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As Long as there is Hope . . . Martin Lives
Black America paused in August to memorialize a great day, a great revolutionary benchmark: the 1963 March on Washington. This year marked its 40th Anniversary, and in spite of the ups and downs of the civil rights struggle over the last 40 years - we yet remember that day of Hope. This memorial was, alas, a shadow of that day, when America was America, and Martin Luther King, Jr. was… King. This year's memorial, as young Martin, the son, pointed out…was not about celebration, but about remembering, and reminding black America and white America, and others, of how far we've come… and, as Rev. Jackson said, how far the civil rights era is from being a thing of the past. But, yes, August 23rd's event, was a nostalgic refrain from an era that some might describe, "an oldie, but goodie" in America's collage of memorable days. As I watched the televised memorial, I was reminded of another place, during that other time in America. A place that Martin likely never heard of, though his words and life surely caused a transformation there, as well. I was remembering a little town in the corner of southeast Arkansas. A town called Gould, and how that march in 1963 changed the lives of the people there. I saw that change up close, that revolution in my quiet parents' eyes, mixed with reverence for a man who changed their world. I remembered most vividly the photograph. It was an unsmiling but proud Martin Luther King, Jr., and it hung upon our living room wall. It was the only photo hanging on our living room wall, except for a dying, weeping Jesus Christ hanging from the cross. Two saviors, in a sense, adorned our bare walls. But, Martin was alive and breathing; and, though we had no more seen or met him than a man in the moon; we felt a part of him. Martin's photograph meant so much to my parents, and to us. And, if you walked into the homes of 20 African American families out on Varner Road, at least half of them would have that dime-store 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 under-educated, but visionary sharecroppers whose priorities, from day to day, were: how do we feed our children, and finish our cotton crops? And, what did that photograph on our living room wall mean to them? What were they thinking when they bought the photograph, these parents who shunned cameras, and saw no need to capture their own children's image on film? What manner of man could affect such reverence in people like 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 sought, though they existed in dire poverty, and a world of economic inequity. Their hopes were for something more elusive Young, brave, charismatic Martin 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 taught my parents and the hundreds of other black families living in Gould, Arkansas, 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 do in that segregated town of Gould, in a county named Lincoln, in the southeast Arkansas delta…was to guide my parents' eyes beyond those cotton fields, to see all the way to the other side of those fields; and, to believe that one day we would all, in fact, make it there. Martin Luther King, Jr. espoused that thing called hope. Something so rare and delicious in an environment such ours, that we could almost taste it. We imagined we could touch it. It must have been the same 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, and they understood its power, its necessity, and its miracle. As we sat with our parents, before that 10-inch television, in August, 1963, our young minds grasped the change in our lives. My parents didn't articulate it, but Martin did. And, we held onto every word, every syllable, ever nuance from Martin's lips. And, that night, our hearts swelled, and we believed all over again, in tomorrow. That America seems so long ago. That march, that innocence, that pure hope and belief that life can be better; a time when America, and our America were on the cusp of greatness. It was a time when our eyes were blinded by possibilities, and we refused to see that we were yet light years away from equality, and that integration would never be quite what we bargained for. Yesterday, we were excited about the struggle, exalted by the possibilities, and thankful to Martin for showing us how to believe in tomorrow. And, while he is no longer with us…there must still be hope. We only have to confront reality, while embracing what can be, again. And, just as hope was not created in Washington in August, 1963, neither did it die with Martin on April 28, 1963. Surely, for that time in American history, he was our guide and our path through the maze of life's injustices. His words and promises were etched in all our hearts. Today, more than ever, we must move beyond simply memorializing, and holding up Martin's name. Let's pass on the torch he left behind…that torch called hope. And, as long as hope lives within each of us, Martin lives. 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 |
