Lady Mountbatten, the wife of Lord Mountbatten, Viceroy of India, was also a guest of Nehru’s that night. The Mountbattens and Nehru, who held opposing ideologies, could have been bitter enemies, yet they remained friends because of Gandhi’s policy of love and nonviolence, in which the main objective and ideal aftermath of a nonviolent revolution is reconciliation and the creation of the Beloved Community. When the battles are over, the refusal of the activists to engage in hate or hostility can produce a new relationship of friendship between the oppressed and the oppressor.
During our trip, we also met with leaders advancing the cause of the so-called untouchables, a term drawn from the caste system that had existed in India for generations. The untouchable, or Dalit, status is traditionally associated with occupations regarded as ritually impure, such as butchering, removal of waste, or leatherwork. Dalits work as manual laborers, cleaning latrines and sewers and clearing away rubbish. Engaging in such activities was thought to pollute the individual, and this pollution was considered contagious. As a result, Dalits were segregated, and banned from full participation in Hindu social life. For example, they could not enter a temple or a school, and were required to stay outside the village.
To learn more about the untouchables, Martin and I journeyed to one of the southernmost parts of India, the city of Trivandrum, in the state of Kerala, where Martin spoke at a school attended by students who, with government help, were attempting to emerge from the caste system. They had no running water. Many didn’t have beds to sleep in. This was counter to what Gandhi would have wanted. He would not have given his life to free India from British political domination and economic exploitation only for his countrymen to trample more than a hundred million of their brothers and sisters underfoot. Through his many nonviolent campaigns, such as fasting almost to the death, barriers that had existed for thousands of years had fallen, but the issue of the untouchables was still a struggle within India.
With that bit of history in mind, when Martin spoke at the school, he drew upon the parallels between the situation in India and with black Americans in the United States. “I am an untouchable, and every Negro in America is an untouchable.”
Nehru had told Martin and me how, because of the climate set by Gandhi, federal laws banned discrimination against the untouchables, and the Indian Constitution had made violation of that law a crime punishable by imprisonment. The Indian government spent millions of rupees annually developing housing and job opportunities in villages heavily populated by untouchables. In addition, the prime minister said, if two applicants competed for entrance to a college or university, and one of the applicants was an untouchable while the other was of a higher caste, the school was obligated to take the untouchable.
In my understanding, Nehru’s reformist policy sounded much like the policy at home, which was being called “affirmative action.” However, the prime minister saw it as a way of “atoning” for the centuries of injustice and suffering inflicted upon the untouchables. We found it disheartening that, in India, everyone from the prime minister down to the village councilmen had come to the conclusion, at least publicly, that declaring an ethnic group inferior was wrong, yet in America, segregationists such as George Wallace won elections by declaring their opposition to policies intended to foster equality for America’s untouchables.
As Martin made speeches all across India stressing the debt America owed to Gandhian philosophy, I often sang on the same program; the Indians had a great love of Negro spirituals. As time went on, I sang as much as Martin lectured. Because the press in India had given our 381-day Montgomery Bus Boycott more comprehensive coverage than many publications in America, Martin had instant face recognition. Wherever we went, we were besieged by autograph seekers. We held press conferences in all the larger cities, from Delhi to Calcutta, and Madras to Bombay.
Martin and I left India more convinced than ever that nonviolent resistance was the most potent weapon available to a minority group in its struggle for equality. What we had witnessed was the amazing climax of a nonviolent campaign. I had high hopes that our revolution would also reap a great harvest, and I fought my fears, trying to believe that Martin himself would live to see it.
After we returned home, I saw the effect of Martin’s identification with the asceticism practiced by Gandhi. Like Gandhi, my husband had struggled with the issue of materialism. In his writings, Gandhi challenged the cultural condition that deemed his wife and children possessions. He often questioned how even a cupboard full of books might be excessive, because his spirituality compelled him to give up all that he had.
For me, that brand of asceticism was more than I had expected in our marriage, and it was more than I could accept. If Martin had had his way, he would have taken an oath of poverty, refusing even the most basic necessities, such as a house. He felt that much of the corruption in society came from the desire to acquire material things such as houses, land, and cars. He wanted none of these, he said, telling me once, “You know a man who dedicates himself to a cause doesn’t need a family.” That statement did not hurt me because I knew he was searching for a balance between asceticism and materialism. But I insisted that our family have a house—nothing fancy, but at least the basics. It took almost thirteen years of marriage before he agreed to buy a house, and when he did, he said he didn’t need it; it was for me and the children. Finally, he decided that cars and a home were necessities, though he would strive to be more like Gandhi spiritually, adopting disciplines such as fasting in order to gain spiritual strength. Still, our house and car were in my name; he refused to own anything. And he never took to the pretentious habit of hiring chauffeured limousines or fancy cars; he would much rather drive a Ford than a Cadillac. Also, he wanted to have a house in a low-income neighborhood, and he wanted his children to grow up understanding the least of these. I didn’t have a problem with that; I just wanted a house. Every woman wants a house.
