unchanged it is from that fateful day in November, 1963.  Dealey Plaza was already a memorial park!  What if the assassination would've happened on a city street lined with businesses?  What business would willingly give up its building to construct a museum and memorial?  And, even knowing that eventually a museum would emerge, surely all of the surrounding buildings would be remodeled or reconstructed in ways that would make the site look nothing like it did in 1963.  All of this is moot, however, at Dealey Plaza, because the park was created way back in the 1930s to essentially stay the same for generations to come.  Additionally, most of the buildings east of the park are government occupied - the courthouse, the county jail, the county service building.  So those buildings are easily able to stay the same, too.  Ironically, the only building that faced even a threat of demolition was the Texas School Book Depository.  The company moved to a modern facility outside downtown in the late 1970s, leaving the building vacant.  Finally, Dallas County bought the building and installed county offices and, eventually, the Sixth Floor Museum.  

I sat on the Grassy Knoll for about a half hour as the sun went down one evening.  I first thought about how calm and serene the location was on this lazy summer evening, and how much different it must have been in the chaos of November 22, 1963, as people dove for cover, screamed in horror, and ran up this very hill in search of a gunman as the shots echoed off the buildings.

Next, I thought about how quickly things can change in life.  In the museum, audio of a local announcer plays on the speaker.  The announcer goes on about how the threats to the president here in Dallas were obviously nothing to be worried about.  The wife of Governor Connally, who was riding along in the car apparently leaned in and said to JFK, the moment before he was shot, "Mr. President, you can't say that Dallas doesn't love you!"

Forget that he's the president.  There was a man, sitting in a car on a beautiful day, next to his wife, the mother of his two little children, and as they had a pleasant conversation, a bullet pierced his neck, causing him to clutch his throat.  His wife, horrified, tried to help him while figuring out what had happened, and as she attempted to calm him, his head exploded from the second shot, pieces of his brain fell on her beautiful pink coat, and she, in shock, climbed onto the back of the car, not knowing what else to do.

Life changes that quickly.  Changed by someone the Kennedys had never met.

It bothers me that other people, people you don't know at all, have the ability to end your life.  Anyone, at any time, can completely alter your life forever.  And there's not a whole lot we can do about it.  So I thought about how that has happened so many times to the Kennedy family, and thought about how that has happened, to a lesser extent, in my own life.  I wondered what JFK thought about when he woke up that morning, and if he had any sense at all of finality or reflection on his life that day.

The picture in the museum that stood out most to me was that of Lyndon Johnson taking the oath aboard Air Force One to become the next president.  I wasn't looking at him, however - I was fixated on Jackie. The expression on her face in that picture is possibly the most profound, intriguing look of anyone in a picture that I've seen.  All at one time, she is trying to reconcile in her mind what has just happened, what she could have done to change the outcome, how the death of her husband will affect her life, her children's lives, her family and friend, her nation.  All the while, she is trying to look composed, knowing that she is being filmed and photographed for posterity as Vice President Johnson ascends to the position held by her husband only hours before.

On Elm Street, there are two white "Xs" painted in the center lane where two of the shots hit the president.  I watched hundreds of cars pass by, and almost every one in the center lane moved over to avoid going directly over the Xs.  I searched the internet to see if there was any documentation of this.  Is it a superstition?  Do Dallasites discuss how none of them should drive over the Xs out of reverence for JFK?  I found nothing.  But I know what I saw.  Hardly anyone drove over the X.  I have no idea why.  But it adds to my already overflowing intrigue.

Dallas, Part 2

I walked a lot while in Dallas.  I did so in attempt to save my employer the cost of a rental car because all of the work I needed to do was within relative walking distance.  I know, what a guy, right?  In the afternoons when my work for the day was complete, however, I wanted to see the city, so I relied on the new DART light rail system that recently opened.  It was great, as I got to see Fair Park and the Cotton Bowl (am I the only one who desperately seeks out all stadiums and arenas whenever I'm in a new place?  Yes?  Okay.), Southern Methodist University (um, and their football stadium, too), NorthPark Mall for a movie, and the Deep Ellum neighborhood for a Twisted Root bleu cheese and jalapeno burger with a homemade root beer (not as good as Gene's).

