In 1962, I was seven years old. My sister and I were watching cartoons on Saturday morning when the picture tube of the television died. Ploop. Darkness. The argument about whether we would watch Tarzan or Captain Kangaroo was now moot. Mother's solution to this argument was to never repair the television. So I never watched the moon landings. Or pictures of the Vietnam War. Or President Kennedy's speeches. I was pressed into duty handing out campaign literature for Barry Goldwater. But I never watched the Rev. Dr. King give a speech, or march; I never saw the news reels of black protesters' bodies rolling down the street assaulted by water from firehoses. I saw neither the terror nor the triumph of the civil rights movement.