I grew up in Minnesota. I loved school and enjoyed back to school shopping. I’m nuts for pens and always have been. My sister, my mother and I were in the Target in West St. Paul in 1970, when we heard a strange sound. It was like a wave cresting in the ocean; a murmur, a roar and a murmur sweeping through the store. We were in the office supply aisle looking at the pens (imagine that) with a couple of other moms and their kids when we became part of that sound.
The moms asked each other what they thought the commotion was about in somewhat hushed voices and then a tall, lithe, Playboy beautiful blonde woman walked by with a dazzling smile and a lilting laugh on the arm of a muscular African American man who looked like he might play pro football. They were obviously a couple and even at eleven years old it was clear to me that they were in love. The moms immediately quizzed each other, “Do you think they’re sleeping together?” “Do you think they’re married?” “Where do you think they live?” and so on. The initial noise was the murmur of those wondering what the approaching hullabaloo was about then the crest of the wave was the roar of incredulity of seeing a white woman with a black man, and then the next aisle’s murmuring. That was the sound we heard in that Target store.
I didn’t think it was all that strange that these two people were together. They were young, good looking, evidently in love. Part of my acceptance was influenced by my experiences in Chicago in 1968.
My Great-Uncle Arthur Bray was a Methodist minister in the greater Chicago area. He and his wife Rachel were my Mom’s uncle and aunt and more like another set of grandparents to me. Uncle Art was involved in helping to coordinate the Poor People’s March in the Chicago area for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (Art and Rachel were white, in case you’re wondering). We used to take our vacations to places where we had relatives, so the trip was more affordable for our family, hence the trip to Chicago to stay with Uncle Art and Aunt Rachel.
We got on the train in Minneapolis, Amtrak to Chicago. It was a blast, roaming the train, eating in the dining car, sitting in the observation lounge etc. When we arrived my Mom said, “Oh look, what a pretty sunset.” Dad said, “Priscilla, the sun sets in the west. You’re looking east.” Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated and Chicago was on fire. The riots had begun.
We were in a mostly white, affluent, upper-class neighborhood so the riots were more or less a news item to us. On Sunday, we went to church. We went to church every Sunday whether or not we were at home, no exceptions were made for vacations. We were guests in Uncle Art and Aunt Rachel’s home and so expected to go to Uncle Art’s Methodist church and hear him preach.
We piled in Art’s Oldsmobile Delta ’88. The trip took us from an upper-class neighborhood to a middle-class neighborhood through a working-class neighborhood into the ghetto. My mother was horrified. She wasn’t racist but we were dressed in our Sunday best, with her “babies” (9 and 6 then) along, the only white people in a neighborhood with overturned cars and charred buildings. Her apprehension wasn’t unreasonable.
We entered a Black Church, the only white people in attendance. Uncle Art and Rachel seemed to be known to the parishioners. Uncle Art sat on the aisle, next to him Aunt Rachel, then Dad, Mom, myself and my sister. Next to my sister was the oldest person I’ve ever seen in the flesh in my life. An ancient African American woman. My sister asked if she had once been a slave in that kid voice that seems discreet to the child but that resonates throughout a facility. The old woman smiled. She said, “No honey-chile, I’ve only ever been a slave to sin. My name is Rose.”
The service began. There were all the usual falderol of announcements, corrections, reports and special event notices that every church has. Finally, we got down to the sermon. It was about Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego and the fiery furnace. The minister was engaging and told the story well. The congregation swayed, raised their hands and often cried “Amen” as he preached. It was only years later that I realized that his sermon was an allegory for what those folks were experiencing then in real time.
It came time for special music. An immensely fat woman, I mean REALLY fat waddled up to the front of the church to sing special music. She looked like the cartoon Michelin Tire man. Her fat rippled when she moved. It was like watching a walking earthquake. I whispered wisecracks to my sister, and we laughed. My mother frowned and shushed us. Then this mountain of a woman began to sing. Words won’t do her voice justice. She sang as I imagine the Heavenly Choir sings. Her song swept over me, taking my breath away and transporting me to a higher plane. It turns out she was the minister’s wife.
