As she dove into work, Martin told Mother he wished he had two mothers, one who did the work my father wanted done, and one who stayed home and was a mother. Mother looked at him with love and kindness. She was torn. We’d lost our leader, yet this man who became our martyr had told us to keep moving. He’d told us he might not get there with us, but we as a people would get to a Promised Land.
It was only much later that I even began to understand a little bit of what my mother must have gone through. She was a beautiful, gifted wife, a mother of four small children, and a partner whose life course was suddenly, shockingly changed forever in an instant. She obviously had to find a way to personally make sense of her tragedy, to find her own personal peace.
Whether she was conceptualizing the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Non-Violent Social Change, or writing a book, or giving a speech, or talking to us about why she was keeping on, what my mother decided to do was continue a tradition of what my father was working on before his death, because she honestly believed that his principles and teachings that address the triple evils of poverty, racism, and war could help to heal America and the world. She took time off to write a book, so we were without her for a month, but other than that, the main difference was we were now having to deal with a bigger movement, an Aftermath movement. Mother was front and center. I wasn’t really fully aware of, but heard about, snippets where, let’s say she was being attacked by people who were really close in, but that was even probably a few years down the road. More immediately it was family only around us—family and Uncle Andy. We as a family bonded together, were taken on outings, given a whirlwind of activities that kept us distracted.
The attitude was, We don’t have time to grieve. That next summer, and every summer after that, for ten years, we spent two weeks at Camp Blue Star, in the Blue Ridge mountains of Hendersonville, North Carolina, near Asheville. All four of us went, and Uncle Andy’s daughters Lisa and Paula, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Juanita Abernathy’s children, and Aunt Christine’s children, cousins Vernon and Darlene, and white Jewish, disadvantaged black and white kids went too. Two weeks every summer from 1969 until 1977, we were Blue Star campers, hiking in the mountains, sleeping in cabins, sitting around campfires, sliding down Eagle Rock into the mountain stream.
Bill Rothchild was my camp counselor. He later became a rabbi like his father, Rabbi Jacob Rothchild, who was a prominent rabbi in the Civil Rights Movement and whose synagogue was bombed during the 1960s because he supported my father’s efforts during the Movement. The Blue Star was the Star of David.
We were taken to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for snow-skiing by Dr. Robert Green, his wife, Lettie, and their sons Vince, Kurt, and Kevin. Uncle Bob was a dean at Michigan State and had spent time working with my dad in the Movement. I remember spraining my ankle, being lifted onto a stretcher attached to a snowmobile.
I remember traveling to Lake Tahoe, in the Sierra Nevada, at the border of Nevada and California. I remember how beautiful it was. How clear. We water-skied, and went to tennis camp. I looked down into Lake Tahoe and saw fish far below the pristine surface.
* * *
As I’ve said, Granddaddy King did not believe in sparing the rod. He was a man of the strictest discipline; maybe it came from the house he grew up in, the way he was raised, the circumstances of his leaving his home and philosophically battling his father, or so it has been said. He never spoke of such things, lest it get our curiosity up. He probably would have given us a major whipping if one of us had thought about raising a hand to him to defend ourselves. We feared my grandfather growing up because he was a robust man who came up the hard way and didn’t take mess. As I grew older and got to know him better, I was more appreciative of his ethics and the way he took care of business, because he did take care of business, and you could always count on him if you were in the lurch. He’d bring a certain kind of security and confidence whenever there was a problem; he was much less frightening after my father died.
Granddaddy became a surrogate father too. He was conscientious, tried not to usurp Mother. He respected the fact that I had had a father, and he had never usurped Daddy’s much more gentle authority. But he was also a disciplinarian, also a man who originally didn’t believe in nonviolence. He gradually was converted, and my father had converted him.
