Copyright
Copyright © 2003 by Dexter Scott King
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.,
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: January 2003
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2733-1
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
CHAPTER 1: Sleeping Beauties
CHAPTER 2: Peace Be Still
CHAPTER 3: Shattered
CHAPTER 4: Aftermath
CHAPTER 5: A Question of Faith
CHAPTER 6: Soul Survivor
CHAPTER 7: Schooled
CHAPTER 8: This Little Light of Mine
CHAPTER 9: Wrecked
CHAPTER 10: Answers from Within
CHAPTER 11: Legacy
CHAPTER 12: Betrayed
CHAPTER 13: Brightly Beams Our Father ’s Mercy
CHAPTER 14: A Moving Image
CHAPTER 15: Odd Man In
CHAPTER 16: The Meeting
CHAPTER 17: Sampling a Relationship
CHAPTER 18: Home Front
CHAPTER 19: A Way Out of No Way
CHAPTER 20: The Reckoning
CHAPTER 21: Free at Last
Prologue
Memory is not always to be trusted, yet memory is all we have, where we all live. I’ve learned memory is all that can be trusted, in the end.
For any five witnesses to an event, there are five versions of what happened. Which is closest to truth? In this book I trust my memories, and those of my siblings, my mother, friends, and family members. I looked at documents, notes, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, books, film documentaries, and other references, the better to refresh and confirm this collective memory. I searched myself as well. But I also know no book that has been written has captured how much I loved my father in Atlanta when I was six, or how I felt at seven, when he was killed in Memphis.
There is no polite way to bust out of prison. Jailbreak! is how it felt after the verdict came in at the civil trial of Loyd Jowers in Memphis in December of 1999. I didn’t care about Jowers’s role in my father’s murder on April 4, 1968. I didn’t care about conspiracies, or anybody going to prison. I cared about getting out of prison. I’d faced up to what had happened to us. Pope John Paul once said that the quest for freedom is one of the great dynamics of human history. Such a quest can take many forms. I went back to Atlanta. I thought back as I drove past the National Historic Site, past 501 Auburn Avenue, the house where my father was born, past Freedom Hall complex where his remains lie in a crypt in the plaza of the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Non-Violent Social Change.
The plaza stands next to old Ebenezer Baptist Church, at the corner of Jackson Street and Auburn Avenue, Northeast. “Kodak products available here,” reads a sign. I had pictures in my memory. My grandfather’s leathery hands lifted in supplication. My grandmother at the organ. Daddy’s ascending voice. Gunshots in the pulpit. The old church is a relic, for tourists who can’t see or hear what I see and hear in my memory. The new Ebenezer Baptist Church is on the opposite side of Auburn Avenue. A sculpture of a black man holding a baby up toward the heavens stands in an amphitheater on the grounds of the National Park Service’s King Visitor Center. The sculpture was inspired by the scene from Roots: “Behold, the only thing greater than yourself,” Omoro Kinte said to baby Kunta; Kunta, as an adult, repeated it to his daughter, Kizzy, in Alex Haley’s epic tale. It reminded me of Daddy and me. His marble crypt stands in the middle of a reflecting pool on the grounds of the King Center. The inscription is simple:
Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
1929–1968.
“Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.”
Amen, Daddy, I thought. Inside the King Center hangs a framed newspaper article:
King Children Reflect on the Values Their Father Taught
Hours later I was at the Four Seasons at Troon North in Scottsdale, Arizona, preparing to bring in the new millennium, Y2K. A photo was taken. For years I’d looked in the mirror and seen my father’s face trapped in mine. Now my face relaxed. Free at last. Was I? Were we? I go back now, in memory, to try and find the answers.
CHAPTER 1
Sleeping Beauties
I felt inadequate to the task at hand, the scene before me, though my role seemed simple enough. Yoki had already shown me a picture of Prince Charming in a book of fairy tales, so I knew what he was supposed to look like. I’d seen myself in a mirror. Didn’t see the correlation, didn’t think I could ever look like that or act like that. But my older sister kept on insisting I was the Chosen One, who must bend down and kiss my baby sister Bernice, lying on one end of our seesaw, acting dead, like Sleeping Beauty. Yoki was saying, “Let’s do this.” I was steadily refusing.
