My Life, My Love, My Legacy

by Coretta Scott King

  Most of my time with Mrs. King was really as her prayer partner. I saw that prayer was central to everything she did. I often stayed at her house, and I gave her a copy of a devotional called My Utmost for His Highest, by theologian Oswald Chambers. Every single morning we were together, whether we were traveling or in a hotel, we would carve out time to read from the devotional and reflect on Scripture and pray. That was her connection, that’s how rooted she was, and that’s how important her faith was to her.

  In addition, she was very active at Ebenezer Baptist Church. The Rev. Joe Roberts was her pastor. She loved reading the Bible chapters about the prophets Amos, Joel, and Isaiah, those men who were steeped in the social justice tradition of their time. She was interested in the politics of Jesus. We talked about that a lot, how Jesus was not a blue-eyed man with soft hands like doves, not like the pictures that you see around. Jesus was a tough-as-nails leader of his time. We would go through the Bible and read about His character, about toughness and love, those qualities that confirmed Coretta’s ideal of the Beloved Community. Our time together was a very precious time.

  You know, I don’t think the general public ever really understood who Mrs. King was. First of all, you had a male-dominated civil rights movement that, in many ways, marginalized women. There were many extraordinary women in the movement, but they were in the background, in a way. There would have been no civil rights movement without women like Rosa Parks, Daisy Bates, or Fannie Lou Hamer. They were the backbone. There were of course the unknown women, too. At the March on Washington, only one woman got to speak, and that woman was singing: Mahalia Jackson. Dorothy Height, the head of the National Council of Negro Women, was not even allowed to speak. That was a period in which women in general were not lifted up as full partners in the movement. So it wasn’t unlikely that Mrs. King would be pigeonholed. First of all, she was a wife and a mother and then a widow. She loved being a mother and a wife, but she was also exceptionally bright and had a lot of great ideas.

  Here was a very outspoken woman, who said the freedom struggle is a never-ending process. Freedom is never really won; it’s earned, and you win it anew in every generation. She spoke about freedom and against violence and racism in every form, every chance she got. And she was probably the most sought-after speaker of her time for that reason. So she had quite a voice on her own, but she never got over the fact that she was pigeonholed. People tried to put her in a box, and she literally refused that.

  Dr. Barbara Williams-Skinner, president of the Skinner Leadership Institute and cochair of the National African American Clergy Network, is a trusted adviser, public policy strategist, faith and community leader, author, lecturer, educator, executive coach, and mentor. She has served on the White House Faith Counsel, was the first female executive director of the Congressional Black Caucus, and continues to serve as an adviser to the CBC members and to the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation.

  MYRLIE EVERS-WILLIAMS

  Coretta, Betty Shabazz, and I were a threesome. The public perception, fanned by the media, was that we were jealous and competitive. In reality, we three had lost our husbands, the loves of our lives. What about that was something to be in competition over? How foolish.

  People don’t understand what it’s like to bear the weight of being “the wife of,” “the widow of.” The perception is that there was no difference of opinion between you and your husband. You just went along with his views. And that was simply not so. Coretta was strong-willed. Her ability to persuade people, to bring them around to her way of thinking or to intervene behind the scenes, was tremendous. I recall, when I was chairman of the NAACP and there was much debate over whether or not I should receive the Spingarn Medal, one of their highest honors. This was in 1998. The opposition argued that since my late husband, civil rights activist Medgar Evers, had received it, I couldn’t; we were in the same family, and it would break protocol. I said, “I disagree. My husband, who was the NAACP field secretary in Jackson, Mississippi, gave his life. As chairman of the national organization, I picked us up and helped us move forward. I want, deserve, and demand the Spingarn.” Then I called Coretta, and she asked me what I wanted her to do. “Nothing,” I said.

  “I will make some calls,” she told me. “Not only will you receive the Spingarn, but I’ll be there to present it to you myself.” A lot of people thought it wouldn’t happen, but just like Coretta said, I received it, and she presented it to me.

