“Are you a photographer?” he asked when he saw my camera. I nodded. “Go ahead then, take a photograph,” Martin Luther King smiled.
Heart racing, I raised my camera and snapped the shutter as he looked down, smiling at me. I thought, if I can use my photography to change the world, it doesn’t really matter what religion I am or where I come from. I can be the voice of all people, just like Martin Luther King.
On the way home, I watched the city lights reflecting off the Harlem River. As the car turned toward Beachmont, we all sang “We Shall Overcome” and chattered with great excitement about Martin Luther King’s speech.
“I’m going to write a column for Jack Williams about this,” Gladys announced, out of the blue. Sally and I started to clap and holler and shout. Honey smiled at us in the rearview mirror.
“And I’m going to write about it in The Tattler,” I added. Then Sally laid her head on my shoulder and she drifted off to sleep as the hum of the car’s motor soothed us both.
Chapter Twelve
The following day, newspapers stated that Martin Luther King shouldn’t have made his speech. Even The New York Times said that he should have stuck to civil rights and left war protesting to others. Eventually, because of this speech, many of his fellow blacks, including the NAACP, held the opinion that he had abandoned their cause; even President Johnson was so mad that he refused to honor an invitation to the White House that he had made to Martin Luther King.
For us, the day after the speech was filled with activity. Gladys worked on her column, and Grappa helped me print my photograph of Martin Luther King, which I proudly handed to Mr. Williams at the Beachmont Times. Jimmy asked me a bunch of questions about what it was like to meet Martin Luther King: Did he have a strong handshake? How much time did he spend with us? How tall was he? Sally started a portrait of Martin Luther King in light blue, yellow, and pink pastels. It was pretty psychedelic. Miss Palmer told her that she should enter it in an art contest, and, I swear, you couldn’t get Sally out of that art room for the rest of the week. By the time Friday arrived, Mr. Williams had my photograph and Gladys had finished her column. That evening, Mr. Williams showed me a preview of the newspaper in his office. I was so proud to see my photograph and Gladys’ article side by side that I practically exploded with excitement. On Saturday, both of these items appeared in the Beachmont Times.
On Sunday, as I came down the stairs for breakfast, my father took me by the arm and pulled me over to the open front door.
“Are you happy now?” he asked angrily.
Somebody had thrown eggs at the door. A sticky, yellow yolk, combined with bits of broken shell, had dried in streaks on the green paint. Eggshells and smeared yolk covered the front stoop.
“Cowards,” I muttered.
“Now, listen to me,” my father said, pulling me back into the house and closing the door. “Enough of this nonsense. It has to stop.”
He sat me down at the kitchen table while my mother made pancakes.
“What if you had stopped fighting back in Germany?” I asked furiously. “What would have happened then?”
“This is not your fight!” my father shouted, thumping the table with his fist.
“That’s not what Martin Luther King said!” I shouted back. “This is everybody’s fight. We’ve got to stop that war!”
My father glared at me, then glanced pointedly at my mother, who said, “Your father just wants what’s best for you, Adam.”
After cleaning the eggs from the door, I went over to Jimmy’s house to talk about who threw the eggs and what to do about it.
“It must have been Billy Collins,” Jimmy said. “His older brother is over in Vietnam, you know.”
The next day after school, Jimmy and I rode our bikes over to the Collins Service Station. The temperature was in the sixties that day and the air felt warm on my face as I rode down the Post Road, with Jimmy pedaling behind. The snow had long since melted in Beachmont and the winter’s hockey season was now a distant memory.
Several Chevys were gassing up when we arrived. Mr. Collins, leaning over the open hood of a Ford, turned his head from the motor to look over at us as we came to a halt next to the car.
“Hello, Mr. Collins. Is Billy here?” I asked.
“He’s out getting a haircut,” Mr. Collins said, as he stood up, wiping his greasy hands on a dirty blue rag. We told him about the article, about my photograph in the Beachmont Times, and we told him about the eggs. As I was describing the congealed yolk on the stoop, my father drove up in our Biscayne. When he saw me and Jimmy talking to Mr. Collins, he got out of the car and came over to us.
“What’s this all about?” my father asked.
“I don’t think it was my boy who egged your door, Eugene,” Mr. Collins said, “but if it was, he’ll get a hiding, I can promise you that.”
My father looked over at me, then back at Mr. Collins. “How’s Jeffrey doing?”
“No word for a week now,” Mr. Collins replied grimly.
“He is in our prayers,” my father said, laying his hand briefly on Mr. Collins’ shoulder. Then, turning back to me, he said, “Don’t you boys have something better to do than bother Mr. Collins?”
“Eugene,” Mr. Collins continued, “my wife will be over for that dress later today.”
“It’s as good as new,” my father answered. He gave me a tap on the shoulder as if to say, Get out of here.
Jimmy and I bicycled over to our clubhouse in the reeds. The shoreline was still wet from melted snow, but inside the clubhouse was snug and dry. We sat on a couple of flattened cardboard boxes and looked out at the ducks swimming on the creek.
