Growing Up King Read online

  Martin seemed a more appropriate name for such a calling, so he adopted it; such given-name changing was a fairly common practice among this generation of young black men making or trying to make a transition from fields to halls of learning. In his twenties, Granddaddy went to Morehouse, graduated, eventually inheriting the wind at Ebenezer from his father-in-law. He remained country strong. Two words best describe him: no-nonsense. Eventually he was overshadowed by the legacy of his son.

  Daddy was not just charismatic away from home. His personal magnetism had nothing to do with the Civil Rights Movement on the level I’m talking about. I’d watch him when he wasn’t looking, in different states of activity or repose. He insisted we have family time to discuss what was going on, and why he had to be away.

  Him sitting at the dining room table with us was a good time for conversation. Sometimes his mind wandered and he seemed lost in thought, absently eating green onions. My father liked stalks of green onions with sweet, white, bulbous roots. They sat in a plate in water, like celery; before a meal he’d pick and eat them like fruit, especially before meals containing turnip or collard greens. He would say he was laying down a bed of straw before the cows and pigs—the rest of the meal—came home. This was ancestral. His father’s family was from rural Georgia, my mother’s family from rural Alabama. You can see a plate of green onions in photos of tarpaper shacks in the black belt of Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia; they were staples of the sharecropper’s diet.

  I can still see him walking down the hallway at home in his slippers. He had a burgundy-colored satin-like robe he always wore to breakfast. Whenever he wore his robe, I was happy, because it meant he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. That meant I could watch him or, if not that, simply be reassured he was there if needed. Every time I was in his presence, I felt deep compassion from him. Many times he felt like a playmate, like somebody who was Dad in terms of compassion and sensitivity, but was not so removed, because he enjoyed playing too, and could relate to a child’s problems. We had fun playing softball. He’d pitch. If I swung and missed he’d be disappointed. “Aw, Dexter,” he’d say, lobbing in another underhand toss.

  When he’d come back from a trip, we’d hide from him, trembling with excitement; he’d find us, have us jump off the refrigerator top into his arms. He called it the Kissing Game. We’d take turns, starting with the eldest. Yoki would be first; she’d jump off into his arms, completely trusting that he’d catch her, and we would follow, and then he’d say, “Where’s your kissing spot?” Hers was a corner of her mouth. Martin would have his spot—the forehead. Then I had my spot—the temple. Bernice had her spot— a corner of her mouth. We’d jump into his arms, take our turns; there were four of us, he divided his time equally—what little time he had left. He tried his best. The only one who may have felt he didn’t was Yoki. Yoki and my father had a special bond, but he gave us all our specialness. More than just having a spot on his face to kiss, he had an intimate spot in his heart for everybody; we felt it, it made us feel special. He knew how to relate on our level. The memorable thing is that he knew how to relate to us. He was a universal communicator, even to his children, and he knew how to embrace you in a way where you felt a part of some greater plan.

  The one thing Daddy didn’t like was to be disturbed when he was in his study, writing down his thoughts, scheduling, composing sermons, reading and making notes in the margins of his books. There was a contemplative thought process at work in him. He compartmentalized it. If he was working, then he worked. If he was playing, then he played. He didn’t mix the two.

  “Now, Dexter, when Daddy’s working, don’t disturb him. Daddy will play with you soon.”

  Most people might think, because of the way he was projected as such a serious person, that he was always so, but sometimes he was the opposite of that, or the balance of that; he needed an outlet, a way to break the tension. He sought refuge in his children, his family. He became us.

  It seemed we were always going to an event, a church for a meeting, a picnic—there’d always be a banner or a sign or something with the letters SCLC on it. I used to think the letters meant “King Family Outing.” Whether it was a Voter Registration Project or a strategy session, they were all outings to us.

  I never knew a man with so many brothers and sisters as my father—and resulting aunts and uncles for me and my brother and sisters. Not only was there Uncle A.D. and Aunt Naomi, or Aunt Christine and Uncle Isaac, our own blood relatives and his in-laws, there was also Uncle Andy, Uncle Ralph, Uncle Harry, Uncle Bob, Uncle Junius. Uncle Ralph was Ralph Abernathy. Uncle Andy was Andrew Young. Uncle Harry was Harry Belafonte. Uncle Junius was Junius Griffen. Uncle Bob was either Robert Green or Robert Johnson. Everybody was related, even if not by blood. And if anybody got in trouble, my family showed up to support him or her, because that was our habit.

