My Life, My Love, My Legacy

by Coretta Scott King

  Even in his agony, though, Martin’s concern was still for the masses. “I’ve seen the Promised Land,” he told the gathered throng. “I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the Promised Land.… Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”

  When he finished, there was hardly a dry eye in the church—including for Martin himself, who was overcome with emotion. Earlier, he’d had me copy out several stanzas of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which included “His truth is marching on,” the line he’d planned to use as a conclusion. Caught up in the inspiration of the moment, he forgot to deliver the line.

  In that speech, he also spoke about me, about how we had traveled the Jericho Road together in Israel. He connected our travel to that of the Good Samaritan, who picked up a wounded man who’d been beaten by robbers. Most of the others traveling by considered what would happen to them if they stopped. But the Good Samaritan asked, “What will happen to him, the wounded man, if I don’t stop?” Martin said that this was the question we must ask when considering the plight of others, like the striking sanitation workers: “What will happen if we don’t stop to help them?”

  Better than anyone else, Martin knew what those who loved him could not bear to contemplate: that his time on earth was not long. Without being morbid, he tried to prepare his family, his friends, and his congregation. On February 4, 1968, at Ebenezer, he had preached “The Drum Major Instinct,” a sermon that had always seemed to me the most fitting eulogy for him. In those days, the SCLC had a national radio station that broadcast the speech, and I had a staff member make me a copy. One evening, my sister, Edythe, and I settled back in my home to listen to it. When we reached the part in the tape at which Martin talked about his funeral, Edythe, who loved Martin dearly, shook her head.

  “Corrie,” she whispered, “Martin is definitely not going to be with us long.”

  Usually I was quick with an optimistic retort. This time, it seemed I had run out of words of hope. I did not answer my sister. I merely pretended not to hear.

  On the afternoon of April 4, I took Yolanda shopping for an Easter dress, having bought the boys Easter suits the Friday before. I had not been home very long when the telephone in my bedroom rang. It was 7:08 p.m.

  For most of our married lives, Martin and I knew that one day there would be a scene like this, a moment that would take one (or both) of us away from the other forever. But no matter how many times you rehearse it, it never feels real until it happens.

  The caller was Jesse Jackson.

  “Coretta, you had better take the next thing smokin’. Doc has been shot.”

  Again, I thought about how Martin had tried to prepare me for the inevitable. You know I probably won’t live a long life. When I die, I don’t want you to grieve for me. You go on and live a normal life.

  Still, I held out hope that Martin was alive, and asked for details. Jesse tried to spare me. “He was shot in the shoulder.”

  “Where is he?”

  “They’ve taken him to St. Joseph’s Hospital, but maybe you should come to the Lorraine Motel, where we’re staying, and we’ll take you.… No, maybe you should go to the hospital; no, why don’t you just come here?”

  I turned on the television. I saw Martin’s face, and the commentator in the background talking about how my husband had been shot on the balcony at the Lorraine Motel. By that time, all of the kids except Bunny had run into my bedroom. I tried to turn the news off, but I was too late. “Oh no, don’t tell me!” Yolanda cried and ran back out of the room. In a few seconds, Andy Young called.

  “Have you heard about Martin?” he asked.

  “Jesse called me.”

  “Well, I tell you, it’s pretty bad, and you need to come right away. He’s not dead yet,” he added. “He’s still alive.”

  The fact that Andy had to say that made me feel like this was going to be fatal. Martin wouldn’t live; I had that strong sense.

  But I did what I always did in a crisis: I remained calm. I could have broken down and gone to pieces, but I didn’t. I kept trying to think about how I had to hold up for my children.

  “You need to bring somebody,” Andy said to me.

  “Juanita Abernathy. I’ve called her and she’s coming.”

  “Yeah, bring her, and somebody else, too. Bring Dora McDonald.”

  Dora McDonald was Martin’s secretary. She always seemed to have things under control, and everybody in the office admired her. She was always calm in her demeanor; you never saw her going to pieces.

  The phone kept ringing. Atlanta mayor Ivan Allen called to say he was coming over and would provide me with a police escort to the airport. He came with his wife; Christine and Isaac, Martin’s sister and brother-in-law, also came, and we all went to the airport together.

  As I was getting ready to leave, seven-year-old Dexter asked me, “Mommy, when is Daddy coming home?”

  I took a deep breath. “Dexter, you know Daddy got shot in Memphis today, and I don’t really know when he is coming home. When I get there, I’ll let you know the answer.”

  I kissed the children good-bye and headed to the airport. As soon as we got there, I heard a page over the public address system. It was for me. This is probably it, I thought then. The mayor said, “Let’s get the page at the gate.”

  In the meantime, I saw Dora McDonald coming, walking real fast, straight toward me. “Mrs. King, let’s find someplace to sit down where I can talk to you.”

  And in that moment I knew Martin was dead.

  The only place we could find was the ladies’ restroom, in the outer part, near the counter. I saw Dora’s pained expression. We embraced and held on to each other. I began weeping. Finally, the mayor just walked on in and said very formally, “Mrs. King, I have the sad responsibility as mayor of the city of Atlanta to inform you that your husband is dead. Would you like to go on to Memphis, or would you like to stay here for the night and go in the morning?”

