Dear Martin –
Please excuse the informality. I know I should have said “Dr. King.” That is how I was raised – to be formal, respectful, traditional. But, somehow, I feel a connection to you (not the first or last time you’ve heard that I’m sure), so I hope you’ll forgive my presumption.
First off, Happy Birthday. I know today is the “official” celebration of your birth, but on my calendar I noted the actual date last week, January 15. 90 years old – wow: so much living packed into nine decades. Well, of course, packed into 39 years, actually.  Do you ever think about that? 39 years in life, and 51 years in death, and still so much work to be done? Do you ever get discouraged? I do. I mean, really: in Mississippi and Alabama, today they also celebrate Robert E. Lee’s birthday (he turned 212 on Saturday, but I imagine you weren’t invited to that party) “simultaneously” with yours. Oh please. I was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia – Capital of the Confederacy – so I know what “simultaneous” means: if the Feds say that Martin Luther King, Jr. is a hero, well by gum, we’re gonna’ celebrate the General’s birthday, too (wink wink) – as if that doesn’t have anything to do with making sure that Blacks know the Lost Cause has never truly been “lost.” It’s been found a lot, lately – especially since Donald Trump got elected. I thought, actually, it truly had been lost, dead, buried and forgotten when Barack Obama was elected, but boy – was I wrong about that. 

Sorry, I’m rambling. Back to why I’m writing.
Martin – Dr. King – was I wrong to jump all over the MAGA teen this past weekend? You must have seen it (I mean, I guess you don’t need the Internet): white kid, 17, from an all-boys Catholic school in Kentucky, wearing a MAGA hat, standing toe to toe and eye to eye with a peaceful Native American in front of the Lincoln Memorial.  What I saw was the definition of “White Privilege” (trust me, I know all what that’s about. I’m about as white as the Queen of England as my friend Anthony would have said. My family were immigrants – you know – they came over on a boat. It just so happened that the boats docked in Jamestown in the early 1600s – both sides! Yep, that makes me what they call an “FFV” – First Family of Virginia” or close enough for government work): understanding that being white and male makes things a WHOLE lot easier in this country. I never used to think about it when I was young – I just WAS. But now, lately – a lot – especially watching MAGA teen this past weekend – I think about “White Privilege” more and more. It’s like discovering that you have a disease,  but didn’t realize it was a disease until someone told you that you had it, and oh by the way, there’s no cure.
You understood “White Privilege.” I’m pretty sure it’s what killed you, or at least created the world that made sure some people wanted you dead. But again, back to my question.
Was I wrong?
Since Saturday (two whole days in 2019 is an eternity – in 1968, things seemed to move slower – we actually trusted what we saw on the news), there has been a lot of ‘noise’: two different narratives, two different versions of what went down there at the site of your “I Have a Dream Speech” (boy, I’m sure the irony of THAT wasn’t lost on you). I’ve seen all the videos – again and again.  I admit, having become a bit ‘obsessed’ about it all, kinda’ like I did after Charlottesville last summer, but I’ll try and stay on track. Anyway, I’ve seen the videos, and I’ve questioned myself – did I judge too quickly? Did I automatically judge MAGA teen too harshly? Maybe he wasn’t really trying to scare that Native American Marine Veteran with his smirking, not-giving-an-inch attitude or his MAGA hat. Maybe he really was, in his own way, trying to be understood. 
What do you think? I really want to know. Since Saturday, I’ve thought of little else. It’s like the ghosts of my youth coming back to haunt me. You see, when I see that MAGA teen, I see my own youth – all the boys and bullies and bigots that made my childhood a nausea-producing rollercoaster (truly, I threw up almost every day going to school, prepared for the taunts and the insults) – oh, sorry – I forgot: I’m gay. So, while I was very much outwardly ‘white privileged’, inside, I was scared to death.  Early on I learned, I hope, to have compassion for by Black brothers and sisters. I mean, I could (lowering my voice and butching it up) “pass” as straight (didn’t work – the boys at my all Catholic military school and before that grade school still tortured me), but being “Black” – how do you “pass” as white? You don’t.
I’m rambling again, but here’s my point: I can’t get past that kid’s MAGA hat – no matter the video, no matter his ‘statement’ (well written – good PR job, I’m in PR and my hat’s off to the flack that penned that one – pity he didn’t get to the kids’ mom before she said  “Black Muslims” were to blame – “Black Muslims” – you remember that little dog whistle from the sixties, don’t you Martin? I do, “Black Muslims” was what businessmen like my father said in public when what they really wanted to say was “nig – “ – sorry, even now, I hesitate to spell out the “n” word. It’s just about the only word uglier than “faggot.” Well, I can spell out that, since it’s me).
Anyway…here’s the thing: I think I’m guilty of being a self-loathing white guy. When I see that MAGA teen smirking, non-flinching, staring into the eyes of a man beating a peace drum, I see myself, or what I could have become if I had believed the narrative poured into my brain at every pore from 1961 until 1980 when I escaped to college in the North (I know, right – that REALLY was a shocker – Yankee land).
That kid could have been me. I know that kid. I went to school with that kid. I know his parents. I know his school – the “Catholic Private School” (e.g. not public school where poor white trash and black kids go): it’s all part of the South of my youth, the South of our-still-now.
That picture brought it all back.
But, maybe I’m wrong.
A few years ago, I went back to Richmond and visited my brother. He’s a mechanic and opened an auto repair spot in Jackson Ward – the heart of Black Richmond. It was a good deal, I mean please. And, of course, my brother had a gun (still does, LOTS of them – in Texas where he retired, after Virginia got “too liberal.”). Anyway, that day when I visited a few years back, before he fled to Texas, there was a knock on the door after hours. My brother put his hand in his shirt, carefully opened the door, and looked out. An elderly Black man was there looking for an address. Mistakes happen. My brother nodded, gave him directions, and carefully closed the door. Then, he turned to me and pulled his hand out of his shirt: a loaded revolver in his palm.
“I can’t help it,” he said to me simply – about the most honest voice I ever heard from him, a pained honesty that spoke for generations. “I know I’m a horrible racist, but I can’t help it.”
Martin – was he right, my brother, was he right? Am I so afraid of the ghosts of my racist upbringing that everything I see becomes an “us” vs. “them”? And nowadays, am I an “us” or a “them”?
It’s been a stressful weekend. You don’t have to answer now (I mean, you’re probably busy, but then again, you’ve got nothing but time), but if you have any words of wisdom, please feel free to write back (text, Skype, burning bush – whatever is convenient), because I’d really like to know. I’d really like to know how I escape the ghosts of my own past – even when I’m trying to.
I’d like to know if I’m wrong to see instead of a teenager caught up in a tense situation not of his making I see a white supremacist in training.  I mean, Native Americans / Indians -- they're pretty dark: no white privilege there.  When I see the look in MAGA teen's eyes, that's what I see: a young, white, taught-to-be-in-charge guy looking at a darkie. If I'd been Elder Phillips, I'd have been scared drumless. My hat's really off to him.

And that's the point: hats.
I just can’t get past that MAGA hat. To me, it spoke volumes. 

Was I wrong Martin?
Thanks for listening Dr. King. I'll see you in my dreams. 
Sincerely,
David Perry