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It was a mere reminder of how far we've come and how far we have to go. A nostalgic refrain reminding us of a hopeful yesterday. As I watched the Memorial to Martin and to the March, I was reminded of another long ago time and place, that had little to do with Washington, D.C. or the great leaders that joined Martin on that stage that day. I remembered a little town in the corner of southeast Arkansas. A town called Gould, and how that march in1963 changed the lives of the people there. I saw that change up close, that revolution in my parents' eyes, with their reverence for a man who would be king. I remembered most vividly the photograph, an unsmiling but proud Martin, that hung upon our living room wall. The only photo hanging in our living room wall, except for a dying, weeping Jesus Christ, hanging from the cross whose wounds and blood were visible for all to see. But, Martin was alive and breathing; and, though we had no more seen or met him than a man n the moon; we felt a part of him. Martin's photograph meant so much to my parents, and to us. And, if you walked in to the homes of 10 African American families out on Varner Road, at least half of them would have that picture or one a lot like it hanging in their living room…or their hallway, or in the kitchen, over the stove. Who was this man, and how could he have such a hold on my parents? These poor, under-educated sharecroppers whose priorities were how to finish their crops, and feed their children? And, what of that dime-store photograph with the plastic frame? A special purchase by parents who shunned cameras, and saw no need to capture their own children's image on film. What manner of man caused such reverence in people such as James and Ethel Kearney? Today, older and hopefully wiser, I think I understand. For sure I know it was not any material things these two people hoped for, though they struggled from year to year to raise crops that would feed their families. Yet, they hoped for something more. Martin Luther King, Jr., encouraged my parents' belief that what was true for them or their children today, was no indictment of what their tomorrows might hold. What Martin Luther King, Jr., encouraged in my parents and those other black parents who lived down the road from us, was that anything is possible if one believed hard enough, worked hard enough, prayed hard enough, and dreamed hard enough. What Martin Luther King, Jr. dared to do in that segregated town of Gould, in a county named Lincoln, in the southeastern Arkansas delta…was to move my parents to look beyond those cotton fields, to see all the way to the other side of the mountain. And, to believe that one day we would all, in fact, make it to that other side. Martin Luther King, Jr. espoused that thing called hope. Something so rare and delicious in an environment such as the one I was raised, that we could almost taste it. We imagined we could touch it. It was something very near that long-ago hope in the hearts of slaves who sang in spite of their labor and pains. My parents’ hope was just one generation removed from that. The emancipation of slavery happened just 40 years before my father’s birth. They understood the power, the necessity, the miracle of hope. My parents were like so many others, when Martin was King, sitting huddled together on the living room divan, glued to the 10-inch television set, hanging onto every word, every syllable, ever nuance, that came from Martin’s mouth. Their poor hearts swelling, believing all over again in tomorrow. Believing…believing. That was when America was America and Martin was King. When we were on the cusp of greatness. When we were light years away from equality. When integration was a word we turned over on our tongue, trying it on for size. There we all were, young and old alike, excited about the struggle. Exalted by the possibilities. Thankful to the King who made us believe in tomorrow. That young, charismatic King leading the fight for us all. No, the King is no longer with us. But there is still hope. And, just as hope wasn’t created on the Washington mall in August, 1963; Hope did not die with Martin on April 28, 1963. For sure, for a time, he was our guide and our path through the maze of life’s injustices that good people accepted and abided for far too long. His words showed us there was another way, and we only had to follow our hearts to find it. Beyond memorializing him, we must pass on the torch he left behind. That torch is hope …hope in our tomorrows. Because, as long as there is hope, Martin lives on. Janis F. Kearney is a Chicago writer, former journalist and diarist to President Bill Clinton. A Harvard W.E.B. Du Bois Fellow, she is currently completing William Jefferson Clinton: From Hope to Harlem; and a personal memoir, Cotton Field of Dreams. Kearney Communications 5138 S. Kenwood Ave.#2 Chicago, IL 60615 (773) 493-2007 --ph (773) 493-5747 --fax janisfk@aol.com |
Black America paused in August of this year and
memorialized a great day, a great revolutionary benchmark: the 1963 March on Washington. This year marked its 40th Anniversary, and black America chose to remember.
Our memorial, alas, was indeed a shadow of that day in 1963 when America was America, and Martin Luther King, Jr. was King.