  When she and Betty and I were together, we tried not to talk about our husbands, which was hard to do—our lives had been so intertwined with theirs. If we disagreed about something, Coretta would raise a red flag. I once told her, “Coretta, you are a saint, but not much of a saint.” And she laughed. Being together gave us the opportunity to be open, to ask ourselves questions, such as “Are we being too tough on or too kind to our children?” Between us, we had thirteen children. As mothers, we realized that their personas were very touchy, because of all the tragedies they’d gone through. Often, we didn’t have answers, but we were support for each other on our journey.

  I am the only surviving one of our threesome: Coretta and Betty are gone. I miss my sisters. I miss them terribly. We could talk to one another and be open and honest. We would laugh and tell each other truths we wouldn’t share with anyone else. There were times when Coretta would call me in the middle of the night, just to talk. I knew our conversations would stay between us. I don’t have that now. It’s a vacuum that cannot be filled. It’s amazing to me that the public can put you up on a pedestal, but at the same time, get some kind of sinister joy out of cutting you down or finding fault with you. Luckily, there are also those who accept you as you are—just human, giving it your best shot. I know Coretta shared that feeling about us. We all did.

  Myrlie Evers-Williams is an American civil rights activist and journalist who worked for more than three decades to seek justice for the murder of her civil rights activist husband, Medgar Evers. She was chairwoman of the NAACP, has published several books on civil rights, and delivered the invocation at the second inauguration of President Barack Obama.

  PATRICIA LATIMORE

  I was Mrs. King’s assistant. I started working for her in 1965. She and Dr. King had just moved into their new home, and they were looking for a babysitter. I got the job. I was just a teenager. I worked for her off and on for forty years. I was working for her in the year she died, on January 30, 2006.

  People knew about the big things she did, but few people knew about the small things that were big to the many who benefited. She loved giving family and friends cards and presents. Christmastime was huge with her. She would also collect the names of people she met and send them a Christmas card or a birthday card. She would spend two or three hours in the card store, picking out just the right card for each person. She would sign them herself. Eventually, when the list grew to three thousand, we had to stop. Her staff had to begin picking out presents around Thanksgiving to get them all out for Christmas. The gifts didn’t go just to her family and friends but also to people in need, especially struggling families with children. She was also known for intervening in situations where people were hurting. For example, one of the King Center’s staff member’s house burned down. Mrs. King sent food, clothing, funds, and whatever else was needed. She was the kind of sweet person who would get personally involved. She would make things happen for her staff and for others whose plights were brought to her attention.

  She was always giving, but one gift that was given to her that she loved was the condominium Oprah Winfrey secured for her in August 2004. Mrs. King should have left her house in Vine City years before that; the house was deteriorating, and it had been broken into several times. Actually, a water leak caused the ceiling to collapse in the hallway right outside Mrs. King’s bedroom, and even though the ceiling and the leak could be fixed and were fixed, that leak signaled that it was high time for her to move out. Andy Young interceded; he had a conversation with Oprah. Mrs. Kin
g and Oprah had become friends through Maya Angelou. And Oprah wanted to do something special for Mrs. King, so she set things in motion.

  The condo was on the thirty-ninth floor, in a very nice section of Peachtree Road. I had my office there. The view was magnificent. We would walk out on the balconies and see all the way to Stone Mountain. We were so happy that Oprah arranged for her to spend her last days in such a beautiful environment.

  It wasn’t until we moved into the condo, however, that I knew something had gone awry with Mrs. King. I began picking up that she was sick. I took care of her bills—an easy job. But then it became more difficult because she kept losing things. At the old house, her office files ended up on top of her bed. So I chalked up some of the confusion to the move. But then she began complaining that she kept seeing a shadow over her eye. I alerted Bernice, and I made an appointment with Mrs. King’s eye doctor, who referred her back to her primary care physician. It seems the eye doctor had spotted a problem in her aorta, the main artery in the body that leads to the heart. Her primary care doctor then referred her to a cardiologist. Shortly thereafter, she started having TIAs, mini-strokes, and those mini-strokes led to a minor stroke and eventually a major stroke on August 16, 2005.

