My Life, My Love, My Legacy

by Coretta Scott King

  Then I sang the spiritual:

  Walk together, chillun, don’t you get weary,

  Walk together, chillun, don’t you get weary,

  Dere’s a great camp meetin’ in the promise’ land.

  I then told the story of Mother Pollard, an elderly lady we had met during the boycott who said, “It used to be my soul was tired while my feets rested; now my feets tired, while my soul is rested.”

  My next song was another spiritual, “Keep Your Hand on the Plow,” of which I said, “We are going to keep our hands on the plow because we are determined that there shall be a new Montgomery, a new Southland, yes, a new America, where freedom, justice, and equality shall become a reality for every man, woman, and child. We have felt all along in our struggle that we have cosmic companionship—that God Himself is on our side and that truth and goodness ultimately will triumph. This is our faith, and by this faith we shall continue to live.”

  At the close of the program, I sang one of Martin’s favorite songs, the beautiful spiritual “Honor, Honor”:

  O run along lil chillun to be baptize’

  Mighty pretty meetin’ by de waterside.

  Thus we had our songs, we had the Spirit, and we had our unity—which only frustrated the racist extremists. But despite the fact that the violence continued—blacks were dragged off buses and beaten up, a pregnant woman was shot in the leg—a nonviolent Christian movement had begun. The paralysis resulting from hundreds of years of oppression had broken; we were learning to walk again as new human beings. The weapons of our movement—faith, love, prayer, action, and obedience to God—would prove mightier than bombs, dynamite, tradition, or the Ku Klux Klan.

  The boycott had become personal for me very quickly. It burned into my mind the price I might have to pay for refusing to bow down to a system that insisted upon reducing us to less than human. The knowledge that I could be killed, along with all the people I loved, had to settle within me. In addition, Martin was unfairly jailed for the first time, which made me understand that if we continued with the movement, I would have to adjust to his being snatched away from me without really knowing if he would ever return.

  Montgomery made me face the reality that I could lose my own life and leave my daughter without a mother. When you are in your twenties, even with danger all around, you have a sense of invincibility. But before the Montgomery experience ended, I knew what “commitment” was all about, and I knew just how far I would go with this new movement.

  Martin and I felt extremely blessed when we saw what was happening around us. At the beginning of the Montgomery experience, we had no idea that a local boycott would spread like wildfire until it was news worldwide. It was like a great revelation, a truth unfolding and exploding within us. Somehow, we knew we had been divinely placed. It was God’s will for us to be in Montgomery. I felt that we were part of a great drama unfolding on the stage of history. It was what I had been prepared for all my life, and a great sense of fulfillment came over me.

  I had a feeling that told me: We’re supposed to be here. I have been called to be a part of this, and now I’m prepared to go all the way. If something happens to me, then let it be.

  SIX

  The Winds of Change

  AN OFT-HEARD REFRAIN in black churches is “I got up one morning, my hands looked new; I looked at my feet, and they did, too.” Everything was brand new. That was the way it felt in the wake of the successful Montgomery Bus Boycott. The new year, 1957, dawned as a metaphor for a future that sparkled and gleamed with promise, potential, and fresh purpose. The days reminded me of the touch of lime with which I liked to flavor my sweet tea, how you could enjoy sweetness with a hint of bitterness, a reminder that life often brings both.

  On February 18, 1957, Time magazine featured Martin on its cover, with a story about how he was emerging as one of the nation’s remarkable leaders. It was a great honor, but being thrust into the national spotlight brought with it a new set of uncertainties and challenges. I had many questions, and I was seeking direction about what awaited me around the corner. Could I continue my career as a concert singer? Should I be expected to become a public speaker? How could I balance being there for Martin and being home with the children and being deeply involved in the movement? How could I compartmentalize myself in so many ways and still hold on to the corner of my life that belonged strictly to Coretta?

  I soon found that there was no map or guidebook to help me answer my questions. I had to live life and believe that God would define me and shape me for my purpose. I began to understand that each crisis, even each new heartache, was just preparation for the leadership role that I would have in the coming years.

