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Hello darkness, my old friend,
Ive come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
-Simon & Garfunkel
There are some things you never forget. They become a part of who you are. They make you what you are.
For those of us who were children of World War II and teenagers in the 1950’s, we learned early on how devastating the sound of silence can be.
November 22, 1963 was our first day of silence. It came without warning in Dallas, Texas, and it lasted a lifetime.
 April 4, 1968, Memphis, Tennessee, our second day of silence began in the hateful heart of a racial bigot, and seared an indelible mark on our souls that we carry to this day.
June 6, 1968, Los Angeles, California, our third day of silence. Just footsteps away from a jubilant victory speech, the sounds of silence marked the end of an era in American politics.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I was halfway across the country savoring a wonderful Kennedy victory in the South Dakota primary. As I slept, I thought of everything that had happened and would happen now that our campaign had momentum.
We were dreaming big dreams that night.
Then it happened. I heard a scream that has never been replicated by a voice that would penetrate steel. “They shot him, They shot him, I think they killed him.”
As I write these words my body quivers and my eyes well up. It is a moment I have tried to forget, but never succeeded. It was something everyone in our campaign feared, but hoped and prayed would never happen.
Quickly we raced to the nearest television set to watch an expression of grief, confusion and dismay the like of which I had never experienced before, and never would experience again.
No one spoke. Everyone cried. Two of our heroes assassinated in two months. The dreams of a generation shattered. For us, the age of innocence ended. Life would never be the same again.
 In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.
As we made our way to New York and the great cathedral in Manhattan, all I could hear was the refrain from the song written after the first great calamity.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.
Standing in the back of the church literally bumping into Jacqueline Kennedy as she appeared out of nowhere with a small entourage, I heard the poetry of Paul Simon again.
Fools said I, you do not know Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you.
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence
Passing the closed coffin of the man who was my hero, the man who I believed would end the war and make America a better place, I was about as comatose as I have ever been. In the quiet and solemnity of that moment Simon’s words recorded what everyone in this holy place was feeling.
 And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls.
And whispered in the sounds of silence.
It’s been 40 years since that awful day in June when the world stood still for a generation of young idealists who came together for 85 days To Seek A Newer World. So much has changed, but far too much remains the same.
We are at war. We are polarized. We are dependant upon foreign oil. Our inner cities are gripped in a life and death struggle with crime, drugs and acts of violence. The gap between the rich and poor widens every day. Everything costs more and most of us are hanging on by a thread. In far too many cases we, who are now grandparents, are raising our children’s children. It’s a far cry from what we dreamed could be in 1968.
Yet there is hope. A new generation of leaders is emerging offering promises of change, hope and progress. In their dreams and aspirations the legacies of our heroes live on, and we who survived the 60’s are as passionate about the future of our country as we were when we were young.
On this day of remembering, this may be the most significant and lasting tribute to three men who gave their lives for the ideals that make America what it is at its very best, a country where people care about others, a country where we strive to do our very best, a country where people act responsibly, a country where people work hard so that the next generation will have a newer and a better world.
 We the dreamers of old remember our past and the sights and sounds of those turbulent years so that our grandchildren will walk in the light of freedom, civility, kindness, and opportunity.
We are not there yet, but we can get there if people will only remember the 40 words that have resonated in our hearts and minds for 40 years.
Hello darkness, my old friend,
Ive come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence. 
Thank You President Kennedy
Thank you Martin Luther King
Thank you Bobby
You gave us something to believe in, something to fight for, something that would make us better. The sound of your clarion call lives on in our hearts and in our dreams for our grandchildren and our country.
For additional information please go to the John F Kennedy Presidential Library and search Robert Kennedy
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