I was in sixth grade when we left Washington. We were living in
Arlington, Virginia across the Potomac. My Dad packed his
old army .45 caliber pistol in the glove compartment. This
rather freaked me out. He wasn't the gun-toting type, I didn't
think.
We were driving northwest out of town, which meant we crested
the ridge near the Iwo Jima Memorial at one point, and had a
good view of the city. It was April, 1968.
Thick smoke curled up over the Washington Monument and the
Capitol from the city beyond. National Guard troops in their
khaki trucks were everywhere on the roads as we drove. I had
seen the news broadcasts, people running around smashing
windows, over-turning cars and setting fires. I hoped we
weren't driving through those areas. My Dad wasn't talking.
I hadn't been taught anything in particular about Dr. King up to
that point. I had a vague notion that he was some kind of
troublemaker, like Malcolm X and the Black Panthers.
But all of a sudden it was clear that he was important, to cause
all this ruckus. It was still years before I learned what a
wonderful man he was, and how much he meant to the cause of
peace, freedom and dignity in this country. It seemed ironic
when finally I learned about him, that the first real
impression his life made on me was after his death, in the
form of guns and smoke.
But it was a long, hot summer in DC, Detroit and other cities,
and it was war. Viet Nam held a lot of people's attention,
but there was a war going on right here at home. A war
caused by oppression, frustration, fear and ignorance.
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