Home in North Philly

The farthest back I can remember is 1963, when I was six-years-old and my family lived at 2232 N. Second Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. An Irish woman, Mrs. Hagherty, was frequently our babysitter. She had three Sons and three daughters. I envied her youngest son, Patrick, because it seemed to me that he always had everything he wanted. However, he was not greedy and shared his toys with us. Mrs. Hagherty’s three daughters, all in their twenties, were beautiful, and even though I was only six, I was in love with two of them. One of them was Judith, and my mother named my youngest sister, Wanda Judith, after her; the others were Virginia and Veronica. I was in love with both Virginia and Judith because they constantly showed me so much love. Every time I went to their house, they would hug and kiss me and play games with me. I remember that when I started first grade I was sick one day. My mother had left my brothers, Willie and Edwin, my sisters, Wandy, Debbie, and Vivian, and me with Mrs. Hagherty. There were ten children in my family at the time, four that were older than I was and five that were younger. We were on the floor at Mrs. Hagherty’s watching President John F. Kennedy’s motorcar procession go through the streets of Dallas on the television when suddenly the television went blank. I could hear Bill, Mrs. Hagherty’s oldest son, yelling that the president had just been shot. I didn’t understand what was going on. There was a big commotion, and Mrs. Hagherty and her daughters began to cry. I asked them what was wrong, but they would not answer. Because I didn’t understand what was going on, I didn’t ask any more questions. At home one day soon after the assassination, I saw my mother crying and asked her, “Mommy, what’s wrong?” After the president was killed, I frequently saw my mother crying, and I would ask her, “Mommy, why do you cry?”