Facebook Publication Date: 1/20/2019 1:01

On MLK And Walking In Service To Legacy

In the more than 50 years since Martin Luther King’s death, both the man and his central messages have been distorted by those who would utilize his legacy as a putative ‘brand’ rather than the challenge to power structures and institutions that it actually was.

It is understandable that politicians and corporations would want to align themselves—or, more accurately, seem to align themselves, with at least part of the ideals he espoused and the very real conviction with which he acted—doing so lends a legitimacy and a certain gravitas to what they do, while, simultaneously, serving as something of a deflection to what they do, or, rather don’t do, to truly honor and serve the vision of the man and of the movement that he led.

Misappropriation has happened in virtually every level of our culture: corporate public relations press releases and advertisements using Dr. King’s name to sell everything from cornflakes, to sport cars and beer; politicians invoking his words, using the distorted and self-serving vision of a colorblind society to rationalize policies that hurt and oppress the very populations MLK lost his life to stand with; the military, the most disturbing misappropriation, co-opting his birth as a neutered backdrop and cover for their actions (such as targeted recruitment of minority and working-class students), which, to many, is antiethical to what MLK stood for.

This selective inattention to both the words, as well as the context in which he said them, is at best uninformed; at worst, a cynical manipulation and distortion of both his words and his praxis.

It is not enough to focus on and then stop with only MLK’s “I have a dream” message and not discuss or attempt to acknowledge, much less internalize and implement, the more revolutionary and paradigm-changing aspects. It is not enough to treat MLK as a venerated, yet oddly (and unnervingly) ignored, historical figure. To say that one ‘honors’ the man, while disregarding his vision and ideas, his challenges and exhortations, his admonitions and warnings, is the very definition of disingenuousness.

We as a community, and as a country, can and must do better. To truly honor and respect MLK and his contributions to the America he sought to redeem with his life, and ultimately, with his death, we must fully commit at bare minimum to truly learn, acknowledge, internalize, and strive to live out his teachings, his walk, and most importantly, his courage, up to and including his ultimate sacrifice, daily—not only one day a year, but to make it a driving force of our own lives, as an informer, indeed as a relentless and reliable and resilient driver of our deepest convictions.

America can and must, both individually and in our common life in this nation, search our hearts and examine our actions. We must take a good look at the stains of racism, classism, and indifference to what our choices have done, both here and worldwide, that blot our national collective soul. Then -and only then- can we even come close to the ‘content of character’ we say we want but do so little to actually achieve.

This is the reason we launched Lace on Race one year ago on the weekend that commemorates MLK’s life and work. This is the reason we have unflinchingly and unwaveringly focused on rigorous internal searching and reflection and sustained external praxis; why we understand and affirm that this work, while it is bigger than any one of us, must be primary to our lives on a daily basis. This is why we must take this great man’s ideas and hold them, even as we interrogate how to best serve these ideals and live them out a half century later.

In this, the 56th year of the March on Washington and his iconic speech, we are painfully aware of how much of that speech is still unfulfilled.

Every black body killed with impunity, every black woman dishonored and silenced, and every black child denied acknowledgement of their full personhood and claim to America’s dream, to its promise, is a vow broken to the man we say we revere.

Every movement that has changed American society for the better has been with the leadership of black people, sometimes peripherally, but mostly not.

I am the woman I am because of miles trod, hoses braved, jail cells filled, and lives taken. Even the most mundane tasks of my day are at times filled with wonder and awe for the people who gave their time, resources, social capital—and their very lives—to make possible my very ordinary life.

When I write my mortgage check for a house in a neighborhood once denied to my parents, for a house that still has (an unenforceable) restrictive covenant; when I shop for food and am allowed to pick up the apple I am considering; when I walk beaches my parents never felt safe to enjoy; when I worship with a multitude of colors and cultures, where the leader of my faith tradition is a black woman, ;when I sit in a cubicle in the government office, where, 40 years ago, people had to picket in order for us to have jobs other than janitor or cook; when my card is accepted without scrutiny, I give silent thanks.

I give thanks. Even when I still live in a world where there are neighborhoods where I am decidedly not welcome; Where there is still a lack of food justice because of environmental racism and redlining, I give thanks. When I receive hard stares at the shoreline, whose crashing waves and infinite horizon should be a place of safety and reflection, and am reminded of the fact that changed laws do not always, or even often enforce changed hearts, I give thanks. When I think of the still extant wage gap; of resumes—documents of hope and promise— trashed when they come with names like Shiquila or Demetius; when I see who most often take up the reserved spaces in the parking lot at work, I give thanks.

I give thanks for the daily, hourly, oftimes minute by minute, confrontations and reminders of the work there is still to do. I am grateful for the charge to do it. I give thanks for the black women and men whose lives were the very brick and mortar where I now walk, and for the conviction and the will and the capacity and the agency—the agency they created and curated for me and others through the sheer force of *their* will.

I give thanks for young people whose world is different than mine was, even as mine is different than my parents and aunts and uncles. I give thanks that they are inheriting something marginally better for them to then build upon.

My thanks is imbedded in my work. With those who have chosen to walk with me, and those I will never see. For hearts changed, and for hearts still hardened.

I do not know what Dr. King’s favorite hymns and spirituals might have been, but I have a few of my own that give me conviction, exhortation, and strength for a walk that will only end with my last breath. I will link them below. One you know if you have followed me for any length of time. ‘Won’t Go Back’ is not only a statement, it is an entire manifesto. I have been changed. To the marrow.

My tired, but still willing marrow. The other, ‘No Ways Tired’, reminds us that we will always have reservoirs of resolve and resilience, even through these days of treacherous terrain. The words, which I will also leave with you, are both balm and beacon.

‘I’ve come too far from where I’ve started from/nobody told me that the road was gonna be easy/but I can’t believe He’d bring me this far/and just leave me.’

And we have not been left. Everything we do has been blessed by the ancestors. Every mile we walk, we are surrounded by those who came before us. Every tear we shed has also rolled down the cheeks of Luttrie, of Lacie Mae, of Aunt Pastoria, of John Scott, of Miss Beatrice. I can feel their gentle push when my hip hurts. I can feel their breath as they sing with me.

And I see Martin.

Never stop walking.

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