“Nope,” I said. “Nope, nope, nope.”
The corners of Yoki’s mouth curled. “Yes—that’s what you mean to say. Right?”
She was about to unleash a verbal volley accompanied by a twisting pinch of arm flesh if I wasn’t quick enough, which, by the warm, so-called Indian summer of 1967, I usually was.
I was six and a half years old when I asked Yoki, “Why me?” while fixing a pleading eye toward my older brother, Martin III, who stood behind me in the backyard of 234 Sunset, Vine City, Atlanta, Georgia, behind the house where we grew up.
Marty wasn’t about to buck Yoki’s authority; he grew deaf, looked the other way, whistled.
I’m in my forty-first year now, but thinking of what it was like back in 1967, when I was a boy but six years old, makes me smile. A wry and cautious smile. Yoki was eleven. An eleven-year-old girl isn’t to be trifled with by her younger brothers. “You ask too many questions,” she said, her calm that comes before a storm; we knew this, and she knew that we knew. Yoki was my terrible older sister Yolanda. Now I know she isn’t so terrible. Now I feel I must call her Yolanda. It has more formality—something expected of Yolanda, Martin, me, and Bernice. Ever since I was seven, I’ve felt I must be formal. But I didn’t feel it in ’67. Then she was my crazy terrible sister; Yoki-poky, as Daddy called her when we were children and didn’t have the responsibilities or memories we have now. Formality, seriousness, certitude—all these are difficult poses to maintain, even if you’re a person with perfect equilibrium, with all the drama life throws at you.
Speaking of what life throws at you, just then a green walnut came whizzing over the fence, crashing into our swing, cracking open its unripe cover, its powerful astringent scent filling the air. Could just as well have been a peach, apple, fig, or pecan—each of those species bloomed in the backyards of the small houses in Vine City. Walnuts made more of an announcement when arriving via this kind of air mail. Marty and I looked at each other. We were being paged.
“C’mon!”
One of the neighborhood boys was summoning us without risking an audience with Yoki. Smart move. We’d relocated to Vine City from the Old Fourth Ward in 1965. I spent my first four years in the Old Fourth Ward, up from Auburn Avenue, on Johnson Avenue, in a house the color of the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz. A liquor store now stands where the backyard of the house used to be. What’s now Freedom Parkway was once our front yard.
Granddaddy’s house in Old Fourth Ward, where the package store now stands, was on a hill, three blocks away from Ebenezer Baptist Church, where he was pastor, two blocks down from 501 Auburn Avenue. Granddaddy’s name was Martin Luther King, Sr. He had two sons. The younger was Alfred Daniel King, Sr., Uncle A.D., named for my great-grandfather A. D. Williams, who’d also been pastor at Ebenezer, and
who was the father of Alberta Williams King, my paternal grandmother, whom we called Big Mama. My father was the elder son, Martin Luther King, Sr.’s co-pastor at Ebenezer, among other things.
His name was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
When my mother became pregnant with me, the family was moving to Atlanta from Montgomery, Alabama, where my father had been pastor of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. He’d become famous or infamous there, depending on one’s slant, as one of the architects of the Montgomery bus boycott. That action was spawned by Mrs. Rosa Parks’s refusal to give up her seat on a city transit bus, a watershed event of the Civil Rights Movement. We moved to Atlanta after that.
The move helped my grandfather. His eight-hundred-seat church and his clout in Baptist circles were enhanced having my father rejoin him as co-pastor. But as far as joining him in the more affluent western suburb of Collier Heights, my father wasn’t hearing it, in spite of my grandfather’s insistence. We’d live in Vine City, with the plain folk.
