This evening I am grateful for the legacy of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Forty-five years ago today–April 4, 1968–Dr. King was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. I was a few weeks shy of my 11th birthday. Things I think I remember about that terrible evening are almost surreal; and I’ve told myself the stories so many times I don’t know what I really remember and what my adult mind has layered onto it over the years of its retelling. One thing I remember because it was so striking to me was a conversation my father was having with my mother in which he was explaining that “if anything should happen” here was how to take the safety off the shotgun. I found it a bit unnerving and wondered what might happen. The television news was full of pictures of rioting across the country. At one point my vivid imagination saw someone hurling something at the kitchen windows that would light the house on fire.
My young memory and vivid imagination combined at times. I remember thinking that my father had disappeared. After I’d seen him telling my mother what to do in case something happened, he’d left to go meet with other city and local civil rights leaders to attempt to calm any violence that might flare up and to help plan a march in the city. After not seeing my father for a few days, I thought maybe something had happened to him, though Mom didn’t seem worried about anything. While I’d thought he’d been gone for days, my grownup self now understands that he probably came home very late each night and left the house again very early in the morning. Still, I didn’t see my father again until the march a couple of days later.
I smiled a little as I wrote down these memories: I can almost guarantee that at least one of my older siblings will read this and say, “That isn’t what happened at all, it was nothing like that!” And they’d perhaps be right, at least about the timing between the time we learned of the assassination and when we actually all marched through the streets. I remember odd parts of the march, pictures of me and a few of my family members ended up in the South Bend paper on that day, but all in all it was a bit of a blur.
It is interesting to think about the events of 45 years ago and wonder how they shaped my life. The impact of my parent’s civil rights work still resonates with me: while I didn’t become a community activist in the same ways they did, I have nonetheless worked for the past 30 years in higher education trying to create safe and equitable learning environments for all people–primarily students of color at colleges and universities. I haven’t marched much in the streets, but in quiet, behind-the-scenes ways have worked for racial and social justice in a variety of places. “Not all of us are called to be Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,” I often used to tell folks in talking about my work, “And I certainly am not. But for all I know one of the students I’m helping make it through this university just might be. That is one reason I am glad to be doing this work.”
I am grateful tonight for the legacy of my parents, who while much less famous than Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., certainly had significant impact in the communities they served. I can only hope to follow the spirit of their work in my current work, as well as in the way I live my life.
