Martin Luther KIng Jr. and I
Martin Luther King Jr. was born in 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. I was born in 1949 in Oneida, Tennessee. Martin Luther King Jr. was Black. I’m White. Mr. King lived a life where prejudiced and racism was a daily normal part of his existence. I had a conversation with my first Black person while visiting Detroit at the age of sixteen. Mr. King was a minister and a civil rights leader. I was an engineer, an insurance agent, and a writer. Mr. King frequently made the news. I watched the news. Mr. King was murdered on the balcony of his hotel. Hopefully, If Jesus doesn’t return first, I will die in my sleep at the age of 101. At first glance it would appear that Mr. King and I had nothing in common. That would be wrong.
As a youngster growing up in the late fifties and early sixties in an all-White town in east Tennessee, I frequently saw racial conflicts playing out in the streets on the evening news. I must admit, my first reaction was to ask myself, “What is the problem with all these Colored people? Why don’t they just get a job and do something to get rid of their anger?” And while it made me sad to see the fire hoses and dogs turned on unarmed and defenseless people, I figured they must have done something to deserve it. How distorted and narrow-minded my view was.
But then, in the mid-sixties, I began to notice a young Black man who made me reexamine my values. He spoke with a strength and compassion I had not heard. He carried himself with pride but showed no anger. And when he spoke—I’d never heard anyone, Black or White—talk like him. Not only in his words, which spoke of his dream of equality and respect for all—but also in his voice—that melodious, booming voice.
So slowly I began to follow this young man, and I noticed that perhaps he and I weren’t so different. He, like myself, was born in the south. He, like myself, was a Baptist. His father was a minister—my grandfather was a minister. He professed to know Jesus, Who I had accepted into my life a few years earlier. And he, like myself, had a vision of a better future for all mankind.
As I followed Mr. King more closely I began to have a wider view of what was going on in our country. I began to realize that my isolated upbringing had insulated me from the realities of life—that throughout history minorities have always been subjugated to whatever lowly life the group in power forced upon them. And while I still couldn’t justify the violence I saw on TV—perpetrated by either White or Black—I realized the frustration that minorities felt at their treatment in this country. However I didn’t understand the depth of that frustration until April 5th, 1968. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee on the evening of April 4th, 1968. The next day I went to my job at the FBI where I worked as a file clerk. Just before lunch I walked to a nearby bank. Upon leaving the bank I walked into the worst riot in the history of Washington, DC. After receiving direct threats from two rioters, I quickly made my way back to the Justice building and was escorted by two FBI agents, with guns drawn, into a waiting car, and driven home. As we passed the National Guard, the military trucks, and the machine guns on Memorial Bridge, I wondered what Martin Luther King Jr. would think? This was probably not what he envisioned in his dream.
As a youngster growing up in the late fifties and early sixties in an all-White town in east Tennessee, I frequently saw racial conflicts playing out in the streets on the evening news. I must admit, my first reaction was to ask myself, “What is the problem with all these Colored people? Why don’t they just get a job and do something to get rid of their anger?” And while it made me sad to see the fire hoses and dogs turned on unarmed and defenseless people, I figured they must have done something to deserve it. How distorted and narrow-minded my view was.
But then, in the mid-sixties, I began to notice a young Black man who made me reexamine my values. He spoke with a strength and compassion I had not heard. He carried himself with pride but showed no anger. And when he spoke—I’d never heard anyone, Black or White—talk like him. Not only in his words, which spoke of his dream of equality and respect for all—but also in his voice—that melodious, booming voice.
So slowly I began to follow this young man, and I noticed that perhaps he and I weren’t so different. He, like myself, was born in the south. He, like myself, was a Baptist. His father was a minister—my grandfather was a minister. He professed to know Jesus, Who I had accepted into my life a few years earlier. And he, like myself, had a vision of a better future for all mankind.
As I followed Mr. King more closely I began to have a wider view of what was going on in our country. I began to realize that my isolated upbringing had insulated me from the realities of life—that throughout history minorities have always been subjugated to whatever lowly life the group in power forced upon them. And while I still couldn’t justify the violence I saw on TV—perpetrated by either White or Black—I realized the frustration that minorities felt at their treatment in this country. However I didn’t understand the depth of that frustration until April 5th, 1968. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee on the evening of April 4th, 1968. The next day I went to my job at the FBI where I worked as a file clerk. Just before lunch I walked to a nearby bank. Upon leaving the bank I walked into the worst riot in the history of Washington, DC. After receiving direct threats from two rioters, I quickly made my way back to the Justice building and was escorted by two FBI agents, with guns drawn, into a waiting car, and driven home. As we passed the National Guard, the military trucks, and the machine guns on Memorial Bridge, I wondered what Martin Luther King Jr. would think? This was probably not what he envisioned in his dream.
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