After our father’s death, I noticed something I’d never noticed before. Growing up, before my father’s death, Atlanta was rigidly segregated. Black and white. Period. Then, after he won the Nobel Prize in 1964, public integration began to come into being. Amazing things happened for the state of Georgia. Of all places, Atlanta, in 1970, granted a boxing license for a fight between a journeyman heavyweight named Jerry Quarry and the former heavyweight champion, Muhammad Ali, who’d been banned from the ring for refusing induction into the army in 1967, and who, as far as I could tell, many if not most white folk disliked at the time, though I was charmed when I saw him interviewed on TV. Mother took us to the fight.
I had my own experiences of dealing with race issues; it was still a pivotal period in the Movement. Debate sprang up anywhere we showed. If we showed, it started a conversation about civil rights. People felt they had to express opinions, pro or con. We couldn’t go anywhere for fun or education’s sake. Children my age engaged us in debates. And I was bullied by this white kid who called me a nigger. Technically, he spit on me first, then called me a nigger.
We’d eaten dinner out one Sunday. We would almost always go out on Sundays, over to Morrison’s cafeteria in Southwest DeKalb Mall. Today that mall is patronized predominantly by blacks, but then it was predominantly white. I think Aunt Christine and Uncle Isaac went with us that day, and everybody was eating dinner and relaxing. After we would eat, they would all sit around and talk, and that’s when my cousin Isaac and I would go off on our own and explore. I was around nine or ten years old at the time.
Isaac and I had bonded tighter than ever after my father passed. We explored the mall. Two white kids, bigger, older, tougher than we were, smoking cigarettes, came up to us and grabbed me by the collar; it was strange because I had never experienced direct physical contact with anybody white before unless he meant me well, like Robert Culp, or Bill Rothchild. If Martin or Isaac had grabbed me by the collar I’d have been fighting back. But purely by chance and taken by surprise, here I offered no resistance, as my father hadn’t when an American Nazi Party member named Roy James interrupted an SCLC convention in Birmingham by punching my father hard in the jaw in 1962. My father had dropped his hands and had not allowed the crowd at the church where he was speaking to even touch his assailant, doubtlessly thoroughly confusing his tormentor. That was a conscious act on Daddy’s part. The Nation of Islam members called Elijah Muhammad “Little Lamb,” but my father’s heart was actually made that way. The tenets of nonviolence went beyond tactical political reasoning with him. He knew the dangers of the world he was attempting to remake. I was a child; even as a man I could never hope to have his depth.
I had spoken to whites who weren’t mean, people like Camera Man, others who respected my father; since his death, there was this climate and feeling of disassociation among the peoples of Atlanta, even as integration slowly, inexorably had its way in the society. But for somebody to grab you and then spit on you and call you this derogatory name, “Nigger!” with negative force—it was foreign, shocking. I stood stunned. I might have been charmed by Muhammad Ali, but I had no sense of defending myself physically, with my fists. The big boy offered directions: “Don’t let me catch yewe all walking in this mall agin, nigger!” or something. Isaac was pulling my arm, to go back to the comfort of our family, but I was rooted to the spot in disbelief. I know bad things happen sometimes to people between races, and usually it’s just the terribleness of one particular person, but often we read it across a whole race of people, and I was so young then, and in my mind I remember thinking, “Do other white people hate me too?” I knew this big boy was hating me deeply, not realizi
ng then the complexity of just what “hate” is, how closely it is associated with need, and love. I didn’t know him. When he looked at me, his eyes took in all aspects of my face; then he was spitting, grabbing me. I shut down my feelings. I felt no more.
The Jackson 5 came to do a benefit concert for the SCLC, and visited our home. We played in our basement, Ping-Pong, board games, with Michael, Jermaine, Tito. Jackie Jackson was older and talked more with Yolanda, at her insistence. The person who was responsible for them visiting was Uncle Junius Griffen, a friend of my dad’s who worked in the Movement over the years, then went to Motown, worked with Berry Gordy. He and Uncle Junius orchestrated that visit, and it revitalized us, or at least it did me, because I was musically inclined, to the point of being fascinated by it; the Jackson 5 were in the process of stringing together hits of bubblegum soul, as it was called, like “The Love You Save,” “ABC,” “I Want You Back,” “I’ll Be There.” Because I was drawn to music—everyone I saw was drawn to music, music is where you go when everywhere else is forbidden—this seemed great to me. Martin enjoyed it. Yolanda—nothing consoled her, it seemed to me. Bernice either, though in a different way.