A freeway was coming, as was Bunny. We moved because we needed more space and the freeway construction would displace us. The freeway became known as Freedom Parkway, which now takes you by the Carter Presidential Center. Back when the freeway was being planned, it was to be called Stone Mountain Freeway, taking you to Stone Mountain, where images of Confederate generals were blasted into the granite. But both the name and the route were changed. We needed a place, so we moved to the modest, roomy brick house on an undulating street, Sunset, at the foot of the Atlanta University Center, the consortium of five historically black colleges and universities.
It was a split-level house with a full basement; you entered the main floor by walking up exterior stairs aided by wrought-iron banisters painted white. The house is larger than it appears from in front. From that position you can’t get the depth of it. Your idea of a thing is often based on the angle from which you view it. The house isn’t narrow, yet it’s much deeper than it is wide.
As you enter, on your right side facing in is the dining room; on your left is the living room, filled with memorabilia, family pictures, a sofa. The kitchen is beyond the dining room. There my mother or the ladies who helped her, Mrs. Dorothy Lockhart or Mrs. Newman or sometimes Mrs. Rachel Ward, caused a racket of pots and pans. Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Patricia Cook Latimore sometimes looked after us when Mom and Dad had to do important business. The family room is beyond the kitchen. The four of us made a hubbub of children and toys in there. The hallway splits the house in half, running perpendicular from the front door straight from front to back, connecting four bedrooms and a study, my parents’ bedroom at the end of the hallway to the left, the study to the right. The first room to the left was the boys’ room, the second to the left was the girls’ room, and in later years, vice versa; to the right was the guest room. Connecting our rooms was a play room; a door was between us. It was the doorway to fun, conflict, happiness. We bolted and flitted around these dimensions at incredible speeds, as children do. From here we plotted childhood.
There was sibling rivalry among us. We jockeyed for the attention of our mother and father, the way sisters and brothers sometimes do. There was a little jealousy on the part of the others whenever the next one was born.
Bernice, whom we called Bunny, was the baby, four going on fifty-two in ’67, precocious, but quietly so. She never experienced jealousy pangs, but she had her own cross to bear. It wasn’t so much that she was tomboyish—that was fine by Marty and me. We’d throw her in there if we needed to round out a side, or boost her up into trees, and she’d try her best to keep up. Occasionally she might bark a shin, earn a bruise some other way. Marty was the world’s foremost tattletale, the one who’d say, “I’m gon’ tell Mama,” if a boy happened not to be quick enough to break his baby sister’s fall. After spankings delivered by Mother, or, worse, Grand-daddy’s leather belt or ham hands, we still had a backyard in which to retire and ruminate.
Martin seemed to always know the trouble would blow over. He and Yolanda were such amiable children. Bernice was more pragmatic, or so it seemed at the time. She’d look at me and in her quiet baby talk take up for Martin. So even when we had falling outs, soon we all were as thick as thieves again, welcoming the neighborhood children into our domain.
Our home at 234 Sunset was kind of home central, the neighborhood headquarters. All the kids came by to play. My mom treated them like hers, which wasn’t always reassuring for them. Coretta Scott King was a disciplinarian, took no guff from hers or any others. Froze you with a look. “Time out” was a call we made in football, not what fell from her lips in our direction. Under her eye or not, we’d play “hide-and-go-seek,” as we called it, football, softball, kickball, tag, marbles in the red clay; we’d spin tops, ride homemade skateboards, “pull” friends along by pedaling bikes standing up as the friend rode on the passenger seat. We had a swing set, seesaw, and slide. I loved the slide. I loved playing on the gym set. I loved it all, really. We had a hoop too. Ours was, in these regards, a typical family home—or so I thought back then.
This area in northwest Atlanta known as Vine City got its name from the heavy kudzu vines that grew all over the place; Vine City was a “Negro” enclave, in the era of segregation into which we were born. The Magnolia Ballroom was on the corner. James Brown and popular “Negro” entertainers would come to perform there. Often we’d pretend to be James or the Famous Flames, his backup singers, doing choreography, hitting spins and splits, feigning fainting spells with an old bedspread thrown over our shoulders.
