47 Years Ago…

This weekend, August 28th to be exact, marks the 47th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have A Dream” speech. Although I’m not quite old enough to say I remember when…I can say the impact the words of that now famous and infamous speech has had on my life.

Growing up in a mixed-raced neighborhood in the 1980’s, I don’t recall bouts of racism. None that I knew of on my own anyway. I vaguely recall a white lady that lived across the street from us calling me something that was obviously inappropriate because my mother came outside to tell her a thing or two. I just thought the lady was mean, and whatever she said wasn’t cool, because my mother wasn’t the type to engage in such behavior. I remember hearing my mother talking on the phone about it later that night, and in years to come it would come up when my mother felt like showing her ‘bad’ side (lol) but to endure bold-faced taunting or brutal treatment because of the color of my skin, God spared me of such. I am grateful because I don’t know who or what I would be now if I’d been born in a different time. I was born seven years after Dr. King’s speech, which doesn’t seem like a long time, but in Racial Tension Years, that’s like twenty years, easy.

It wasn’t until I reached high school that I began to tap into my rich Black American culture. You see, I went to a Catholic school from 4th to 8th grade and although there were other black kids in my graduating class, Black History didn’t make the cut of the rigid curriculum.

Anyway, it wasn’t until my sophomore or junior year of high school that I chose to dig deeper into our history. I wanted honest and true accounts of what happened so I asked my mother who shared with me that she didn’t really know who Martin Luther King was when they announced over the loudspeaker of her school that there would be an early dismissal because he had been shot. She told me she felt bad about not knowing who he was, but knew it was a big deal because the teachers started crying and hovering in the hallways. By the time she got outside, the police were there in riot gear prepared for the worst. She told me when she got home, she knew things were about to be different. I asked why did she feel bad, she was a teenager that wasn’t in to politics or being radical. Much like our youth today can’t really tell you about our leaders today. I don’t think she took comfort in that, but I think she resolved the feelings with me asking about it. I like to believe it showed her that her offspring was taking an interest in OUR history.

Now, as an adult I can say that I still have not faced out right racism. Sure, Its ugly subtleness has surfaced in stores, restaurants, and things like that, but not directly or so boldly as I’ve heard my brothas and sistas (spelled this way to emphasize our connection) have shared. Blessed? Yes. Fortunate? Maybe. Forty-Seven years is a long time, even longer to have a dream. The same dream that has yet to come true completely. Sure, we’ve come a long way, but still have much work to do and so much more to accomplish.

I don’t think I have to say what I’ll be reading this weekend for reflection…