Born in 1963

If you were born in 1963, the year that marks your entry into the world is also the year that marks the end of American innocence—or at least that's how people have told it ever since. The March on Washington in August was magnificent, King's "I Have a Dream" ringing out over two hundred thousand people in the August heat, a vision of the country at its best. And then November 22nd in Dallas.

You were too young to remember it, but it's worth knowing what it felt like: the anchor's voice breaking, the bulletins interrupting the soap operas, the whole country sitting down and not getting up. The grief was like a weather system that sat over everything for weeks. Before that terrible afternoon, the year had been full of ordinary American grace—the new Corvette Sting Ray at the auto show, the first push-button car radio, Motown's Marvin Gaye and the Miracles and Little Stevie Wonder filling the radio with sheer joy.

The zip code was introduced by the Post Office, and nobody thought much of it. *Cleopatra* with Elizabeth Taylor cost forty-four million dollars to make and was the most expensive movie ever made. Johnny Carson was the new king of late night.

Life went on, and it would continue to go on, but something had shifted in the country's understanding of itself.