For Martin Luther King, Jr.

I remember the first time I heard The Reverend Dr. King speak.

I was sitting on a beautifully carved wooden bench, in my family’s kitchen, which was also our TV room. I was eight years old. My mother gave me a grilled cheese sandwich, my favorite snack. Then she said there was a man giving a speech she wanted me to hear. She sat next to me on the bench, and my dad joined us from his study. The year was 1966, and our TV stood as a separate structure with two tall martian-antennae. The screen was black and white, and as Mom adjusted the antennae, the zig-zags clarified into a picture.

A man stood on a stage, speaking to a crowd. I remember being annoyed that my parents were asking me to listen to an adult talk, with nothing interesting like music or cartoons to back it up. Then I began to listen. I remember becoming quite still, mesmerized. His words rang out, pulsing and rhythmic, an intricate blend of sound and sense, building to one crescendo after another. I could feel The Reverend Dr. King, literally feel his presence, a vibrant physicality. When he finished speaking, my parents took me in their arms. Only then did I realize I had dropped my grilled cheese sandwich to the floor.

Rest In Peace, Martin Luther King, Jr.