I was born nearly 16 years after President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I never saw little John-John salute his father's casket. I vaguely remember reading about John F. Kennedy Jr.'s career as a lawyer. I barely glanced at the numerous pictures of him in newspapers and magazines, and I paid but minimal attention to his journalistic labor of love, George. Yet, like many Americans, I have been recently captivated by John F. Kennedy Jr.'s death and fascinated by his all-too-short life. When I learned that his plane was missing two Saturday's ago, I maintained guarded optimism that he, his sister and his sister-in-law were somehow still alive. When I later learned that all three were presumed dead, I was immediately saddened. That three young people with such promise died well before their time is an unspeakable tragedy in itself. That the Bessettes lost two children is a devastation words can not adequately express. That the Kennedy family lost yet another life seems almost unfair. Here was a man with unbounded charisma, impressive good looks and a decent soul. A man who had a great deal going for him and, by all accounts, even more awaiting him. A man whose designer suits juxtaposed sharply against his rollerblades and backwards hat, whose vivacious personality complemented his seemingly down-to-earth, personable demeanor. For that, for these three tragic deaths, our nation collectively grieves and remembers. Yet, there's clearly much more going on here. There must be a reason why hundreds of absolute strangers lined up at 4 a.m. outside the Church of St. Thomas More to pay their respects; an explanation for why the plane crash received banner newspaper headlines across the country; some logic for why thousands upon thousands are mourning the death of a man they never knew. This reaction, I would argue, is not solely caused by the fact that one of the victims was a Kennedy, nor is the extensive coverage simply indicative of the media's tendency to blow a story out of sensible proportion. And it is not, as others might argue, a reflection of Americans' penchant for excessive sentimentality. Neither I individually nor my generation as a whole can fully comprehend the reaction. We never lived through the Kennedy era. Yes, we get the sadness. Of course, we understand the inherent tragedy of a plane crash that takes the lives of three young, healthy individuals. Sure, we recognize that JFK Jr.'s death could indeed go down in the annals of late 20th century American history. Talk, however, to many people of my parents' generation, the so-called Baby Boomers, and they'll tell you a different story. They'll tell you what it was like to be young when Kennedy was elected president. They'll tell you how he was charting a new course of optimism, youth, vigor and passion heretofore unseen in America. They'll tell you how John was the very essence of virility, how Jackie epitomized feminity and how the two of them together represented the American Dream. They'll tell you how they remember photographs of John-John cavorting underneath his father's desk or being kissed by elder sister Caroline. They might even say something similar to what Ted Kennedy said about his nephew at last week's funeral: "The whole world knew his name before he did." Indeed, talk to people from an older generation and not all, but many, will wax nostalgic and discuss how JFK Jr.'s death marks the end of an era, the end of a legacy, the veritable end of their youth. They are not now what they once were; nothing could accentuate that point more than the painful fact that the suave John F. Kennedy Jr., previously the darling White House baby, is now dead. What a different era we live in now. That type of adoration for a politician is almost entirely lost on me. Whatever chance Bill Clinton had to posture himself as the reincarnation of John F. Kennedy fell by the wayside long ago, any possibility that he had to impress me with his charisma cheapened as his deceitful nature became ever more evident. Never mind that Kennedy might have been this or could have done that -- nobody knew at the time. I can't imagine feeling the kind of devotion for Clinton and his family that my parents and their generation felt for the Kennedys. Their sentimental attachment to him -- and, by extension, to his son -- is almost remarkable today, especially given the fact that JFK has been dead for more than 35 years. So today, as I and my generation mourn the death of John F. Kennedy Jr., we do so because he was a well-known public figure, a seemingly all-around good guy with a good spirit, who died all too soon. At least for me, that's more or less the crux of the meaning. The Baby Boomers, those who remember Camelot, those who dreamt of being like John and Jackie and Bobby, have a much more complex attatchment to his death -- one that defies any simple explanation. It is a relationship that harkens back to an entirely different time. It is a death that symbolizes the end of an era. It is reason, for many, to mourn.
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