We could tell people were conscious of keeping us busy—we had lots of make-busy activity, though I don’t know if anyone actually said, “Let’s keep the kids busy.”
Vice President Hubert Humphrey invited us to the White House. The White House chef made up a cake, and served ice cream. There were photos taken of Vice President Humphrey kneeling and talking to me. He seemed a sensitive man, caring, reaching out, trying to soothe us, to help with the grieving without mentioning any grieving. There we were, in the White House, the nerve center of America, and though I didn’t realize it at the time, we had kind of moved on, even if we had never really addressed Daddy’s murder per se; it was not uncomfortable for me being at the White House, sometime in May of ’68. While in D.C. we visited “Resurrection City” for the Poor People’s campaign and came back in June for the rally on the Mall.
We were always around high-profile situations throughout my life after that; we’ve been invited to the White House under six presidents. Another pivotal event to me came in 1972, at the Democratic National Convention. It was my first appreciation of the political process. At age eleven, I remember the details of going to Miami Beach, riding in little boats. I remember the George McGovern issue with Tom Eagleton, the VP candidate McGovern pulled in, who had to step down because of the questions about his psychiatric treatment. It made me think of Dr. McDonald, and being glad I had not told him about my dreams. McGovern was also kind to us, although I didn’t sense the same connection as with Humphrey. Humphrey, I could tell, was truly, deeply, mournfully sorry. There was something instructive about Humphrey’s sorrow too. Something regretful. McGovern’s was different—more pity. Eagleton was aloof, distracted. He’d gotten electroshock therapy, someone whispered. These historical events stuck out. I felt blessed and appreciative that we were there. A lot of times people say, “Leave your kids at home.” I’m thankful we were exposed to these processes early and continuously. And it started to have an impact on me. These were the kinds of places that my father had died for me to have the right to go to. And maybe not just to go there, but… what else? What else should I do once I get there, Daddy?
Marvin Gaye’s album What’s Going On was released in the spring of ’71, with meaningful songs—“What’s Going On,” “Inner City Blues,” “Mercy Mercy Me.” They make me think of times after my father’s death, not just in our house but everywhere, it seemed. People embraced the Sound. The Wattstax festival happened at the L.A. Coliseum in ’72. Isaac Hayes was Black Moses; his statements were Hot Buttered Soul, and from the Movement LP, “I Stand Accused.” He won an Oscar for the score to the Gordon Parks movie Shaft. Vietnam remained a bloody quagmire.
A lot was going on beneath surfaces. The early ’70s were poignant; music marked the time and the emotion. Music was a comfort—maybe my only comfort. There was no pressure or disappointment from Mother. She was always our champion in terms of saying, “This is your life, so go do what God calls you to do. Be yourself. Live.” These are the same values my father instilled. My granddaddy King probably was disappointed in me, but it was never to a point where I felt threatened or coerced, like, “I’ve got to do something, or else.”
You see, our grandfather always made it very clear he wanted all of his boys, “grandboys,” grandsons, to preach. And he’d ask me all the time. It got to a point where it was a running joke. He’d say, “Son, have you heard the Call yet?”
I’d say, “No, Granddaddy. But I think I heard a whisper.”
And then he’d crack up, and I’d breathe a sigh of relief. “If your heart is not in it, if it’s just expediency, don’t do it,” he said. I think he genuinely respected honesty. Certainly he wanted to see his “grandboys” in the ministry. Neither my brother nor I went that route. I don’t think it was rebellion, I just think we had other interests, lived in a different time, dreamed different dreams.