  Martin’s recognition in the mainstream media had resulted in his being celebrated as the ex officio president of black America, with requests for him to speak pouring in from around the nation and the world. While I was overjoyed at the opportunities Martin had to be a messenger for such a great cause, for me, the notoriety also came with a price, like threats and harassment and the fact that Martin could be detained at any moment. Martin had been jailed for the first time, so I now knew how that felt, how anxiety is like rocks piling up in the pit of your stomach, and you wake every hour in anticipation of bad news. Strangely enough, I so identified with Martin’s suffering that I vicariously felt the weight of prison doors slamming behind me, too. When he was locked in, I felt locked out of his life, not knowing if he would return to his family alive or with his body broken. I understood what it meant to feel helpless and hopeful at the same time.

  Nevertheless, life had a hold of me, and I became swept up in the strong currents of the movement as it rushed forward. Encouraged by the success of the Montgomery experience, other churches and colleges began planning protests and sit-ins to end segregation. Martin and his team of ministers soon understood that the problems of segregation were so deeply ingrained in southern soil that full equality could come only through changes in the law or, more precisely, federal intervention, which would mean increasing our efforts to organize and mobilize.

  On January 10, 1957, I found myself thrust in the midst of the formation of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. I opened and presided over the first meeting of the body that would eventually become the SCLC. Martin had sent invitations to nearly a hundred leaders in states across the South, asking them to attend the two-day meeting at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta. Our aim was to coordinate all the fast-moving activities swirling around racial injustice and broaden the movement’s base.

  Martin and Ralph had planned to open the meetings, but in the wee hours of that morning they had to rush back to Montgomery because Ralph’s home and church had been bombed, as had three other black churches and the home of pastor Robert Graetz, the white pastor of a black Lutheran church, the only white person to serve on the MIA board. So Martin delegated to me the historic task of calling the august group together. I took this as one more sign that eventually I would have to expand my role from being a concert singer to also becoming a public speaker, a role I eyed with trepidation.

  About a month later, on Valentine’s Day, 1957, the SCLC was officially founded in New Orleans. However, it was headquartered in Atlanta, because Atlanta was a hub of transportation in the South. Ella Baker was its first acting executive secretary; Ralph Abernathy was elected treasurer; Martin was elected president. Practically all the leaders who answered the call and attended our first meetings were ministers, underscoring our commission as a Christian-oriented, nonviolent movement. Although the members of the SCLC were often labeled “passive resisters,” that was a serious misnomer. As I stressed at our first meeting, we organized as a militant organization that believed that the most potent weapon available was nonviolent social action.

  From the moment of the SCLC’s inception, I had high hopes for its success. I saw tremendously seasoned and courageous men stepping forward to work with the organization. These leaders included the Rev. C. K. Steele, eminent pastor of t
he Bethel Baptist Church in Tallahassee, who became the leader of the Tallahassee Bus Boycott and movement; the Rev. Joseph E. Lowery, who launched the Mobile movement; and the Rev. Fred Lee Shuttlesworth, a civil rights leader in Birmingham. It was Shuttlesworth who became a symbol of the southern struggle as he fought the tyranny of the infamous Bull Connor, the commissioner of public safety in Birmingham.

  * * *

  WITH MATTERS BEING organized, broadened, and placed in the hands of able leaders, Martin and I took some time off to rest and to travel internationally. When I reflect on the years immediately following Montgomery, I think on those things that took me away from it: it was as if some other part of my life had to be broadened through travel, meeting foreign dignitaries, and witnessing the experiences of other activists and oppressed people around the globe. Some thirty years later, I would serve a brief ambassadorship in the United Nations, and as a private citizen, I would serve as a goodwill ambassador to many nations of the world. Periodically, my conscience and sense of moral integrity would force me to take public stands against the official foreign policy of my government. These early years traveling with Martin to foreign shores were my prep school.