One problem with taking the DART trains, though, is that after you arrive, these sites aren't exactly right next to the station.  I am also an idiot, which, in part, meant that I wore my flip flops instead of tennis shoes.  So, at the end of each night, my feet were killing me and I was exhausted.  It was also a little disconcerting to be riding a train at night in a place where I know no one and was pretty far away from my hotel.  So at the end of each day I had gone from adventurous explorer to "let's just get back to the room and watch SportsCenter" guy.

On Saturday night, around 11:30, my trip to Dallas was basically over, and I was walking back to the hotel for the final time, weary and tired, my feet killing me again.  I was only one block away and thinking about how wonderful it would be to take a shower and lie in bed, watching baseball highlights and blasting the air conditioner.  It was at that moment that I began to take the shortcut through the parking garage next to my hotel, a shortcut that I had discovered a couple days before.  Just as I turned to cut through, I saw the back of a large Black man, too tall for the five foot bench he was lying on, sound asleep.  His pants were worn and  dirty, his t-shirt with some holes, his hair long and filled with dust.  He clutched one bag, his only possession, in his arms as he slept.

Sadness swept over me.  I never know what I'm supposed to do in that situation.  My heart said to wake him and bring him to my room so he could enjoy a shower and hop in a comfortable bed.  I could sleep on the floor.  But would that just make him mad?  Pissed that I awakened him, patronized him, or gave him a taste of luxury only to tell him goodbye and good luck ten hours later?  Was there a homeless shelter?  Or would he rather not be there anyway?  But most of all, what is his story?  How did he end up there and how could it have been prevented?

This situation was an appropriate example of why I am sometimes frustrated with the structure of life.  There are so many joys yet there is so much unbearable pain.  I ache so badly for that guy yet feel like there's nothing I can do about it as a long term solution.  There is so much luxury here that is surrounded by so much suffering, most of which could be prevented if we cared just a little bit more about the plight of others instead of ourselves, and I know I'm as guilty as the next guy.

How do some of us have it so good and others have it so bad, and we all just let it be?

Dallas Is Hot

Dallas is hot.

I spent the last five days in the sweltering city of Dallas and returned today, happy to see the pouring rain and 68 degree temperatures of the Hoosier state.  However, I was able to take away many things from my visit to North Texas.

First, I got to experience the passion and emotion of the Dallas Mavericks and their fans after winning their first ever NBA championship.  I, along with most of the rest of the nation, had been fiercely rooting for the Mavs, or perhaps a more accurate description would be that I, along with the rest of the nation, had been fiercely rooting against the Heat and LeBron James.  Either way, I was excited by the coincidental timing of their celebratory parade and my stay.

Of course, being at the parade was somewhat bittersweet because I was reminded how very far my team, the Pacers, is from this type of day.  But I tried to focus on the happiness I had for guys like Rick Carlisle, Dirk Nowitzki, Brian Cardinal, and Jason Kidd for finally winning titles.

Since I am removed a bit from the hysteria as an outsider, I couldn't help but wonder how strange it is that 200,000 people, most of whom could not survive one quarter of even a high school basketball game, care so much about "their" pro basketball team winning.  I mean, it's not like most of those guys on the team are even from Texas.  In fact, they held the parade on Thursday instead of Saturday because owner Mark Cuban had a meeting in New York and the players were "ready to get out of town".  It made me stop and think about why I pour so much of my own time into "my" teams.  It's like a drug, really.

Following teams sounds so illogical when you ponder it for a while, but when you step into Notre Dame Stadium on a brisk fall afternoon, or Fenway Park on a bright summer day, it hits you in the face and draws you right back in.  We're addicted to sports because very few things match the thrill of thousands of people cheering together for one cause, no matter how insignificant that "cause" may be.