I was 12 years old and an 8th grade student in a Catholic grammar school in Brooklyn, New York. We were sitting in class when a nun tapped on the door and asked the nun who was our teacher to step outside the classroom. One of the nuns cried out. As school let out, a fellow student said the President was shot and is dead. I remember I didn’t believe her; I thought she was making up a story because we were being dismissed early. The next thing I remember is watching the funeral on television and seeing the “riderless horse” who seemed to be a problem to the soldier trying to walk with him. I still have a scrap book I started the weekend after President Kennedy died, mostly made up of newspaper and magazine pictures and articles published in the months following the assassination.