“Are you ready for your bar mitzvah?” Jimmy asked.
I watched a flock of ducks fly up from the creek, heading out over the Sound. “I don’t think I’m going to have a bar mitzvah,” I replied.
Jimmy was speechless for a moment. Then he said, “Your father’s gonna kill you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sally finished her portrait of Martin Luther King a week after his speech, and we were eager to show Gladys and Honey.
Honey poured us each a glass of Hawaiian Punch, and we sat at the kitchen table. “It’s still too early for porch weather,” Honey told us as she went to fetch Gladys.
“It’s for you,” Sally said when Gladys arrived. Sally placed the picture on the kitchen table and I saw Martin Luther King’s face in the center of the pastel drawing, with light blue, yellow, and pink rays emanating from his head toward the edges of the paper. Two doves flew among the colorful rays. Gladys beamed as she looked over the drawing.
“Oh, Sally, it is just beautiful!” Gladys said, giving Sally a big hug. I could see Sally’s wide smile over Gladys’ shoulder, and I felt so happy that I knew her and Gladys and Honey and that we’d been able to meet Martin Luther King.
“I’m going to give your picture to Martin, if you don’t mind, Sally,” Gladys said. “Did you know that there’s going to be a big anti-war march in the city this Saturday? Honey and I are going, and Martin’s going to be there too, but I think it’s best if you two stay home for this one.”
We started to argue but Gladys remained firm. “You can watch on television.”
That Saturday, hundreds of thousands of protesters led by Martin Luther King marched from Central Park to the United Nations building, where Dr. King made another speech against the war in Vietnam. Sally and Jimmy came over to my house to watch it on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. When they showed Martin Luther King on the steps of the United Nations, we could see Gladys and Honey standing in the crowd. We all started clapping and shouting and I looked over at my parents, who were smiling at each other in spite of themselves.
“I wish we could’ve been there,” Sally said wistfully.
“So do I,” I replied, squeezing her hand.
The next day, Jimmy and I went down to the basketball court and played two-on-two with Arnold and Barney. After a while, we saw Bobby Taylor approaching the court.
“Hey, Jacobs,” Bobby yelled. “How did you like them eggs?”
I wanted to run over and tackle Bobby but instead I said, “I made a nice omelet, thanks.” My friends started laughing. Bobby didn’t know what to do so he just walked away and we finished our basketball game. Just when we thought we were all worn out, Peter and Sally arrived and we played some three-on-three until the sky began to grow dark and we couldn’t see the hoop anymore.
“What was that all about, with Bobby earlier?” Peter asked me as we left the court.
“Nothing,” I said.
“If that guy ever bothers you, just let me know,” Peter went on. “I’ll take care of him.”
On Monday, Mr. Roberts asked us all to discuss what had happened during the Saturday march in the city. I stood up and told the class how proud I was of both Gladys and Honey for attending. Sally talked about how much she admired Martin Luther King for his peaceful way of protesting, and Arnold Rivkin declared that Martin Luther King was doing the biggest mitzvah ever. I explained what a mitzvah was to the class, and then Paula Young—only the coolest girl in the school, except for Sally, of course—stood up and said that Martin Luther King was the greatest man she ever saw, even better than the Beatles.
Mr. Roberts, who was anything but cool, stood there in his bow tie and sweater vest and he told us that he agreed that the government had to find a way to get us out of Vietnam.
“You kids are the wave of the future,” he said intently. “If the government won’t listen to old folks like me, maybe they’ll listen to you kids.”
Suddenly, for the first time, I thought that all our efforts to stop the war were doing some good, even just in Beachmont. Sally and I walked home together after school. A few blocks before Gladys’ house, she took my hand. I suddenly felt a sense of exhilaration as Sally’s fingers entwined with mine. My heart began to race and I noticed that the sun was brighter, the sky was bluer, and the world was a wonderful place. I felt as if I floated all the way home.
Gladys had invited us over for a glass of Hawaiian Punch, so Sally and I walked hand-in-hand up Gladys’ long driveway and sat close together on her front porch, sipping our drinks. It was a little chilly still, but fun to look out at Beach Avenue through the branches of the chestnut tree. I thought back to the previous October, when I used to follow Sally home from school, when I used to look over at the porch of the great author and wonder what was going on in her house. Now Sally and Gladys were my friends, and we were all working together—along with Pete Seeger and Martin Luther King!—in order to get the U.S. to pull out of the Vietnam War.
“I gave your picture to Martin after the march,” Gladys said to Sally. “He really liked it. He said he wanted to see you two again soon.”
“Really?” I asked incredulously.
“Wow,” Sally breathed.
“Wait a second,” Gladys said, disappearing into the house. A minute later, we heard Peter, Paul and Mary singing “If I Were Free.”
“That’s better,” Gladys said, as she sat down in her wicker chair. We three sat and sipped our Hawaiian Punches and listened to Mary Travers singing about when mankind ceased to fight, she would raise her head in thanks each night. Gladys pointed through the porch screen at the buds on the chestnut tree and she said, “Look, children, spring is coming.”
