Dr. Martin Luther King[/caption]Carol Forsloff----It was a long day in Atlanta, warm, sunny, and a stopover on the way to Florida from Pittsburgh at a time when the country had moved on from the angry shouts and hurts that emanated from the Civil Rights era, and those wounds felt by so many, to another time, eight years after the death of Martin Luther King in 1968, and a pilgrimage to the memorials. The memories remain, in reflection, along with life's lessons that stay in the heart as his birthday is tomorrow.
Atlanta was not in my traveling plans, but a missed plane left me stranded in a strange city with no sense of direction, unable to drive and without a car in a place I had never been and only read about. Those things associated with the city of Atlanta had been the civil rights demonstrations and marches, the acrimony shown on television between blacks and whites and the still older images of the burning of the city during the Civil War. It was not a positive mindset, held by a woman of the West of liberal leanings; and the first thought was to remain at the airport and simply read a book I had tucked in a travel bag for those occasions of boredom when traveling some distance from Pittsburgh, where I had been living for years.
But a venture out on the curb outside the airport terminal and a look around, emboldened me enough to flag a cab driver who happened to be driving along. I knew Martin Luther King had lived and was buried in the city, so the plan was to go to the memorial, expecting to be one of a minority of white people interested in visiting the former civil rights leader's grave.
When I told the cabdriver of my plans he replied, "Well, this is my taxi; and I have never been to those places myself. Why don't I show you the town, if you don't mind my picking up other fares along the way so I don't lose all the income for the day." The agreement was made, as funds were limited anyway by the unexpected time and cost of staying for hours in Atlanta, and a welcome invitation for sure.
We drove through the town through neighborhoods of plain, simple houses, of the kind where I had lived and other middle class friends did as well. Along the way the cabdriver stopped for a man in a fine suit, who politely offered hello, took a seat, as we shared the ride to the home where Martin Luther King had once lived and the home still a residence for his family in 1976, long after his death in 1967. The man in the suit offered his card, long lost and forgotten, with a name not recalled anymore, but said, with the card, "I am Sammy Davis Jr's agent, and I too have never been to the home of Dr. King. I met him many times but have never been to the place where he lived." He seemed surprised I was going there too.
The conversations among us, the cabdriver, originally from the Middle East, a middle-aged African man and me were part of the day's good memories of how strangers meet and in a journey learn and grow with the time. For each of us visiting King's home and his gravesite came with a different response, but similar too, with respect for the man who had dedicated his life to the freedom of man, black and white.
The house was modest, and not one folks might associate with a man of such incredible reputation, talent and moral strength. Yet there it was, the downstairs portion dedicated to an office and library collection of civil rights books and memorabilia, while the upstairs, the secretary said, continued to be the family home. I asked, "Mostly black people come here to visit or people from up North like me?" "Oh no," said the woman, a smile on her face, "Actually most of the people who visit here and the grave, as well as Ebenezer Baptist Church are white Southerners." The stereotype of angry white people assaulting black folks with rocks, hoses and epithets dissolved in that comment, to teach me that the news doesn't always present all the facts, but the sensational ones get more attention instead. We three stood there, listened and wandered a bit through the small area, then left to visit the grave.
Davis' agent was the first to make his way to the gravesite, standing silently and saying aloud, "How I miss you, my brother," as tears began drifting down the cheek of a man who obviously knew Dr. King. The taxi driver also stood in respect, saying nothing, but his eyes full of wonderment still. And I feeling privileged just to be there to honor, remember the man I had only seen on television and celebrated just in my heart, knelt for a minute and prayed.
We returned to the cab, somewhat moved at the time, exclaiming, but softly, the feelings that all of us shared. We three seemed to know we had been somewhere significant and expressed it with joy in our words, as the passenger, who had shared the journey, was left at his hotel, smiling and waving like a friend saying farewell to another on a day that was special to both.
What I learned on that day that has lasted for years is that strangers can share intimate moments of feelings, as had happened that day, especially when surrendering preconceived notions as well. I wasn't a white woman from Pittsburgh, the cabdriver not a Middle Eastern immigrant and the man who had introduced himself as Sammy Davis Jr's agent was just another person that day, remembering to honor a friend and knowing that friend's greatness as well. We were three people each on a pilgrimage of sorts to pay respects to the great man martyred for his work and beliefs.
