Progressive Democrat Issue 105: REMEMBERING MARTIN LUTHER KING: Part II

This was written by a reader from Tennessee and posted on Culture Kitchen. It is a nice companion piece to Chris'.

On April 4, 1968, we sat in the Fellowship Hall of our church in a near west Chicago suburb. The men wanted to form a group to do visitations. When the minister returned from a telephone call, he solemnly announced that Martin Luther King had just been shot. (I was slated for computer classes in the Loop that week. Some burning and looting had occurred overnight, but the Loop was quiet and well-patrolled by the Guard the next day.)

Our neighborhood had no black residents. Some people were critical of Dr. King’s tactics. He had tried to march down Cermak Road when he briefly worked for fair housing in the west part of Chicago. Cicero was the only suburb between us and Chicago . It had a long history of race riots.

On April 4, 1973, my husband and I were on vacation in Atlanta. The United States was conflicted over the impeachment of President Nixon. We visited the State Capitol and then took a Marta bus to Atlanta University. There was a long line of people, many black, who were marching toward that area. It was quiet and I thought about another time I had been there.

In October 1948, I took a two-week bus trip through the South. Atlanta was to be my anchor stop. My friend John, who had attended the University of Iowa as a graduate student, was an instructor at Morehouse College and his wife was a music instructor at Spelman. After he received his degree, John was inducted into the Army. We corresponded since his stint at Fort MacDill.

When I wrote that I expected to be in Atlanta, John assured me that I should spend a weekend with them. He told me that when I arrived at the bus station to call him for instructions to get to Atlanta University. Having traveled during the week from New York City to stops in Richmond, Raleigh and Chapel Hill, I ended up in Atlanta on a Friday well after dark. The day’s ride was long after frequent stops to accommodate workers who used interstate buses for transportation for work. When John answered on the phone, he apologized that he couldn’t come to meet me. I already knew not to expect it. He explained that black cabbies could not risk picking up a young white woman to go to a black section. No telling what would happen if I hailed a white cab and then asked for his address at the University. The street car was the best bet. Be sure to sit in front and use only the front door. The tricky part was that at a certain stop the motorman would have to get out to manually switch to another rail. He had the power to hold but not to arrest. The power to hold a person for any reason would be active until he summoned the police.

I felt very lucky because the car was not crowded and the passengers were Negro teenage couples, apparently returning from a downtown movie. I sat on the jump seat behind the motorman, shielded by a small curtain. Immediately my nose told me the fellow was well soused. When he got out to do the switching he had considerable trouble executing the task and he was telling that confounded thing some very strong words. I gave the young people the name of my stop and asked them to give me hand signals when we got there. The motorman continued to mutter ferociously. When the car stopped, I made a beeline for the back door and exited. Those wonderful kids were smiling, and one dared to say, “You know you shouldn’t have done that.” My friends came forward and we had a delightful weekend.

Again, John explained how he wished it could be otherwise, but they had decided it would be best for us to stay in for parties at his house. I understood, because we had discussed such matters in our college Interracial Fellowship meetings.

Already this is too long, so I will conclude with an incident with longer term ramifications for me. The sociology professor, who was a mentor to Dr. King during his undergraduate days, was one of the guests on Saturday night. I exposed my ignorance by opining that colored people would never leave their traditional Baptist and Methodist churches to join the Catholic faith. He countered by saying that I should see what was happening in New Orleans. His thesis was that people would put better working conditions and better education for their children ahead of dogma. And, if I really wanted to understand what he was saying, I should join the NAACP when I returned to New York. I took him at his word.

I was used to riding the subways and found it a lot easier to go from Greenwich Village to Harlem (Sugar Hill, the members jokingly explained) than it was to worry about one inebriated white man in friendly black territory. The members were professionals in social work, education and such. They discussed the twin challenges of police brutality and job openings. It was evident they were working through their community needs in the best way they could.

By the time the winter was over I felt that things might be looking up. Neither Tom Dewey nor Strom Thurmond had outstripped “give ‘em hell” Harry in the election. Henry Wallace was out in left field on a progressive ticket.

In 2007, what really warms the cockles of my heart is to see Charley Rangel telling how the government should spend our money.

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