  Many invitations poured in for me and Martin, to visit nations around the world, but the first we accepted was the opportunity to witness Ghana become one of the first African colonies to gain independence from the United Kingdom. Not only were the chains coming off in our country, but Africa was breaking free as well. You can imagine the excitement Martin and I felt after seeing a new movement being birthed in the South; now we could witness the winds of change stirring in Africa, too. The two struggles, against colonialism in Africa and racial oppression in America, were tributaries of the same river, so we felt honored that Kwame Nkrumah, head of the government-elect of Ghana, invited us to celebrate the birth of their new black nation.

  After many years of black struggle, the British Empire finally concluded that it could no longer rule the Gold Coast. It agreed to free Ghana on March 6, 1957. All this was because of the persistent protests of those who no longer wanted to be bound. Nkrumah himself had been arrested for sedition and sentenced to several years, but just as the jailers in America were forced to let Martin out of jail because of the movement’s protests, the British had to handle Nkrumah gently. He served only nine months, and came out of prison the new prime minister.

  On March 3, 1957, Martin and I boarded a plane to Accra to be present at the birth of Ghana’s independence. Nkrumah had invited a number of prominent black American leaders, including Ralph Bunche, Lester Granger of the Urban League, Congressman Adam Clayton Powell Jr., A. Philip Randolph, and NAACP chief Roy Wilkins. Chief Minister Norman Washington Manley, the “founding father” of Jamaica, was also there. People came from seventy nations to witness this African country’s break from European colonial rule. At a reception on March 4, Martin met Richard Nixon, who was vice president at that time. He greeted Martin warmly: “You’re Dr. King. I recognized you from your picture on the cover of Time. That was a mighty fine story about you. I’d like to meet with you when you are back in Washington.”

  On March 5, we watched the closing of the last meeting of the Parliament under the British rule. The British, most of whom were white, were dressed in business suits, and the Parliamentary officials wore traditional white curled wigs and black robes. Nkrumah and his ministers wore the prison caps that had been part of their uniforms during imprisonment. Those caps held special significance for me. They were a reminder of my deep pain the first time I saw Martin jailed, and they hinted at the many other heartbreaks over jailings I was sure would come.

  At midnight, the bells of Accra began to toll, and we stepped out of Parliament and were greeted by the sight of a great crowd, more than fifty thousand people cheering wildly. We watched the Union Jack, with its triple crosses of red, blue, and white, ease down the flagpole. We saw the red, yellow, and green flag of Ghana, a new, free nation, rise up. Then Nkrumah, speaking in English, said, “At long last the battle has ended. Ghana, our beloved country, is free forever. Let us pause one minute to give thanks to our Almighty God.” Breaking the silence, there was a mighty roar as thousands chanted in unison, “Ghana is free.” I looked at Martin and saw that he was weeping with joy.

  Like many African Americans who were not free to eat, live, or work where they wanted, I identified strongly with the Ghanaians. At so many places in the South, I still could not be served a hot dog unless I waited at the back door. I could not stay in a first-rate hotel; I could not try on a dress in a downtown department store; I could not check out a book from a public library. In Ghana, it was exhilarating to see black people in charge. For the first time, I was in a situation in which black people were the majority in a land they could call their own. What an impact! It gave me such a great sense of pride.

  I thought about our own situation: How long would it be before we, too, could be freed from our oppression and become full-fledged Americans? The Ghanaian experience was a great boost to our dreams of one day seeing blacks control their own destiny in America.

  It was also quite a thrill for me to see how Martin was recognized in Ghana and in the other places we traveled (Nigeria, Rome, Geneva, Paris, and London) as we made our way home. Two years later, Martin and I took our second trip off of American soil, journeying to India to study the teachings of Mohandas K. Gandhi, the man who had made such an impact on our movement, who was the guiding light for our ideology and our techniques of nonviolent social change.

