Tomorrow is Martin Luther King Day. Having lived through the
turbulent sixties, I marvel at how things have changed. I recall sitting in a
junior high classroom and hearing my teacher talk in an angry tone about how
disgusted she was at seeing a "nice young white man" give up his seat
on a bus to a "colored woman." I have visited the Henry Ford Museum
in Detroit where the bus that Rosa Parks took her historical stance on is
displayed. I recall reaching the back of that bus where I
found a mom explaining the significance of the event to her two grade school
age children. This time it was a White family in the back of the bus.
I once almost had a close encounter with Dr. King. I was in
8th grade and a member of our church basketball team. Our games were played on
Saturday morning in the gym at Grosse Pointe High School. Grosse Pointe was,
and still is, a very affluent suburb of Detroit. In those days it was highly
segregated. Dr. King was scheduled to speak at the school that afternoon. His
appearance was high controversial. There was a strong police presence as we
left after our 11:00 AM game, some angry people stood behind barricades. They were holding signs that said some pretty
ugly things. It was scary.
I was home in Detroit on spring break from college on that
night in 1968 when Dr. King was shot. I was at church. I had been recruited to
sing with the church choir for Easter. A member of the bass section was the one
who broke the news. "The King is dead," he said with a smile. There
was a real sense of satisfaction in his voice. I knew differently. My dad had taught me that. He loved all people, regardless of race. It was that attitude that allowed my parents
to live in the same neighborhood on the Detroit’s eastside for over sixty
years, until their health failed in 2004.
Today we live in a house where my neighbors are Hispanic, Indian, Vietnamese and Cambodian. I recently remarked, "all we need is a Black
Family to move in to make things complete."
Thank Dr. King for being the catalyst for change.
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