  Some would question, Why are you there, why would you get involved with, say, a Ralph Abernathy, Jr., after his brush with the law as an elected official? Why would you show up at his trial? Well, we were like family. We don’t leave our people behind. Ralph III and I grew up together. We lived in each other’s homes. We were roommates in college. We’d go to outings, cookouts, retreats. Our parents took us to work-related events. Even though we were kids just running around, a lot did rub off on us, just through osmosis, being in the environment, the SCLC conventions where Aretha Franklin sang. We had no idea of the momentous nature of Daddy’s work. He and his colleagues were about ending the system of segregation in American life, no small or simple matter.

  When the Hyatt opened, the brand-new Hyatt, with the blue dome, I was riding in the futuristic glass-walled elevator feeling like I was on a spaceship above Atlanta. Architect John Portman was a pioneer in developing new-age spaceship elevators, and duplicated them in buildings he designed elsewhere. Child that I was, I felt like this had been put in place just for my father, to whisk him up on high. I knew he was famous. Going to those ceremonies and conventions and remembering the entertainment there always had the sense of electricity, music in the air—this always stood out to me. I always remember best the entertainment and the music.

  I had no conception of segregation, of how unprecedented such mixed gatherings were, the meaning of a Nobel Peace Prize, which my father had received in 1964, the same year the system of formal segregation was abolished by law if not by practice in Atlanta. Daddy’s point had won. He’d persevered. His cause was just and its righteousness prevailed, at least in Atlanta. I was almost four years old and just knew that all of a sudden we were at the Dinkler Plaza Hotel one winter’s night. The way I remember it, there were thousands of people there—fifteen hundred, as it turns out: black, white, in between, all to honor my father. The new mayor, Ivan Allen; Dr. Mays; other dignitaries, businesspeople, but no entertainment. No Aretha Franklin. Not my kind of room.

  We were introduced to the crowd as the children of the winner of the 1964 Nobel Peace Prize. Yoki got up and waved, though I didn’t understand why; she hadn’t put on a play. Marty got up and bowed from the waist. The way Mother remembers it, when my name was called, when it was my turn to face the crowd, I slid under the chair instead of standing up on it. The crowd laughed. Slid under the chair? Is that what I did? No wonder everyone laughed.

  Police were always around. I admired them. I admired their uniforms, their sidearms, their garrison caps and badges and official gold braid. I would stare. I couldn’t tell if they stared back, because they wore dark glasses. Their expressions never changed. Besides admiring police from afar, I admired entertainers up close, whether it was Harry Belafonte or Bill Cosby, or any number of others who contributed to what the grown-ups referred to as “the Cause,” or “the Movement.” At times our parents would be called into active duty. Whether the campaign was in Selma, Birmingham, Montgomery, Albany (Georgia), Chicago, Memphis, didn’t matter, because we were told they were going to fight for their country to be greater, for people to be treated fairly and equally
under the law. This was for all of our futures, we were told. We understood our parents were doing good work. Sometimes we’d be teased, which affected Yoki more because she was older and more aware and was so connected to my father. When teased about our father going to jail, Yoki would tilt her head upward and say, “Yes, he did, but to help poor people.”

  There are photographs of us sitting at the table, playing ball in the yard, at the piano as Mother plays and sings. Daddy had invited a man to our house—Camera Man. He took pictures of us. I was fascinated by his equipment, his cameras, lights, flashbulbs popping. I thought, “I can do that.” Camera Man took a photo of me sitting on Daddy’s lap, Daddy calmly looking at the camera. I’m looking off to one side, mouth sprung, seemingly in awe of something, comforted and protected in Daddy’s lap. Secure. I won’t fall even if I fail. He’ll lift me up. I know this. I can look over the abyss of whatever it is I’m in awe of in the photo—maybe it was only Yoki making a face at me—I know my father will not let me go. I can take the risk because he’s there. I trusted him like I have trusted no man before or since. I had the security to be insecure. And then…

  The photographs remain. He knew they would.