The service was over. Uncle Art and Rachel were engaged in conversation. My Dad, who had the uncanny ability to talk to anyone like they were old friends, was having old home week with several parishioners and had some of them in stitches, laughing with tears in their eyes. Many women were talking to my mother and commenting on how striking my cute little blonde, green-eyed sister was. I went largely unacknowledged and unnoticed. I wish that were the end of the story.
The minister and his blimp of a wife were at the back of the church greeting people on the way out. My Dad told him how much he enjoyed the sermon. While they were talking, my sister burst out crying. To this day, I don’t know how the minister’s wife knelt down without tearing her dress to shreds like the Hulk, but she did. She asked my sister what was wrong. My sister sobbed, “My brother made fun of you because you’re fat and I laughed. I feel so bad because you sing so pretty.” The minister’s wife dried my sister’s tears while I felt the baleful stares of the surrounding adults. She gave my sister a hug and it looked like she was absorbing my sister into herself, but Sis emerged no worse for wear. Then my sister said, “It was wrong of my brother to make fun of you. When I die, can I sing next to you in the choir in Heaven?” That got, “Oh My” and “Praise the Lord” and “Bless the Chile” from the Black folks around us. It was the minister’s wife’s turn to cry and she told my sister she would be proud to sing with her in Heaven. My sister, the golden child in more ways than one, redeemed herself and was admired by all. I got a rather stern lecture in the car about not judging people by their appearance.
Martin Luther King Jr. gave his life in the cause espoused by our founding documents and the idea that all Americans are of value and worthy of equal treatment. He preached equality of opportunity, not equal outcomes and did so in a peaceful, nonviolent way that could not be ignored. He turned the other cheek but didn’t yield to the threats, violence, racist arrests and never shied away from the challenges of leadership or the difficulty of the cause. He is a true American hero. It is right we honor his birthday.
I was in Washington D.C. right before the Martin Luther King Jr. monument was to be dedicated. It was still fenced off and so I “wandered in, innocently by mistake” trying to get a sneak peek at the sculpture. A man in a hard hat escorted me somewhat unceremoniously out of the area. I did come back a few months later to take in statue of sorts sculpted by Chinese artist Lei Yixin. It is a relief of Martin Luther King Jr. emerging from the marble, similar to Mount Rushmore although King is depicted standing full bodied. There are only four memorials on the National Mall to non-presidents; Martin Luther King jr., George Mason – one of the Founding Fathers and the one who proposed there be a Bill of Rights, John Paul Jones – a Revolutionary War naval hero and John Ericsson – a Swedish born designer of the ironclad warship the USS Monitor which was important in winning the Civil War for Lincoln and the Union.
I was both impressed and baffled by the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial. I was impressed at the layout of the memorial and how it fit so well into the space allotted to it and the overall aesthetic of the site. The carving of Dr. King is immense and true to life. Baffled because the sculpture is rendered in white marble. The only memorial to an African American is done in white marble. Some argue it isn’t white, it’s “pink” but that’s almost worse, I think. Why the only memorial depicting an African American wasn’t rendered in black marble is a mystery to me and not only me.
While I was sitting there taking in the memorial, an African American family of four entered the site. Parents in their late 20’s with two elementary aged children. The little African American boy, five or six years old, said to his Dad, “I thought he was black like us.” Amen brother, amen. Despite our best intentions to honor a great American, we didn’t quite get it right.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wouldn’t have cared about an earthly commemoration in stone. He would care that your heart wasn’t made of stone. He would want you to love your neighbor work for peace, justice and an end to poverty. That is the right way to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day, not with a memorial of stone but with a monument of good works and good will. I learned my lesson that Sunday in Chicago. I don’t judge people by their appearance anymore and neither should you. Deeds speak louder than words and mean more thanI a sculpture any day of the week.
“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality…I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.” Martin Luther King Jr.