It’s November 22, 1963. I am almost 11 years old, a sixth grader at the Kensington-Johnson Elementary School in Great Neck, New York. My mother picks up my friend David and me from school early. We drive home in our green Ford sedan and stop in the driveway of our home. We sit there for a while, listening to the radio of the unfolding news of the president’s assassination. I’m young, but I understand what’s going...