That apartment building over there? Former Atlanta mayor Maynard Jackson’s family had lived there. Next door were Reverend and Mrs. Hall and their children. Across the street from our house were the Davis children. We played with them all the time. Miss Toomer lived over there. Next to her were the Martins. Julian Bond’s family lived next to the Martins. We grew up with his kids, Phyllis, Michael, Cookie, Jeffrey, and Horace Mann Bond III, otherwise known as Manny, who got his name from his grandfather. A block over was the new John F. Kennedy Middle School, where we played, and where I later went to summer school.
The whole area was known as lower Vine City—cheek by jowl with the AU Center of Morehouse College, Spelman College, Morris Brown College (it stood closest; we could almost read the football-field scoreboard from our driveway), Clark College, and Atlanta University. Vine City became the “ ’hood” later, after Daddy was killed and integration patterns became widespread and “Negroes,” black people, could move, if not to where our hearts desired, then to where our purses allowed. Many did move, leaving memories, the luckless, the Aftermath… leaving only a few committed to their memories, or bound by lowering prospects in Vine City. The pendulum swings both ways, though, if you can last, if you can hold on, hang in—if you can remember.
My brother, my sisters, and I would walk down to Sunset and Simpson to a parlor we called Flavor Palace. Flavor Palace had the best ice cream anywhere—outside of the deep country, a place with which we were familiar, where ice cream was rarer but homemade, hand-cranked, tastiest with a little vanilla extract and lemon juice added. At Flavor Palace it was almost as good as homemade. They also made Polish sausage sandwiches with onions and jalapeño peppers. I salivate now just thinking about them. We stopped there often. The proprietor, Mr. Patterson, a brown-skinned man with the thin, sculpted mustache favored in those days, often gave us a free taste. I never made a correlation between his generosity and my father’s being in jail, but there may have been one. Jalapeños and onions on top of a Polish. He fixed one up and handed it to me. I fished for my meager coins and he said, “No, no, you do good for your fahdah, now…”
Egan Homes was around the corner. If you heard somebody lived in the Egan Homes, you felt he was trouble. “Don’t mess with them niggas what live over there in them Egan Homes,” was often said or implied by the very same Negroes who lived in Egan Homes! They were talking about themselves, to be agreeable; those were accepted words in the better homes in our gardens.<
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But I knew people who lived in Egan Homes. After people said don’t mess with them, I asked why. I knew you had to go by there to get to Washington Park unless you took the long way. You had to learn to suppress your fear. If you did, you found that while some Egan Homes people might be trouble, some might not be. Some might help you out.
Egan Homes is long gone now. Razed, and replaced by a new mixed-income development, part of urban renewal.
My father would take us down to the Ollie Street YMCA all the time. Everything in Atlanta is renamed by people who live near it. “Booker T.” was Booker T. Washington High School, where Dad went. It’s right over there. Everything in Atlanta was “right over there.” We stayed in our communities. The Ollie Street Y was where my father took us for recreation. I learned to swim there. He taught me. He was good at it and enjoyed it. And the YMCA is still there today.
At Washington Park, we had cookouts. As children, we didn’t know we were “Negroes,” or if we did, we didn’t know exactly what that meant. We didn’t realize we lived in “segregation,” didn’t know there were better pools than the one we crowded into at the Y, or that we and our friends would be considered “have-nots” if our father wasn’t the co-pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church. We weren’t aware that we could and would be turned away from public accommodations, educational institutions, or turned away from desirable living spaces by the real estate restrictive covenants. We weren’t aware that we were shunned by society, murdered over mere glances, made to feel less than human. We were children, and children are more than human; we were blessed, but sooner or later we’d grow up and have to face this prison of segregation, unless Daddy won his struggle. There was this great social upheaval, this “great getting-up morning” going on that would redefine our lives and existences, and those of the people around us.
Growing Up King Page 1
