You had me for a second with the title. Once I read "It's 1963", I knew.
I haven't read this in about 10 years. Last time I read it was before printing it for an employee.
The walls in my office at my restaurant were cluttered with bulletin boards, schedules, clipboards... and one large, framed, hanging photo... MLK's address in DC during the 1957 Prayer Pilgrimage.
It was there for
me, and over the years only a few people even asked. It usually garnered about the same squint and tilted heads that it did when I opened it one Christmas. A newlywed's gift from his wife, meant for
me alone at my wife's family Christmas gathering (it was at our house and she said to pick one gift to open). I stared for a moment then turned it around, they probably saw the tears welling in my eyes; and looked confused as they tried to reckon what exactly I was showing them. I can let out a hearty laugh now, but it was an awkward moment. The voice sends chills, the images bring deep emotions; "I have a dream" usually makes my heartbeat retrace it's natural course. It's been that way since I was way too young to even understand why.
If a response was ever solicited, from a salesman or employee, it would usually be something as simple as "Is that MLK"? (duh). That would be followed by my recitation of the fact that he was my hero and inspiration in life... That if everyone had 1/10 the will and persistence for changing something, the world would be an incredible (and much different) place. "Oh, that's cool" was the usual shallow response.
Many years went by until a young black man, a newly-hired cook, sat in a chair and asked the follow-up question. "Why??"
From his point of view, there would be no reason for a white man to hold MLK in such high regard. At the beginning, the conversation revolved around MLK. All the sacrifices he made to bring about change. The fact that his own safety and well-being were so far down his list of importance that they were basically non-existent. And the fact that he would keep fighting until his final heartbeat. Yet, as
long as that journey was sure to be, his 'pulse' was always in the moment. This letter was a perfect example, so I printed it for him to read.
The conversation ended with his proclamation that "nothing has changed". It's always hard to respond to that other than to say "nothing will, unless we all work together to change". "If one man can do all that, imagine what we could all do
together, if we just tried".
I have failed. My whole life, I knew how important this was. My whole life, I've been shocked by anyone who didn't understand that we are all part of the 'human' brotherhood. As a young man, I told myself that I would bust my rump to bring change. I have failed.
I read one of your eloquent posts some time ago and felt the quicksand beneath my feet as I labored to trudge through the words...
"I'm old and I'm tired". It broke my heart because I knew those were my words as well.
I have failed. And every little thing I've done was nowhere near big enough to change anything. I've been like the Christian who thinks his 'works alone' will get him a ticket to the promised land. An earnest smile and "hello", holding the door open, helping a family in need; not enough.
We have failed, for
SIXTY years. Our 'works' haven't moved the needle. We've gone backwards, in many respects. It's not only heart-wrenching; it's served to minimize the struggle and journey of MLK himself.
Going forward looks more complicated than ever; as we pass the baton and hang our heads in shame.
"For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with a piercing familiarity. This “wait” has almost always meant “never.” It has been a tranquilizing Thalidomide, relieving the emotional stress for a moment, only to give birth to an ill-formed infant of frustration."
