Thank you, Martin

 by Mona Shaw

Martin Luther King, Jr. is personal for me.  He is my teacher, my mentor, and my friend. He changed my life, forever.  He led me to the defining moment of my life.

When I was 16, I believed then, as I do now, that he was fighting for me and all the poor people who lived in Flint Hills Manor, a neighborhood of dilapidated cinder-block row houses, where the poorest of the poor lived in Burlington, Iowa. I had heard the “I have a dream” speech while perusing used comic books in Susie Alvine’s corner store, and I was instantly and solidly on board.  When he said, “Justice and equality for all, I just assumed my people were included in the “all.”  He was like church.  When I heard his voice, I felt loved.

Life was hard for me then.  At school, I was mocked and taunted because of my

Neighbor kids in the Manor

address.  I ate my lunch alone in the hall instead of the cafeteria to avoid the abuse.  My father and step-mother were in a very dark and angry place at the time.  At home I felt the end of a leather belt most days for anything and nothing.

“You left the light on in your room while going to the bathroom!” 

“The way you breathe is disgusting!”

My feet were like blocks of lead when I forced myself to carry myself to either destination.  My soul was even heavier.  But, I had Dr. King.  I also had my church.

Flint Hills Church of the Nazarene was my refuge.  They saved me body and soul.  They told me I was special, that I was smart and a beautiful child of God. They loved me, and I loved them back.  I felt joy in church.  I laughed in church.  I prayed and sang until my spirit soared.  They taught me the Gospels and how to stand up for your convictions in the face of adversity. 

I had come to that church the way most children did, by crawling onto a blue Sunday School bus when it drove through our neighborhood every Sunday morning.  They welcomed every child, no matter how they were dressed, with or without shoes, and they loved us all. I could endure whatever came my way, because Sunday was coming.

When I showed up with belt marks on my face or arms or legs.  People in the church tried to do something.  The pastor at the time mucked this up horribly, but they were the only ones who tried.

They didn’t talk about racism in church, but, because they taught us to sing, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the word, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight,” I assumed they were against it.

I believed King’s speeches were the 20^th Century gospel.  I thought the Vietnam War might be wrong. When he said it was, I knew it.  His words about poverty and income equality were like drops of water on a scorched spirit.

I learned that Dr. King had been murdered in the same place, but not in the same way, as I learned about the assassination of JFK.  They didn’t announce it over the loud speaker, and they didn’t send us home.  I heard a teacher say, “Someone finally killed that trouble-making nigger.”  I wanted, I prayed earnestly that it was not him, but it was.  I was flattened. And, no one comforted me.

My father did have his kind moments and was patient with my devastation.  He tolerated it when I cut photo after photo of Dr. King and Coretta Scott King behind her black veil from the local newspaper and taped them to my bedroom wall.  I would pray and sob to those photos at night, “Please come back.  Please.  Like Lazarus.  We need you.”

After a few weeks of listening to and watching me, my father did say, “You know you’re not a Negro, don’t you?”  Still, he let me be with my photos and my mourning.

My parents didn’t go to church.  Just the same, every week a “witness” would visit our home, pray with them and try to convince them to save their souls and join us.

One week it was Brother Hartzell.  Now, born-again Christians love talking about

Mug shot of King

the crucifixion more than anything else.  It is an effective topic to elicit agreement.  Brother Hartzell began to agonize with sweat and tears over the mistreatment of Jesus, carrying the cross, the whip, the nailing to the cross, the piercing of his side, and the vinegar shoved to his lips.  He closed his mini-sermon with this.

“That nigger last week got a better funeral than Jesus.”                        

Brother Hartzell left.  My belly burned, literally.  Bile rushed to my throat with an equal scalding.  I swallowed and swallowed to keep it down.  I tried to convince myself that I’d not heard what I heard.  But, I had.  My father couldn’t resist a taunt.

“Well, it looks like your church doesn’t love your guy as much as you do.”

