Dr. King’s blood was on the young Preacher’s hands.
The Preacher was on the balcony of that motel in Memphis. He heard the shot. Saw Dr. King fall. The Preacher knelt and Dr. King’s blood was on his hands.
Not that long out of South Carolina now based in Chicago. The Preacher went on to feed a lot of hungry people. A storied career. Ran for President twice.
A much different kind of life than Max.
Max was a tailor. He had a shop on the West Side of Chicago. I met him when he was very old. Long past the shop. And we talked about those days after Dr. King was shot. About cities burning across the country. About the way Bobby Kennedy, perhaps by the sheer force of his inspired will, kept the city of Indianapolis calm.
We talked about the time, during those days of terror, when the Preacher himself came into Max’s shop. Flanked by two lieutenants of the street, the Preacher had come to collect Max’s protection money.
For anybody not familiar with the term, that means, “You pay me, and I don’t hurt you or anything or anyone you own or love. I make sure not to give the order to burn down your shop."
It’s a bit like a lobbyist giving money to a politician. Only fire is involved.
Max told the Preacher that he didn’t have the money.
The two lieutenants rolled their shoulders. But the Preacher held up his hand. The little tailor shop went silent. And the Preacher said to Max. “Then make me a pair of pants.”
Max nodded. Said “Tomorrow” and the delegation walked out.
Next day they came back, the Preacher tried on his new pants. And that little tailor shop stood while everything around it burned.
Revolutions mean blood. They mean terror and fire. The are easy to judge and so, so hard to fight.
Who was the bad guy? The good guy? Does it matter?
Am I even asking the right questions? The questions that will get us back to the message Dr. King left all of us who are still here in the world.
What, I wonder, were Dr. King’s last words? Maybe they can lead us away from the judgements and land us on some hope in today's troubled world where so many have so little.
The answer found in Pulitzer Prize winner Taylor Branch’s biography, was that Dr. King’s last words were a request to musician Ben Branch, who would be playing at Dr. King’s speech that night, that he play a song.
Dr. King’s last words were a request to play the song, “Take My Hand Precious Lord.” A song with a storied history all its own. Written in Chicago.
Dr. King’s last words?
He asked for music.
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Comments
There is a true story my boss from Northwestern University told me once...
My boss was crossing a busy street in the Loop one afternoon near city hall. As he started across, totally obeying the crosswalk signal, to his right, a loud horn sounded. He saw a large limo coming towards him, not making any effort to stop. He caught himself and jumped backwards, falling onto the curb, hitting his head and trying to shield his eyes from the water and filth the limo splashed onto him. The limo slowed slightly as it rounded the corner. My boss looked up and made eye contact with Jessie Jackson sitting at the window in the rear seat, looking back at him, expressionless, just looking at my boss, who was almost prone, wet, dirty, and possibly injured. Jackson gave no instruction to stop, did nothing, just gazed as the limo went by...
I could never take him seriously after that incident, and all the other errant acts and words from this man (numerous indeed) through the years.
R♥
There are many politicians, lobbyists and preachers. It would be nice to rest in peace before I die, but it will not come in my lifetime either.
Beautifully put.
Interesting post.
Fusun--Thank you! It is a day to remember and dream.
Bleue--There are stories of how he was weary too and spoke about retiring---just before the shots rang out.
fernsy---Yeah---you probably won't see that too many other places
Jeff---That is a very interesting thought. Could be true---I don't know. But any piece that prompts a comment like that, I nod my head and say "Yeah. That piece worked."
But today I was thinking of all the ways that here at the outset of 2012 when we so need reconciliation among us all, in the world, that I wished the local art theater would play some films of the South African "Truth and Reconciliation" Committees. Somehow that hit me as a way to honor MLK. But of course I thought it too late.
You all do know that King was killed by one of those in his inner circle, I do not know who, a man who gave the whites his whereabouts. Which to me is reminisent of all the ways of sabotage and the dire need for truth, reconciliation, retribution, love, the works. Sorry, don't know the Jesse Jackson story, maybe he was being driven and sleeping. Let's not take as factual negative stories not today. Mot tomorrow. okay?
MLK was also flawed, but still moved mountains. I believe those who don't make mistakes don't learn the humility and reality necessary to get the tough jobs done.
"I believe those who don't make mistakes don't learn the humility and reality necessary to get the tough jobs done."
When talking of people who really have moved mountains--the challenge for me is to tell the story and describe a flaw without casting a judgement. It's those mistakes that always help make giants like the Preacher in this story and Dr. King---who ends this story--so central to all of our lives.
Wendy0--That the piece prompted thoughts of Dr King is really the only goal, so thank you. As one sifts through all the stories that come with being a legend, again trying hard to describe and tell them without casting a judgement (no small trick) the one I did not know was the one told in Taylor Branch's biography---that the last thing Dr. King said was that he wanted to hear a song.
That was new to me. And I loved it.
This piece set my memory bank on fire and there's nobody on the way to put it out.
We've all been through so much in this time we're in.Those readers who lived in those times and remember how it felt are jarred when we hear of the other side...and then we remember. Our heroes carried our message to the world. We probably should not have expected more.
I met and spoke with RFK about six weeks after MLK was murdered. That sticks with me and I remember it strongly on each anniversary. There was a photo of that moment in the local newspaper. I wonder how much we choose to forget so that our heroes can stay alive the way we knew them?
So much is lost in the pious cliches of remembering. The cliche pieces are easy. And they are what will be featured---I'm positive--on OS, salon, Huffington and everywhere else.
But I wanted to go beyond that.
And even though I knew a piece like this would not be featured,
I thought the best way to honor Dr. King was to get people REALLY thinking. To spark the memories of those who were there so they could do EXACTLY what you did. Ask the really important questions---for a deeper understanding of all he left us.
That his last words were to ask for a song means more---I believe--than who the good guys, bad guys etc etc were.
Because in the end we are ALL flawed! The preacher whose name I did not use, (and who by the way spent the night on a homeless shelter floor last night--so God bless him. He's still out there) Dr. King, his mentor, and all the rest of us. All of us flawed.
All of us reaching for that song.