  I found it a wonderful twist of fate that the activist Bayard Rustin, head of the War Resisters League, who had spoken about India to my eighth-grade class in Marion, Alabama, and later at Antioch, had signed on as one of my husband’s mentors for the trip. Rustin, a hard-core Gandhian, had spent six months in India and was active in its independent political movement. Rustin’s speech on the tactics of Gandhi, coupled with independent study, had whetted my interest in the effectiveness of nonviolence. Meanwhile, ever since his studies at Crozer Seminary, Martin had been pursuing the Gandhian doctrine of strikes, marches, boycotts, and other nonviolent demonstrations to achieve justice. Martin was first exposed to Gandhi’s works when he attended a lecture by Dr. Mordecai Johnson, the first black president of Howard University. After hearing Dr. Johnson speak, Martin bought every book he could find on Gandhi’s success as a leader and a proponent of nonviolence. Gandhi’s nonviolent strategies resonated with Martin’s deeply ingrained Christian ethics.

  Gandhi, of course, is widely celebrated as the father of Indian Independence. His hunger strikes, imprisonments, and nonviolent protests were so effective with the masses that Britain left India, one of its largest and most profitable colonies, in 1947. Tragically, Gandhi was assassinated just a year later, on January 30, 1948.

  As I studied the life of Gandhi closely, I wondered if Martin, who patterned himself after Gandhi, would face a similar tragedy. I know my husband had similar thoughts. After our trip abroad, Martin wrote a piece about Gandhi that could have been a self-portrait. All one had to do was scratch out the name “Gandhi” and insert “Martin Luther King.”

  Martin wrote:

  The world doesn’t like people like Gandhi.… They don’t like people like Christ; they don’t like people like Abraham Lincoln. They kill them. And this man who had done all of that for India, who had given his life and who mobilized and galvanized four hundred million people for independence … Here was a man of nonviolence falling at the hands of a man of violence. Here was a man of love falling at the hands of a man of hate. This seems the way of history.

  As we took off for India, a transportation tie-up temporarily diverted us from our main destination, New Delhi, to Bombay. To my shock, we saw thousands of people dressed in rags sleeping on the sidewalk or huddled in doorways, lying wherever they could find space. Some carried everything they owned wrapped up in rags or newspapers. The legions of emaciated human beings picking through garbage, some wearing only dirty loincloths, were,
our guides explained to me, a by-product of colonialism. Not even in Africa had we seen such poverty. Yet, despite the degrading living conditions, the crime rate was surprisingly low in contrast to that in the poorer areas of the United States.

  In marked contrast to the suffering we saw in Bombay, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s palatial residence in New Delhi was as lavish as it was gracious. Over dinner, we were able to learn firsthand the difference in policy and philosophy Nehru had had with Mahatma Gandhi. We knew from our studies and from friends about the policy battles between the two. Gandhi had been completely dedicated to nonviolence, while Nehru was inclined to accept it as a useful revolutionary technique. Gandhi, a practitioner of the simple life, had not wished to turn India into a modern technological society; Nehru, who was more Western-oriented, felt that India could not survive without becoming industrialized. It would be interesting if the two leaders could have had this conversation today, in the early twenty-first century, as India and its neighbor, Pakistan, continue to develop their nuclear armaments.

  After dinner, Nehru took us up a broad flight of stairs and into a formal sitting room to meet his daughter, Indira Gandhi (who was no relation to Mohandas Gandhi). This was a high point of my pilgrimage. From that first meeting, Indira and I became friends, enjoying a friendship that endured up to her tragic assassination in 1984. Indira would later serve as prime minister of India, from 1966 to 1977, and from 1980 to 1984, becoming one of the first women in modern history, along with Israel’s Golda Meir, to lead her nation. I was so impressed with Indira’s charm, grace, and intellect, and by watching her close up, I came to understand some of the strengths and perils of women at the top, particularly the ways that women can be condemned for doing exactly the same things for which their male predecessors are praised. On the brighter side, however, as early as the 1950s (and partially because of Mahatma Gandhi’s commitment to the advancement of women), I saw how some Indian women held much higher positions than women back home. There were women in Parliament; and in 1959 a woman was even a justice in India’s High Courts. Imagine that! I know that someday women in the United States will lead the country, not only in one of the highest courts of the land but also at the top, as president. It would be wonderful if I could live to see that come to pass.