My first political memory, at age 7, is the assassination of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  I was too young to remember the assassinations of JFK and Malcolm X, and although RFK would be assassinated later in the same year as MLK, I don’t have a memory of his assassination.  In my world, MLK was more important than RFK, and we were still mourning King’s killing.  And I can remember, to this very day, the sadness in the air, that weighed so heavily on the souls of Black folks – we couldn’t breathe then.  And I remember the refrain, “They killed another good [read Black] man!”  Later, I would learn that “they” were white people.  Much later, when I read The Choice: The Issue of Black Survival in America, by Samuel F. Yette, I learned that I was born at the very beginning of what Yette calls the Decisive Decade.

One byproduct of growing up in the Decisive Decade is that you did not, could not, see the world through rose-colored glasses.  It was in color, but only three colors: black, white, and red.

Death is the theme of the Decisive Decade.  There’s a long list of deaths, mostly of Black people, including James Chaney of Mississippi Burning (1964) infamy, but also of white people, JFK and RFK, and Chaney’s “partners,” Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner.  I was too young to know that Mississippi was burning, that the world was on fire, until April 4, 1968.  Burn, Baby, Burn!  There was “rioting” in the streets.  MLK, prior to his assassination, had said: “A riot is the language of the unheard.”

Long before the chants of “No Justice, No Peace,” I heard the language of the unheard; there was the language of the unheard, in their music, in their slogans and songs, and in their poetry – poetry for my people.

The title poem of my most recent collection of poetry, which I am shopping around, is The Black Blood of Poetry, which eulogizes so many of these individuals’ deaths, including MLK:

The King is dead, his Black blood spilt on a Southern Motel Balcony!

This Black Prince of Peace, dead from white violence at thirty-nine;

His autopsy reveals a heart of 60 years, from the stress of fighting Ole Jim Crow.

“Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” for “I’ve seen the Mountaintop.”

This Black Prince of Peace, a victim of white violence at thirty-nine.

Nonviolence begat violence: Southern hate, water hoses and police batons.

“Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” for “I’ve seen the Mountaintop.”

He still dreams in Technicolor, in a deeply demarcated black-and-white world.

Nonviolence begat violence: Southern hate, water hoses and police batons.

But he still had dreams, dreams of that Oneness that’s part of Christians’ creed.

He still dreams in Technicolor, in a deeply demarcated black-and-white-world.

This Native Southern Son waged a peaceful campaign across the South.

His dreams are of that Oneness that’s part of Christians’ creed –

May his Lord safekeep his soul till the Second Coming, or the fire next time.

This Native Southern Son waged a peaceful campaign across the South,

But a misguided white brother spilt the Prince of Peace’s Black Blood on a Balcony.

On this day, the anniversary of the assassination of MLK, let us remember what happened on that Balcony.  Let us not look at the monumental murder of MLK through rose-colored glasses.  And hard as it may seem, I’ve seen, in smaller communities, such as Communities for Healing and Justice, the beloved community. 

Amen, I say to you, Dr. King.  Amen.