The Night We Lost Dr. King

I was 17 when Dr. King was killed. I will always remember when it happened.

My brothers were paper boys and we had dropped off their money and they had their pay and my Mom loaded us all in the car and we were driving to Chicago to spend the weekend with our Aunt Bootsie and Mike and Keith. We were on the road when we heard that Dr. King had been shot. We were all stunned, shocked and for a moment, none of us spoke. We were listening to the radio and it just seemed like it sucked all the air out of us. Who would have done such a thing?

I remember that I had tears in my eyes and that I felt bereft and painful. We had lost someone who meant a lot to us all, but I didn't realize at that moment just how much we had lost. 

We were halfway there when the first reports of unrest in Chicago came up. Should we go home or should we keep going? Mom thought we would be all right, so we kept going. When we got there we knew we should have gone back home. We could hear gunfire and we saw smoke and things did not look good. Our Aunt lived on the west side where the rioting was happening and somehow we made it to her house. We parked the car and ran in the house and then we heard more gunfire. Should we have left the car there? Our Uncle Robert moved the car to the back of the house and we all huddled inside.

It seemed like gunfire was going off every minute. We didn't sleep in the beds near the windows. We slept on the floor just in case. It was terrifying.

While I don't condone rioting, I understand the rage that makes people do it. When you have been suppressed and oppressed and no one listens to you and you feel hopeless and powerless, and the rage just builds until you just explode. I get that. 

But this was my first time being in the midst of it and it was frightening but the little rebel inside me understood their rage and anger. Dr. King was a man of peace. Why would someone want to kill him? We knew it wasn't a black man who did it. But again, why?

We left Chicago after the National Guard came and settled things down. I wasn't so sure this was a good thing. People had a right to be angry. We had lost someone who meant a lot to us and as usual, Mayor Daley just decided to shut it all down and make everyone behave. We saw burned out buildings and lots of soldiers on the street and people did go inside but I knew the anger was still there. 

We were glad to get home where it was quiet and we could think about what had happened. I knew this was going to change the way we lived and that it wasn't going to be for the better. Dr. King spoke for the poor and the disadvantaged and nobody cared about us. Things were just beginning to get better. What would happen to black people and civil rights now?

But my biggest revelation was yet to come.

Back at school, we talked about it. We didn't understand why someone would want to kill him unless they just hated black people and hated what was happening. That had to be it.

The white people acted like it was no big deal. They didn't care about him. They had no idea how hurt and devastated we black people were. We were together in school physically, but we were still disconnected from each other in reality. This became apparent in the following days. 

The day before his funeral, the school administrators decided that if we wanted to stay home and watch the funeral and honor his memory, we black students could take the day off of school. I recall the anger that the white kids in my class exploded with. I recall I tried to explain to them then that they didn't know who he was or what he was trying to do and nobody wanted to hear it. These were people I had considered my friends and they showed who they really were with their reaction to that simple day off to honor Dr. King. I never looked at them the same way after that.

Fifty years later, I cannot recall names and faces but I clearly recall the rage and anger they expressed thinking we black students were going to get something they weren't going to get. But over the years, I have seen that same reaction every time white people thought we were being favored or chosen over them or given something they didn't get or just treated as equals to them.

Dr. King was a complex man as most people are. He tried to do good things but he wasn't perfect. He was just a man. Back then, not that many believed he was an agent for good. I heard more sneering nasty comments from white people than I want to think about. I got into many arguments about him.

Even my parents were afraid that somehow white people would get mad at us and would treat us even worse than we had been in the past. They grew up and endured horrible treatment because of Jim Crow laws. It was why they left the South during the Great Migration.

But now, everyone, even racists who do not believe in what he tried to teach us use his name. They quote him even if it's only part of what he said. He is recognized for what he tried to do.

I just remember how hollow and awful I felt looking at that casket on that mule drawn wagon, going down the street in Atlanta that day. I looked at the faces and I remember seeing Bobby Kennedy walking along in the procession. It was hot that day and he had taken his jacket off and he and Ethel were walking together. She was pregnant. He was going to run for President and I was sure he was going to make things better. I had faith in him.

Two months later, he was gone too. I gave up all hope for what our country was going to be. I didn't care anymore. I went to college but I didn't care. I just wanted to have fun. All the people who cared and tried to change things got killed. Nothing mattered.

Fifty years later, are we any better off? I feel that hollow and empty feeling every day when I get up and look at the news. Whatever progress we had made has been lost in the past year. So here we are.

What would Dr. King say about us now?