Except
for the month of April, this blog is generally in the business of history. But in this month dedicated to poetry, things that matter can get
short shrift. Take today. It is the anniversary of a gut-wrenching occasion
that left a scar on the nation and on many of our hearts.
It
was on April 4, 1968 that the Rev.
Martin Luther King, Jr. was gunned down as he stood on the balcony of a Memphis motel. He was in the
city to complete some unfinished business—a march in support of striking garbage collectors, a follow up to an
earlier march where violence had
broken out as younger marchers began smashing shop windows. He had returned against the unanimous advice
of his closest associates. But he felt
he had a duty to complete the march in peace.
The
rainy night before, Dr. King had gone to a local church that was packed to the
rafters to hear him. It was there that
to a strangely hushed crowd he delivered his own elegy:
… I don’t know
what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t
matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind.
Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m
not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me
to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised
land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as
a people, will get to the promised land. And I’m happy, tonight. I’m not
worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory
of the coming of the Lord.
The
night of the killing riots erupted around the nation. Black
rage boiled on to the streets. In Chicago the West Side burned. White America cowered in front of their
television sets in fear and horror.
At
tiny Shimer College, I locked myself
in a closet and cried for what seemed like hours.
We’ll
leave it to the pathetic conspiracy
theorists to argue about who to pin the rap on. It really doesn’t matter if we know the name
attached to the finger on the trigger, or the names of who may have paid or abetted,
or even of those who just winked. A
festering boil of racism killed Dr.
King in the forlorn hope that they could kill his dream and the march to
justice.
Traumatic
events like this are often processed through poetry. Think of Walt
Whitman’s elegies to fallen Lincoln—O Captain, My Captain and When
Lilacs Last in the Door Yard Bloomed.
Today,
let’s remember through the eyes of a young Black women.
Nordette Adams grew up in New Orleans. After a varied career as a journalist, government public relations person, ghost writer, technical writer, and
writer and producer of documentaries, she is concentrating on
her creative writing an poetry. She has
returned to New Orleans where she practices her craft. She is currently a contributing editor for BlogHer.com and has her own personal
blog, Whose shoes are these anyway?
Remembering A
Life
I remember him
in the misted vision of toddler years
and again in
girlhood, the booming voice on TV,
someone
grown-ups talked about, eyelids flapped wide.
Elders huddled ’round
the screen enraptured,
in fear for him,
in awe.
I remember him.
His words swept
the land, singing our passion.
Dogs growled in
streets. Men in sheets.
Police battering
my people. (Water, a weapon.)
Yet my people
would rejoice ... And mourn.
I remember him,
a fearsome warrior crying peace,
a man—blemished
by clay, the stain of sin as
any other,
calling on the Rock—
Death's sickle
on his coat tails,
yet he spied
glory.
Shall we walk
again and remember him,
not as the
Madison Aveners do,
but in solitude
and hope
with acts of
courage and compassion,
with lives of
greater scope
carving fresh
paths of righteousness?
I remember.
—Nordette Adams
© Copyright
January 2004, Nordette Adams
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