Words By Whittall

On June 8, 1968, Robert F. Kennedy’s funeral was broadcast on television, equal parts sombre and spectacle.   His widow dressed half of their 10 children in black, because they were sad and half in white because they were happy that he was in heaven. This fact stood out in my eight-year-old head and a year later when my beloved grandfather died, I insisted on wearing my black and white dress to his funeral, even though it was, by then, a size too small. That June day, 51 years ago, my mother was also mesmerised by the scenes on the television.   This was unfortunate as she was trying to cut my hair at the same time.   With one eye on the fuzzy black and white, and the other on me, she cut a slanted line across my forehead, then over-corrected, and then cut a third time, leaving me with freakishly short bangs before short bangs became a thing. My bangs were so short that they were a factor in July.   My brother and I were forced to spend the first two weeks of our summer vaca