“My husband is dead. My husband is dead. Martin. Is. Dead. ” | repeated these words to myself as I looked in the mirror wondering how I could tell Yolanda, Martin, Dexter, and sweet little Bernice… Oh, Bernice! She had just turned five less than a month ago. How could I tell them their beloved father has been shot? How will they understand? Yolanda was the oldest and the wisest. There is no way I could sugarcoat this. I slumped down behind the bathroom door and took a deep breath. What originally began as a day filled with strength, service, and self- reliance had now ended filled with despair, disbelief, and damage.
You had been in Memphis just last month to lead the march for the Memphis Sanitation Workers Strike. The Memphis Sanitation workers had been experiencing overall unfair treatment like poor working conditions, racism, and excessive labor. The march was well until violence began to erupt. Things got out of control and you left just in time. That night, chaos followed, shops had been looted and people were shot. 60 people were injured. The police brought tear gas into the church and clubbed people. It was outrageously appalling and I was speechless. “That was a close one,” I said to you, “Martin, are you going to go back?
It’s too dangerous. It’s never gotten this bad before. ” You replied, “I don’t know Coretta. Nothing has been resolved. You know I can’t leave until something is fixed. We’ve gotten this far and the Black community needs our help and we need to follow through. We need unity and America needs to open its eyes to what is in front of them. We need the natural rights we were guaranteed in the Constitution and Declaration of Independence” You were right. They did need our help. But was it worth risking your life for it? It was and I hated it. I remember the next morning vividly. There was support and there was backlash.
Strikers continued their march with signs that read, “I Am a Man,” while the media blamed you for the violence that had occurred. I sat there and bit my tongue until it bled. You spent the next several days afterwards negotiating with your associates in the Southern Christian Leadership Conference with disagreeing factions in Memphis defending yourself as I nibbled away the tips of my fingernails hoping for a monumental victory that would end safely. When you told me the next march was scheduled for April 5th, I couldn’t stop you. This was the right thing to do. I supported you and I supported our people. I knew you were tired and so was I.
We all were. But we kept fighting, fighting for what was right and what we deserved. In this case, we deserved justice and I was sure we could get it without violence. I was wrong. I was wrong and the march hadn’t even started. I couldn’t believe it. Your body laid limp on the gurney. The autopsy had been performed. Dr. Francisco had declared your official death and yet, I still could not comprehend this mere and simple concept. The facts were right in front of me. At 7:05 pm on April 4th, 1968 at St. Joseph Hospital, I became a widow and all it took was a single bullet to the chin, a mortal wound, from a white supremacist named James Earl Ray.
I didn’t know that your last speech would be “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” and neither did your followers, nor did the sanitation workers, nor did our friends and family. But if I did, what would I have done? The truth is, nothing. There is nothing you have done that I could have done better. That was your last day and I think you spent it well. I promise we will get to the Promised Land, even if you are not here with us, Martin, and it will be because of you. The march will continue and we will have justice. I nodded to myself and gathered my weight up off the ground again. I wiped away my tears and turned the ights on.
As I grabbed the door handle, I heard light footsteps towards the door. “Mommy? Mommy, where are you? Are you okay? ” It was Bernice. “Yes sweetie, l’ll be right out. Where’s Yolanda? Are your brothers okay? ” T hurriedly took one last look in the mirror and stepped out into the empty and cold hallways of St. Joseph Hospital. I reached out to Bernice and her little fingers squeezed my pointer finger as if she was never going to let go. I squeezed back tighter. “Come on, let’s find your sister and brothers and see father one last time… before he goes to the Promised Land. ” The Promised Land did not need to be defined.
Everyone who heard his speech knew what he was talking about. We have been suffering long enough and we know it is a land where we will finally be equal, where we do not need to march for our freedom, where we will not be faced with injustice because of the color of our skin. It is a land where education is accessible to all and where people will love one another unconditionally because it is the humane thing to do. Ah, Martin may reach it before us but he deserves to more than anyone else. As soon as we reach the hospital room, Bernice sees Yolanda in the chair by the bed and immediately runs towards her.
Yolanda has comforted Martin and Dexter has fallen asleep in her lap. Everyone says their goodbyes. When it is my turn, I whisper, “We will rise with a greater readiness, with a greater determination, and we will challenge America to become a better nation. ” The next few days did not get any easier. On April 8th, 1968, Martin’s family and I chose to march silently, and so did forty-two thousand other people. We were able to mourn for him and support his cause simultaneously. The next day, we buried him. Two funeral services were held, one at Ebenezer Baptist Church and one at Morehouse College, two places he as loved.
Nearly a week later, the strike had ended, Martin had gained a victory even when he was not here physically. After sixty days, the city officials had finally agreed to recognize the union and increase wages. Black workers would immediately receive ten cents more each hour and now, black workers were required to have equal opportunity in supervising positions. Sanitation workers now had safety precautions. Other than that, it never really did get easier but the need for change and leadership strengthened. Martin did have a dream and I hope to continue it.
I had picked up where he left off. On May 12th, The Poor People’s March on Washington continued with the help of Jesse Jackson and Revs. Ralph Abernathy, but it was not our biggest success and that was okay. It’s been two years since you have passed and it still feels like it was yesterday. Life as a widow isn’t much different. Bernice is 7 now. The kids are growing so quickly. I miss you Martin. We all do. I think I see the Promised Land soon. Things are changing. People are listening. I bend down and place flowers onto his grave. As I walk towards the car, the kids kneel and whisper their goodbyes once more. Dexter recites his poem as Martin watches. We are no longer sad, we are hopeful.