I originally wrote this a couple of years ago to help me remember Dr. King’s dream. It was revised a couple of times since. January 15 and April 4 are still sacred dates in my calendar.
I heard the loud thumping of footsteps coming up the basement stairs of my parents’ home in Silver Spring, Md. Something was very wrong. My girlfriend Marie appeared at the kitchen entrance, distraught and out of breath. Martin Luther King has just been shot dead in Memphis. It’s all over the news. Come downstairs. Now. A terrible primal rage boiled up from somewhere deep in my consciousness. Not Martin Luther King. Not King. For God’s sake, not him. Read more