Chapter Fourteen
Spring was indeed on its way, as was my birthday. And then, of course, there was my bar mitzvah. I decided to talk to Sally about it one afternoon as we shot baskets at the park.
“I think all people are the same,” I said. “Why should I get bar mitzvahed? It just separates me from other people, people like you.”
“I think you should get bar mitzvahed,” Sally said, “and while you’re there, you can give a speech about Vietnam and Martin Luther King. It’ll be fun.”
“What are you doing this summer?” I asked breathlessly, dribbling the ball round to the basket.
“I’m going to an art camp in the Catskills,” Sally said, shooting from the free throw line. “What about you?”
“I’m going to camp in the Adirondacks,” I said.
“I guess we won’t be seeing each other until the fall then,” Sally said.
“Yeah, I guess,” I replied, slightly downcast at the thought.
As I was preoccupied thinking about spending the summer away from Sally, Jimmy came up from behind, stole the ball, and made a layup. “Wanna go to the clubhouse?” he asked. Since Sally was there, we invited her as well.
The three of us sat and looked out at the creek and the rushes and the ducks and geese. Jimmy took a pack of his mother’s cigarettes out of his pocket. He handed a cigarette to me and one to Sally and we all lit up and smoked as we looked out through the small doorway of the clubhouse, like three peas in a pod. Jimmy had a paper bag with him and I knew there was a Playboy in there, but thankfully he didn’t take it out.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Sally said, between puffs. “What are you doing this summer?”
“I’m getting tutored in reading,” Jimmy replied. “The English language is so confusing. I mean, really, the word eight is pronounced like hate, but the word height is pronounced like the word kite. Why is that?”
“Beats me,” I replied. “But even though reading can be hard for you, Jimmy, you are a genius when it comes to making models. Remember that plastic one you made of a 1964 Corvette? I could never follow those instructions.”
“What’s a Corvette?” Sally asked.
“It’s a car, silly,” I replied with a grin, rolling my eyes at Jimmy. Sally slapped me playfully, and the three of us laughed.
Even though it was sixty degrees outside, Sally started to shiver, so I gave her my coat to wear.
“We’ve got spring vacation next week,” Sally said. “Why don’t we have an anti-war protest like the big rally they had in New York with Martin Luther King?”
“Where?” I asked. “Nobody’s going to be at school.”
“How about the library?” Jimmy offered.
“Hey,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “This kid really is smart.”
We decided to schedule the protest on my birthday, April 29, a Saturday. Sally got some of her friends to help us make placards, and Jimmy and I got Arnold and Barney to help out with the supplies. Arnold’s father knew the owner of the Beachmont Deli, and they gave us cans of cream soda and an ice cooler, while Barney’s father knew the manager of the Beachmont Hardware Store, who gave us wood and paper for the placards. Jimmy’s father let us use their garage as a workshop, and I set up my transistor radio on a workbench. We listened to Frank and Nancy Sinatra sing “Somethin’ Stupid” over and over again on WABC. Then “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield came on, a weird song that was climbing the charts about someone with a gun and about how we all needed to beware. What a crazy name for a band. It was kind of funny because Sally’s friends were these Catholic kids and my friends were these Jewish kids and we were all working together to stop the war in Vietnam and make Martin Luther King’s vision of a better world come true.
During that week, I helped out at the dry cleaning store and spent a lot of time at Gladys’ house. Gladys said she wanted to march with us and I told her that would be great, but it was going to be mostly kids. Gladys said it would be better if Honey were not involved as you never know whom she had to work for in Beachmont.
“You should get Jack Williams to cover it for the Beachmont Times,” Gladys said.
“Great idea,” I replied enthusiastically. “I can take the pictures!”
When I told Grappa about the demonstration, he insisted that he and Elise were going to come along too, and that he was going to ask some of his friends to join in as well.<
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We decided to start the demonstration at noon, which would be the warmest part of the day. I made an announcement about the event in my article for The Tattler, and described my excitement at meeting Pete Seeger and Martin Luther King. Sally and Jimmy and I told everybody we knew in the neighborhood about the demonstration, and on Saturday, my birthday dawned bright and clear—a perfect day for a march! By noon, a few hundred people had gathered on the front lawn of the Beachmont Public Library. I noticed a number of kids from school, as well as a bunch of old folks, including Grappa and his buddies. We started marching around in a circle, carrying our placards and shouting out, “Save the country, stop the war!” over and over again. Cars honked their horns and Officers Gray and Nelson stood at each end of the protest area to make sure we were protected and nothing got out of hand. I thought back to when I threw the snowball at their car and about how they never told our parents, so I figured they were okay. The officers even let me take their picture during the demonstration.
Mr. Williams was writing an article about the demonstration for the Beachmont Times, and he went around with a notebook in his hand asking all of us what we thought about the war in Vietnam. Sally acted as our unofficial spokesperson.
“Martin Luther King told us that mankind must put an end to war or war will put an end to mankind,” Sally said. I snapped a photo of her carrying her placard that read, War is not healthy for children and other living things.
The Martin Luther King Mitzvah Page 8