  I will never forget the day—January 27, 2006—when we prepared her to go off to a treatment center in Mexico. She was in a wheelchair by then. She really did not want to leave the condo. Bernice, who was accompanying her to Mexico, was there. And Martin III was there, because he was going with her and Bernice to the airport. Usually, when she would go out, she would give everyone a hug. This time she just wheeled herself to the door and waited to be taken to the van. She wouldn’t give me a hug. She wouldn’t even say good-bye to me.

  I never saw her alive again. When she arrived at a destination, I was always the first person she called. But by this point, she could not talk. Bernice called me on Friday and again on Saturday to include me in the prayer calls. But I was in church during Sunday’s prayer call, and I didn’t hear anything on Monday morning. That Monday night, I happened to be on the phone with Bernice’s best friend, Deleice Drane. We were just talking to each other to talk out what was happening, and Bernice called Deleice right then to tell her that Mrs. King was gone. That’s how I found out. In my gut, I knew before the hurting words were spoken that I would never see Mrs. King again.

  Finally I pulled myself together. When I was told her body was coming into the hangar at the Charlie Brown airport, where private planes arrive, I made up my mind I had to be there. It was 5:00 a.m. when she arrived. All of Mrs. King’s children were on the plane with her. I followed the hearse to the funeral home in my car. Mrs. Farris and others met us there. When I saw the body I was upset—even more so because someone had cut her hair. I knew she would not have wanted that. I left the funeral home and went back to the condo. I could not go home. I could not think. I could not work. I could not do anything.

  Even after forty years, she still sometimes seemed larger than life to me, someone I expected to always be here, to live on forever.

  But in a way, if people really understand what a warm, vibrant human being she was, she will live forever.

  Patricia Latimore formerly worked in client services at Pfizer and was, for more than twenty years, a personal assistant to Coretta Scott King.

  My Mother, My Mentor

  by

  DR. BERNICE A. KING

  I am so glad that God chose me to be Coretta Scott King’s daughter. He did not make a mistake. If she had not been my mother, I would have never seen or thought there could be anyone like her. She was rare. She had this unmatched blend of character, personality, spirituality, commitment, and organization. Very few people have the capacity to balance and manage all of that. She had the ability to multitask in a way I have never seen in any other person. She had a way of managing the most complex civil and human rights problems, while at the same time paying attention to the personal needs of others. And this ability never left her. Though she was tough, she was also very tender.

  Three weeks before she passed, for example, Evelyn, one of her around-the-clock caregivers, and I took Mom to the hospital for tests. After the tests, I helped her into her wheelchair and wheeled her back into the waiting area where Evelyn had been seated; Evelyn had gone into the restroom. “Evelyn, Evelyn.” Mom forced the words out. When Evelyn returned, I told her that my mother had been asking about her. Evelyn put two and two together, explaining, “Your mother is saying my name because she knows I am a diabetic and she knows I have not eaten today.” Hearing that, my mother began nodding her head in affirmation. Evelyn was right.

  After suffering several strokes and a major heart attack and being in the last stage of ovarian cancer, Mom was gravely ill, yet her major concern at that moment was the well-being of her caregiver. Who really does that? She was the epitome of unselfishness. Caring. Considerate. Giving. That is the way she was.

  She made everyone feel special, so you can only imagine how special we felt being her children. While she was helping to raise a nation, she was also raising me, my two brothers—Martin III and Dexter—and my sister, Yolanda. And we always knew she put us first.

  After Daddy died, Mom kept the philosophy and strategy of nonviolence before the nation. People were discounting nonviolence. Remember, you had the rise of the Black Power movement, people like H. Rap Brown, riots across the nation. My mother really had to make a case for nonviolence, to continue raising our consciousness and get us to focus on peace, to define and perpetuate the Dr. King legacy. She was leading world leaders while attending to her own birth family, being both mother and father in one. If she sensed something was going on between her children, she’d show up and talk to us individually. She’d tell us that we really ought to call our brother or sister and work things out. She was the matriarch, the glue that held us together.

