John Lennon - 1980

I was in England on this date in 1980, when John Lennon was gunned down by a crazy man in New York City. I was nearing the end of a semester stay in Bath, and the feeling of being in a foreign land had worn on me. While I was gone, the United States had elected Reagan, an immoral buffoon, to the presidency, and I had failed to secure an absentee ballot. I was where I did not belong, and where I did belong had changed utterly.

The news of Lennon's death shocked everyone in England. Some were angry, most were simply sad. I went into a pub where a friend worked, and an afternoon drunk glared at me and spat, "You fucking Americans and your fucking american guns." I finished my pint and left. I wasn't welcome, and I had no explanation why handguns are so easily available in my country.

From the perspective of today, it seems odd how little news there was. There were only occasional TV and radio reports, repeating the same information. There were no websites to speculate wildly about the story, and no fan sites to visit to deepen the feeling. There was nothing to do.

I walked around the streets of Bath, England, alone, for hours. I can remember what I was wearing, and I remember the feeling of my fists jammed into my coat pockets. I wore my hood over my head that day, and kept my head down. My country had killed John Lennon, and I was in Lennon's country.

A little over a year ago, I visited Strawberry Fields in Central Park. It was a beautiful day, and the memorial felt like a place of healing. Here is a photo we took. Rest in Peace.