  “I need to stay here and go back and see about the kids. I’ll go in the morning.”

  There was nothing I could do now. On the way home, I had an agonizing conversation with myself. What am I going to tell the kids? How would I tell them? I had to think about all the arrangements that had to be made. So much to be done.

  I’ve got to prepare myself. I’ve got to be strong, I thought.

  It was the Lenten season, leading up to Passion Week. Martin often made analogies in life to Good Friday and Easter. “We go through our Gethsemanes as Christ did, but then Easter comes and there is a rebirth and a resurrection,” he would say. So I thought about how this was a good time for him to go, to be identified with Christ and His suffering: Like Christ, Martin will be resurrected in the faith and actions of his people. His spirit will live on. Just thinking about the parallels in his life with that of Jesus gave me some consolation, which I sorely needed. I had to go deep within to find the inspiration to go home and face my children.

  When I returned home, my youngest child, five-year-old Bunny, was asleep. Yolanda was sitting, calmly waiting for me in the foyer. “Mommy, I’m not going to cry,” she said. “I’m not going to cry because my daddy’s really not dead. His spirit will never die, and I will see him in heaven.”

  Even as she insisted that she wasn’t crying, tears were streaming down her soft little cheeks. “Mommy, should I hate the man who killed my daddy?” she asked.

  “No, darling. Your daddy wouldn’t want you to do that.”

  Marty seemed confused. He didn’t want to talk at all.

  Earlier, Dexter had asked me, “When is Daddy coming home?” and trying to answer the question that was breaking my heart, I’d said, “Do you know your daddy was shot?” But Dexter had no concept of death or the finality of what had happened, and I wasn’t ready to attempt to explain further, so I told him to go to sleep and promised that I would talk to him in the morning.

  That night, I received a call from Ralph. The autho
rities needed my permission to perform an autopsy. I was so tired and drained. I told him that I thought Martin would have wanted it, but said, “You make the decision, Ralph.”

  Calls were pouring in, offering help and condolences. President Johnson called. He proclaimed Sunday, April 7, a national day of mourning. Harry Belafonte called to say he would be at my side. But nothing anyone could have said or done would have eased the sorrow welling in my heart. I talked to Daddy King, who was understandably heartbroken. “I always felt I would go first,” he said through his tears. A.D. had flown into Memphis to be with Martin on the day he died. Even as adults, they had kidded each other and wrestled much as they had as boys. In fact, hours before Martin died, he and A.D. were horsing around with each other, having a pillow fight. They even used to play tricks on Mama King by calling and disguising their voices, each one claiming to be the other. A.D. was terribly distraught. A year later he, too, would be dead, but I believe he began dying the same day his brother died.

  The next morning, I rose early to get to Memphis and talk to the many callers expressing sympathy. Among them was Sen. Bobby Kennedy, who offered a private plane to bring back Martin’s body. I accepted the offer gratefully as a gesture of friendship, though Ralph and Andy questioned my decision because of the political implication of Bobby being a political candidate. Senator Kennedy also arranged to put in three more phone lines in our home to handle the continuous flow of callers.

  On Friday morning, I flew to Memphis. Martin’s sister, Christine, her husband, Isaac, and Jean Young, Juanita Abernathy, Fred Bennette, Dora McDonald, and Bill Rutherford of SCLC waited with me inside the plane while Martin’s body was brought aboard. When I saw the casket being lowered … the moment froze in my mind. My beloved Martin, the love of my life, was gone from me. The finality of that was overwhelming.

  We landed back in Atlanta, where hundreds of people had gathered at the airport. Ralph, Andy, and Bernard Lee flew back to Atlanta with us. The children were brought to meet us and boarded the plane; Andy took Bunny in his arms. I remembered then that I’d left without preparing them to see their father in a casket. I hadn’t really talked to any of them, except Yoki, or done enough to help them understand that their father was dead. But how do you explain such things to a five-year-old? I took Bunny from Andy and held her in my arms. She was innocently bouncing around. “Mommy, mommy, where is my daddy?” she asked.

  I didn’t say anything, couldn’t find the words. “Mommy, where is my daddy?” she repeated.

  I thought, my God, how can I tell her? I don’t know what to say.

  Finally, I spoke. “Bunny, you know your daddy is asleep in the back of the plane and he’s lying there in his casket. When you see him, he won’t be able to speak to you. His spirit has gone to live with God.”

  “Is he hungry?” she asked before becoming very quiet. As a family, we stood in the doorway of the plane; somebody wanted to photograph us standing together.

  I have looked at that picture many times over the years. It is such a perfect image: everyone has the right expression, the one that reflects his or her feelings at that moment. We have forlorn looks on our faces, every last one of us.

  We left the airport and went on to Hanley’s Funeral Home. I was concerned about what Martin would look like, as the bullet had severely shattered his jaw. The undertakers had patched his face, however, and it looked pretty good.