Unlike Martin, I never sought out asceticism as a way of life, but like Martin, I never became a captive of materialism.
The travels Martin and I experienced together afforded us a chance to connect with world leaders, to get more than a textbook understanding of the developing nations of the world, and just as important, they helped us achieve balance in our lives. The travels, it seemed, served as a device to lift us up from the fire and to cool us down from the overload of movement demands, which sometimes pushed Martin to the point of exhaustion. The cooling-off period, however, never lasted long. While I tried not to feel apprehensive, it did seem as though each calm was followed by another storm. After every high point, evil lurked around the corner.
SEVEN
I Will Never Turn Back
OUR TRIP TO Ghana was life changing for Martin and me for a variety of reasons, one of which is that it was there that I realized I was pregnant with our second child. On the way from Accra to Kano, Nigeria, I began to experience morning sickness. The scents from the marketplaces left a heavy, putrid smell in my nostrils that exacerbated it. I felt nauseated, but said little, preferring to wait until a private moment to share with Martin the news he had been longing to hear. Once again, we would celebrate the birth of new life. We had lengthy debates over the naming of our first boy. I hesitated to name him after Martin; Martin was rising to prominence, and I sensed that the name of a famous father might be a crushing identity to carry. Nevertheless, on October 23, 1957, my son was born, and named Martin Luther King III.
At that time, I tried to curtail many of my activities to stay home with my two children. I always felt that if I failed at being a good mother, whatever else I did would not much matter. However, I soon learned that my resolve to function as a stay-at-home mother would constantly be interrupted by knocks at my door. At times, I yielded to the church mothers’ constant requests to babysit my babies. I realize how nervous it made me feel the few times I had to be away, and how it made the mothers who babysat Yoki and Marty even more nervous when they answered the phone to “H
i, it’s Mrs. King again!”
In addition to helping with civil rights efforts, I also still felt an inner stirring to return to the concert stage. Music was such a part of me; I could not let it go. Moreover, I could see its value for the movement. Music was an opportunity not only to drive home a message, but also to change minds. I returned to the stage on April 25, 1958, at Parker High School in Birmingham, at a program sponsored by Alpha Phi Alpha, my husband’s fraternity. I continued the format I had developed, using dramatic storytelling mixed with songs to tell the story of the Montgomery Bus Boycott. I saw how these kinds of performances were excellent fund-raisers for the movement, while giving me the personal satisfaction that came from using the arts to influence minds and hearts.
I had always preferred to sing and leave public speaking to Martin. Yet, sometimes he would push me forward to represent him when he was tied up with other business. I agonized over the shift in our roles at such times. Should I not stay where I was comfortable, as a singer, and further perfect that craft instead of doing something that seemed like trying to walk on eggshells? I settled the issue of whether I could make the shift from concert stage to public speaker’s podium in March 9, 1958, when I was invited to deliver the annual Women’s Day Address at the New Hope Baptist Church in Denver, Colorado. A dear friend of ours, the Rev. M. C. Williams, was the pastor. I spent hours preparing my message while traveling from Montgomery to Atlanta by train, and on to Denver by plane. I arrived in Denver on a Friday and spent that evening and a good part of Saturday polishing my speech. Realizing the importance and seriousness of what I was about to do, I also spent much time in prayer and meditation.
In the final version, I used the Book of Esther to present my theme: “I will never turn back. And if I perish, I perish.” The Book of Esther is one of my favorites in the Bible. It is a study of how God used an orphaned Jewish girl in Persia to save His people after the evil Haman, the king’s second in command, targeted the Jews for destruction. Esther was one of the unlikeliest people to be used in the grand scheme of shaping a nation, but through her courage, the Jews were saved. I love the line in which she comes to understand that she was brought to the kingdom “for a time such as this,” even though taking a stand was against the law. “And if I perish, I perish,” she vowed.
In delivering that message, the words of Horace Mann, the first president of Antioch College, were still alive within me. He encouraged his students by telling us that we should “Be ashamed to die until [we had] won some victory for humanity.” That April, for the first time, I publicly gave voice to the vision and path I believed God had put me on. There were times in my life going forward when I had to brace myself with the mantra “If I perish, I perish,” to find the strength to press on.
That night, I knew God was with me, because when I rose to speak, I felt the most powerful sense of His presence. I knew I had not been called to preach like Martin, but in many ways I felt I was preaching my trial sermon. After my presentation, three people came forward to give their lives to Christ. Their response settled the question of whether I should step forth as a public speaker as well as a singer. It was, for me, a truly unforgettable moment, infused with joy, resolve, and purpose.
In the wake of that pivotal moment, life continued on a high. Martin and I continued to travel and devote ourselves to organizing. Everywhere we went, people recognized Martin from the exposure he had received on the cover of Time magazine. As I feared, though, that notoriety attracted more harm to him, and not always from the hands of whites. As bad as the racial environment was in the South, I never felt that any one race had a monopoly on evil, and the specter of violence always hovered around us.