My grandfather never mentioned being “called” to Bernice. Again, as God would have it, the person who, in my own humble opinion, was the least likely candidate, probably has benefited the most from spirituality. Bunny. Growing up, she’d always been shy, introverted. Could hardly get anything out of Bernice growing up. She was quiet and kept to herself, especially after Daddy died. Now you can’t shut her up. These days I’ll joke with her sometimes and say, “We couldn’t get you to talk then; now you’re like the spiritual version of CNN.”
Back then she needed her silence to deal with her own baggage and issues. Maybe her introspection brought her closer, spiritually, to Daddy’s legacy. I identified spiritually, but not necessarily from a religious or institutional perspective. I never wanted to wear the robes. I believe all of us have a pulpit. Your pulpit can be in a different place—a nontraditional setting. The trick is, you just have to find it. Life’s kind of odd that way.
I think circumstances forged all four of us, melded us into one—or one good one, one whole one, if you will. I don’t want to say we built a wall around us, but we weren’t kidders anymore, as gregarious. That doesn’t mean we didn’t like having fun, but a combination of tragedy and always being front and center in the spotlight—any child growing up in a church where the parent is the pastor feels that kind of spotlight. All of us developed this caution, this reserve, that affected our closest interpersonal relationships. Such as they were.
Around this time, my cousins started calling me “Count.” Short for Count Dracula, meaning Dexter could sleep; a lot of my sleeping would occur during the day, and at night it might not.
Don’t know why I slept so much in daylight hours. Don’t know where that came from. Maybe the dreams. Mother, while concerned about my sleep patterns, had her own dream. In the aftermath of our father’s assassination she gave birth again, this time to the idea of creating a memorial to my father, an institution she called “a living memorial,” one that would not be static, not just brick and mortar and that’s all, but something to have a problem-solving aspect, to reach people, to perpetuate my father’s philosophy, work, and legacy. It was an ambitious vision. It was called the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Center. Initially, it was run out of the basement of our house at 234 Sunset. Mother had conceived it, and immediately she ran with it.
A few years later, the board changed the name to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Non-Violent Social Change, at Mother’s insistence, with an emphasis on nonviolence, training, education, and research. Mother had talked to my father during his lifetime about creating an institution that could serve as the repository for his papers and also be a headquarters where he and his staff and followers could deal with policy issues. The seed was planted during his lifetime, but it became even more important and fulfilling for her after he died.
There was this urgency in her we could sense, to create a memorial, to institutionalize his work. It all slowly began to happen.
Of course, she had the instrumental support of most of her family and friends. There were some who thought she would never get it done.
At first it was a matter of raising grant money and getting corporate donations. Jimmy Carter, by then president of the United States, was instrumental in helping that along. The Ford family in Michigan also was instrumental, and I felt privileged in retrospect to have been a part of some of those first meetings, as early as 1978. I traveled with Mom to some of these fund-raising luncheons, capital-funds drives. I went to Dearborn, Michigan, to a luncheon hosted by Henry Ford and representatives from the DuPont foundation. Members of the wealthy philanthropic community were there. Ford chaired this capital-funds campaign and President Carter hosted a White House kick-off reception. While at the Ford meeting, I had a feeling, like I did before at the White House after my father died—a feeling of understanding that this was what my father had died for, this access. Something was trying to dawn in my mind—something to do with the way people, particularly these people, were.
I did not know at the time the history of the Atlanta University Center, how John D. Rockefeller’s largesse built Spelman College, starting in 1882, when it was only an idea for an Atlanta Female Baptist Seminary. Spelman was the family name of Rockefeller’s wife, Laura, a Cleveland, Ohio, native who’d known Sojourner Truth and who’d been instructed by two of the four original teachers at Spelman. Rockefeller noblesse oblige continued for forty-five years. The AU Center spun out of Rockefeller-Spelman philanthropy; dollars kept coming in to fund the growth of all the campuses, particularly Spelman, after Rockefeller’s wealth later attracted the attention of the Internal Revenue Service. This was long, long before Bill Cosby and his wife, Camille, became wealthy African Americans, and made multimillion-dollar donations to Spelman.
Growing Up King Page 7