  When the kids saw their father’s body at the funeral home, I thought it would help them understand. Bunny still didn’t say anything when she saw him, nor did she ask any questions. I wanted to explain death to her, not its finality, but its continuation of life through the spirit. That’s a difficult concept to explain to children, though. In retrospect, I regret that I didn’t better prepare Bernice and Dexter, my younger children, but I did the best I could.

  The family decided to have Martin lie in state in Sisters Chapel at Spelman College from Saturday afternoon until Monday afternoon. Then he was carried to Ebenezer Baptist Church to stay until the funeral on Tuesday.

  Many thousands of people of all classes and colors waited for hours to pay their last respects to my husband. When I went with the children to Ebenezer on Monday, lines of people stretched around the block. For so long, Martin had been in the heart and soul of the masses. Now they wanted their time with him. I kept saying to myself, “Oh, I wish he knew how much people loved him.” I remembered the times he had been depressed and needed a lift. If only he could have seen how much his sacrifices meant to people.

  The news of Martin’s death was televised to the world. His murder reverberated through the national psyche like the assassination of JFK or Abraham Lincoln, or the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Virtually everyone could remember what he or she was doing when they heard the terrible news. People expressed their grief in many different ways. They cried. They gathered in churches across America and told their stories about meeting Martin, about working with him. There were prayers for us, his family.

  And some rioted.

  The impact of my husband’s assassination was felt deeply by millions around the world, but it resonated especially in black neighborhoods. Some people took their grief to the streets. Riots hit more than one hundred cities across the nation. Washington, DC, was hit the hardest. The violence, the fires, and the shootings were such ironic tributes to a prophet of nonviolence. Yet, I understood the language of despair, even though I could not condone it.

  Atlanta, where we lived, was one of the few cities that did not go up in flames, and I believe that was because many of us, white and black leaders alike, went on the offensive. That Saturday, I made a statement saying that nothing could hurt Martin more than for those he left behind to solve their problems with violence. “He gave his life in search of a more excellent way,” I said, “a more effective way, a creative rather than a destructive way. He never hated. He never despaired of well doing and he encouraged us to do likewise.”

  That was my first press conference without Martin. It gave me a strange, empty feeling.

  On Monday, I took another out-of-character step. With coaching from Harry Belafonte, I decided to continue with the march in Memphis. Harry had told me, “People across the nation are so down. If you could find the strength to go to Memphis, if people could see your strength and determination, it would lift their spirits.” Immediately, I thought, this is what Martin would want me to do. It felt right. I would finish what Martin and the movement had started. As I thought about the perpetrators of this evil act, I said to myself, they only killed his physical body. They can’t kill his spirit.

  For fourteen years, I had been with Martin in the thicket of controversy. My husband and I had been emotional twins. He thought of me as so close I was only a heartbeat away. I was his confidante. He was my best friend. I was his best student. He was the icing on my cake, the cream in my coffee. We could finish each other’s sentences, feel each other’s wounds, and share each other’s jokes. Now I had to stand in for him, representing us both, without him.

  That Monday, I flew to Memphis on a private plane provided by Harry. Along with Harry, I took Yoki, Marty, and Dexter, as well as Justine Smadbeck, who as director of the Jessie Smith Noyes Foundation had granted me a scholarship to the New England Conservatory of Music. We were rushed from the airport by limousine to the head of the march. Only about a month ago, there had been eight thousand people prepared to march. Now more than six times that many had gathered.

  We marched for about a mile to City Hall, where many speeches applauding Martin’s life were given. The children, still in somewhat of a daze, needed to hear others saying such good things about their father.

  A speech had been prepared for me, too, but when I looked at it, it seemed so flat that I spoke without notes, from the heart. I challenged the crowds to “see that Martin’s spirit never dies, and that we will go forward from this experience, which to me represents the Crucifixion, on toward the Resurrection and the redemption of the Spirit.”

>   I ended with a question: “How many must die before we can really have a free and true and peaceful society? If we can catch the spirit and the true meaning of this experience, I believe this nation can be transformed into a society of love, justice, and brotherhood, where all men can really be brothers.”

  I learned later that when I stepped forward that day, some news reports said I was making my debut as a leader. That was not my objective. I had a commitment even larger than Martin’s. I wanted to be useful and available to God, and I was praying to God for direction, a way to perfect my life after Martin and to continue our work and follow the calling we had both cherished. I was separated from Martin now, but never from the movement, never from the Cause.

  As the day of Martin’s homegoing grew closer, time seemed to stand still and hover over me like a heavy cloud. The preparation, however, made the process easier to bear. As long as I kept myself busy, I didn’t have time to cry. The planning was therapy.

  In planning the homegoing, I kept foremost in my mind what Martin would have wanted. I also wanted to ensure that people who came would have some opportunity to be part of a service. Eventually, we had to create two services. One was an outdoor memorial at Morehouse College, where Martin was an undergraduate and where Dr. Benjamin Mays, who was Martin’s mentor, had been president.

  The family also wanted to have a march. This would be Martin’s last march.

  But how would we transport Martin’s body? We felt that he should have something fancy, like the kind of caisson that carries the bodies of presidents. Yet, we also wanted something simple.

  “What about the mule train that Martin talked about taking to Washington during the Poor People’s Campaign?” A.D. suggested.