I worried about Martin incessantly when he was away from home, and always dreaded that call—like the one that came on September 20, 1958, from Dr. O. Clay Maxwell of the Mount Olivet Baptist Church in New York City, a family friend. After a short greeting, he said gently, “Mrs. King, I want you to prepare yourself. I have some bad news for you.”
Instantly, my heart raced. Was this the news I had feared for so long?
“Is he dead?” I asked immediately.
“He’s alive, but it’s serious,” Dr. Maxwell said. He went on to explain what had happened: a demented black woman had stabbed Martin as he was autographing his newly released book, Stride Toward Freedom. (Because of the way the weapon had been inserted, the surgeon had to remove it by making two incisions, leaving a cross-shaped scar on Martin’s chest.) As soon as we could arrange a flight, Ralph, Christine, and I flew from Atlanta, arriving in New York at daybreak the next morning. Rev. Thomas Kilgore of the Friendship Baptist Church of New York City, Bayard Rustin, Stanley Levison, and Ella Baker met us at the airport. They shook with nerves as they shared the gory details.
Martin had been autographing books at a table in the shoe department of Blumstein’s Department Store when a black woman came up to him and asked, “Are you Dr. King?”
He answered, “Yes, I am.”
Mrs. Isola Ware Curry, a forty-two-year-old woman, then said in a voice dripping with anger, “Luther King, I have been after you for five years.”
In the next second, my husband felt something sharp plunge forcefully into his chest. Someone grabbed the woman, another tried to take out the weapon, but Martin had the presence of mind to stop him. He told me later that he felt no great pain at first, but realized, because of the position of the weapon, that the wound could be fatal.
Martin was rushed by ambulance to Harlem Hospital, where he lay in bed for hours while preparations were made to remove the blade from his chest. At first, we were anxious about the delay, but then we learned the reason. Dr. Aubrey Maynard, the chief of surgery who performed the operation, told me that the razor tip of the blade had been touching Martin’s aorta, and that his whole chest had to be opened to remove it.
“If you had sneezed during all those hours of waiting,” Dr. Maynard told Martin. “Your aorta would have been punctured and you would have drowned in your own blood.” Later, the New York Times summarized, “If Martin had sneezed, he would have died.”
The doctors told us what a remarkable, fearless person Martin was. Think how many of us would have reacted if we had looked down and seen a blade sticking out of our chests: panic and fear, certainly; maybe we would even have tried to remove it. Any of those choices could have been fatal. The doctor said Martin’s calmness helped save his life.
Later, my husband wrote for his column in Ebony magazine:
If I demonstrated unusual calm, it was not due to any extraordinary power that I possess. Rather, it was due to the power of God working through me. Throughout this struggle for racial justice, I have constantly asked God to remove all bitterness from my heart and to give me the strength and courage to face any disaster that came my way. This constant prayer life and trust in God have given me the feeling that I have divine companionship in the struggle.
Reflecting on why a nonviolent person became the victim of such violence, he commented, “To believe in nonviolence does not mean that violence will not be inflicted upon you. The believer in nonviolence is the person who will willingly allow himself to be the victim of violence but will never inflict violence upon another. He lives by the conviction that through his suffering and cross-bearing the social situation may be redeemed.”
It was heartbreaking for me to see Martin plugged into so many tubes. One minute, he was perfectly healthy; the next, perfectly helpless. During the many nights I sat in Harlem Hospital, I tried to make sense of what had happened and to reflect on it with spiritual curiosity. Was this a trial, a test of some kind? I thought of the crowds that always followed Martin, of their love for him and what he stood for. On one hand, it was like Palm Sunday, when Christ went to Jerusalem and the people glorified him. On the other hand, the experience of the stabbing was somewhat like Gethsemane, a dark and arduous period during which maybe not only my husband was being tested, but his followers as well—including me.
I often heard Martin speak of being able to accept a blow without striking back. As I sat by his hospital bed, I began to understand that now was our chance to put our beliefs into action. As soon as Martin was able to speak, he issued a statement: “This person needs help. She is not responsible for the violence she has done me. Don’t prosecute her; get her healed.”
Eventually Mrs. Curry was committed to an institution for the criminally insane. I never held any bitterness against her; rather, I believe her act helped prepare us for a deeper appreciation of the struggle. During that time of wounding, we saw how blacks and whites around the world cared for Martin. Letters and cards poured in from everywhere. Worshippers in churches and synagogues prayed for his recovery. Even during this most painful moment, we saw how our movement was touching hearts and minds around the world—and that was more than enough to emblaze our desires, to show us that, somehow, we were on the right course.
As activists, we were also learning the true meaning of a phrase found in the biblical story of Joseph, which is a staple in Christian circles: “What the devil meant for evil, God changed it for good.”
My Life, My Love, My Legacy Page 10