For me, the year 1968 is symbolized by a single dark evening that haunts me to this day. I was at the campus paper, the Michigan Daily, when the bulletin came over the clattering AP newswire that Bobby Kennedy had been shot just moments after declaring victory in the California Democratic primary.
I remember piling into a tiny VW Beetle with two friends from the Daily to drive aimlessly around Ann Arbor for hours. We didn’t have that much to say beyond the shocked horror. But the sense of movement itself, even without a coherent destination, was somehow comforting. Still, it was impossible to shake the feeling that the earth had spun off its axis.
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