My misery only increased over the following days.  I finally ran to my pastor’s house and poured out my heart and confusion.  The pastor and his wife were loving and concerned.

“You have to understand, “Brother Smith said, “Some people believe the negro is inferior, and some don’t.  We have respect both views. And, even though Brother Hartzell was clumsy in his statement. He is technically right. Hang on to that, Mona.”

Flint Hills Church of the Nazarene

I did not respect both views; I did not want to hang on to that, and explained my position.  Sister Smith took my hand and spoke.

“I know this is hard.  I have trouble with that thinking too, but we must still love each other.  Though I do believe mixed marriages are a sin.”

I was even more confused and tormented and a bit derailed.

“Why is mixed marriage a sin?  Aren’t their children precious? And what about…?  And what about…?  And what about…?”

Dr. King had taught me well.  Brother and Sister Smith finally cut me off and told me that I needed to go home and pray about it.  They said if I prayed in truth, God would explain it to my heart.

“Jesus loves the little children.  All the children of the world.  Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight.  Jesus love the little children of the world.”

Throughout the night, the singing became gently louder and more beautiful, until it sounded like a choir of angels.

Eventually, I heard bird song and saw light coming through my bedroom window.  I stood and tore some loose skin from my knees blistered by the hardwood floors.  I looked at the photo of Dr. King’s photo on the wall and whispered to my soul with a conviction I had never know until then.

“They’re wrong.”

The following Sunday evening, I preached the first, if not the only, anti-racism sermon in Flint Hills Church of the Nazarene to our youth group.  Sister Smith was not amused.  She took me aside.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t,” I promised, “because I’m not coming back.”

I believed this was a test of who I would be, and that my soul would perish if I did not follow it.  I kept my promise, never went back, and never regretted it, but I missed them. I wept about this many times.  The community, the singing, the love, the refuge were gone for good.

Fifty years later, I still miss them.  Every time I pass the church, a part of me wants to go inside, see the pews, smell the smell of hymnals, and look at the light that comes through the stained-glass windows.  But, I cannot go backward.  Still, I cannot but love them for what they gave me when they did.

I didn’t know what to do with my new knowledge, but I kept walking in it.  In the summer, kids in the Manor and I built tents in our backyards and put signs on the tents that said, “Resurrection City.”  The newspaper came and took a photo.  It was something.

Things at school improved dramatically. It turned out most of the teachers did get it, and they said so and organized the first of MLK events sweeping the nation.  The Black kids and poor kids at school suddenly became cause celebre. I had friends.  I would learn these friendships were superficial, and we were fundamentally a do-gooder project. Still, the persecution stopped. They even hired a Black teacher the following year.  I took his class.  I had fun in school for the first time.

Fifty years have passed. I have witnessed many things. My activism increased and became more radical as did my experiences with betrayal and disillusionment.  Dr. King’s life has been sanitized by the dominant culture. The have fashioned his memory to suit their self-interests. Progress in racism, let alone militarism and poverty, has been painful and slow and is far from achieved. Rarely is it mentioned that his mother, Alberta, was also assassinated while sitting in church six years later. He was far more radical and far more of a socialist than most people realize. Please read his work.  His widow, Coretta, lived on for many years to support equality for women and the rights of lesbian and gay people.

The writing of Martin Luther King, Jr. has sustained me through it all.  When I fall flat, and I have many times, and have no hope, eventually I will pull out “Letter from the Birmingham Jail,” and it will lift me to my feet. 

Here and there, someone will point out to me the flaws of Dr. King.  These flaws are undeniable.  I also know this.  We all miss part of the truth.  That’s why we all need to preach it.  And, Dr. King never preached anything but the Truth. And, he absolutely lived and put his life on the line for the Truth he preached. For me, that distinguishes him, forever.

I, too, believe that we will get to the Mountain Top.  I, too, believe “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”  I’ve now entered old age, so like Dr. King, I know I may not get there with you.  But, I know completely and absolutely that justice is inevitable.  Keep reading his truths.  Keep walking.

Thank you, Martin.