  One particular memory that sticks with me was when I caught pneumonia, and was confined to the house for about three weeks. I think it was around 1995. Mom came to see me every day. She would prepare soup for me to eat: would go down to the kitchen and fix it, put it on a tray, and bring it up to me. My mother did everything first-class. She was somewhat of a perfectionist. I think I get that from her. She’d put the soup bowl on a plate and then on a tray, with a napkin and a soup spoon, and she’d arrange the crackers in a circle. Some people break the crackers or give you the package and let you open it yourself, but she wouldn’t just throw things together. Then she’d sit with me, and when I was through eating, she would go back to the kitchen and bring me something to drink or more soup. What I remember is how attentive she was, how she was attuned to my feelings. She was like that with all of us, despite all the challenges pulling at her. She knew how to pick information out of us. When we became adults, she didn’t just cut us loose and let us go our own way; she kept her eyes and ears tuned to us. You would think other things would have distracted her, but not so, not on the important challenges we faced.

  The one thing that she could not do was attend a lot of our extracurricular activities, which disappointed us when we were little. But it’s something we understood as we grew older. For example, I was into everything, and she would have driven herself crazy just trying to keep up. I played soccer, I ran track, I did the shot put, the long jump, the 100-yard dash, and the relays. In high school, I played basketball and softball; in college I played tennis and volleyball. On top of that, I played in the jazz band in high school. I’d started out with the clarinet in elementary, and then moved on to the alto sax. And of course I played the piano like my mother. As a former music teacher, she knew the basics of virtually every instrument, which helped, because each one of her children played something different. Yolanda played the violin and clarinet, Dexter played the trumpet, and Martin the trombone. Both boys played the guitar. We were quite a musical family. Music was part of our lives. Often in the morning, we’d hear Mother going “MeMeMeMe … Mememe.…” Tuning up for whatever song she’d sing—mostl
y to herself—that day. She made sure we went to the opera, too. When she couldn’t go, she’d send us with someone, to give us that exposure. I often felt it was torture, but she wanted to introduce us to the arts, to make sure we were well rounded.

  In one of the most difficult periods of my life, my mother was there for me. It was the time when I was in law school and I almost committed suicide. My roommate came downstairs in our condo and saw me with a knife in my hand. In my mind, I was trying to balance which would be the worst pain: staying alive or inflicting hurt on those I would leave behind. My roommate looked at me, sensing my desperation. “What are you doing?” she asked. I don’t know what I told her, but she thought the situation was serious enough to call my mother. And Mom gathered some family members and came to see me.

  As I tried to untangle my feelings, I thought about the loss of my father when I was five years old. When I was six, my uncle A.D. was found dead in his pool. They said he drowned, but he was a good swimmer, and I don’t believe that’s how he died. Reports showed there was no water in his lungs at the time of his death. When I was eleven, my grandmother—we affectionately called her Big Mama—Mama King, was gunned down in church. My cousin Darlene dropped dead when I was thirteen, and her brother, my cousin Al, died shortly before I started law school. They were around my age, and they died of heart problems.

  That Friday evening when I was contemplating suicide, all of these memories and thoughts gushed to the forefront of my mind. It troubled me—the confusion, the questions about the deaths, especially the men in my immediate family dying so young. At that time, none had lived past thirty-nine. I just started hurting. I was grieving about the past, but I was also shaken by what had happened in law school. I’d ended up on probation after only two semesters, and I’d been told that if I did not come off of it after summer break, I was in danger of being kicked out. That was devastating. Law school was my hope. It was the thing that gave me my identity, the thing that defined who I was. I was trying to get away from the whole Daddy identity. It was too overwhelming. I needed something for Bernice.