  Camera Man had a name. Flip Schulke, a photographer for Life magazine, as Gordon Parks had been. Though my father was protective of us at home, didn’t let reporters or photographers in, Schulke came by many times to document. I gave him a nickname. My father gave us names of affection: “Yoki-poky,” “Dexterwexter,” “Marty-bopy,” “Bunny-bopy.” Bunny was Bernice, Yoki was Yolanda, Marty was Martin III, but Dexter was just Dexter. I felt special; I was named after a church, an old, historic church too, which had been pastored by a man named Vernon Johns before our father arrived. I was glad to be named Dexter, after the church. It set me apart. Everybody else was named for a person.

  Yolanda Denise. My mother had liked that name. Martin was named for my father and my grandfather. Bernice Albertine—Bernice for my mother’s mother, Albertine for my father’s mother, Alberta. Martin and Yolanda were born in Montgomery. People came up to me all the time and said, “Yes, Dexter, I remember when you were a baby in Montgomery; you were named after the church there.” I would never correct them and say, “Yes, I was named for the church, but I was born here in Atlanta. I’m a homeboy.” I would let them get it out and then say, “Well, I think you’re talking about my brother.” Martin III and I were always kind of seen as a unit, interchangeable. Even today. People come up and swear it was me who came and spoke at their school or church, when it was my brother. People say things like, “You should’ve been named Martin—you look just like your father.” I learned not to bristle when I heard this. I learned to say, “My brother and I agree that the Lord often works in mysterious ways.”

  We were all close as children. Yoki was five years my senior, seven years Bernice’s. I don’t remember her being as much a part of our circle as Bernice, Martin, me—especially Afterward…

  Martin and I would tussle. He thought he was my father. Mom generally took us to restaurants, shopping, church, on outings. We drew attention, but that didn’t stop our parents from giving us a semblance of normalcy. It was only a semblance, though. We couldn’t do things together as frequently as normal families, because both parents weren’t as available. At times we’d go with friends of the family; we might go with the Abernathy kids, Ralph III, Juandalyn, and Donzaleigh; or with Uncle A.D’s and Aunt Naomi’s children, Alveda, Al, Derek, Darlene, and Vernon; or with my father’s sister, Christine King Farris, and her children, Angela and Isaac. Martin III was three years older than me. Isaac and I were a year apart. Isaac lived in Collier Heights, where professionals, particularly teachers and preachers, lived. My grandparents lived in a spacious house with a yard so big Mr. Horton had to use a Snapper riding mower to cut the grass. Aunt Christine, Uncle Isaac, Angela, and Isaac lived near our grandparents in Collier Heights. Granddaddy still wanted my father to move. Daddy said we were okay in Vine City.

  My cousin Isaac and me, our relationship started out rocky. Fought like cats and dogs. Out of it came an ironclad friendship. Wasn’t love at first sight, though. Maybe the problem was me attempting to be Isaac’s parent, according to Isaac—trying to be to Isaac what Martin tried to be to me. Most in our family are head-strong. Wonder where we get it from. I think it mostly comes from my grandfather, Martin Luther King, Sr., who cast a long shadow. He was a strong-willed, bullheaded man, and he passed it down; the only one who was able to escape it and establish his own identity was his youngest son and namesake, Martin Luther King, Jr.

  CHAPTER 2

  Peace Be Still

  Isaac and I were in the balcony of Ebenezer Baptist Church, listening to our grandfather deliver the Sunday Word.

  Being accustomed to the surroundings, Isaac and I were playing around up in the balcony. I could listen to the gospel choir roll out rollicking Baptist hymns all day. We weren’t the only ones Grand-daddy had in the palm of his hand. He was a strong Baptist preacher.

  Going to church was a chore for us at the time. Granddaddy, affectionately known as Daddy King, was already eyeballing his young grandsons for possible pulpit heirs, and was finding no takers. Who could live up to it? He was a big man, outsized in frame, voice, gaze, everything. We weren’t rebellious—too much fear of him for that—but we sensed we were being studied for suitability.

  I had a hard time focusing on church activities, being still and concentrating; consequently Isaac and I were most of the time running around at church, in church, around church, outside church— church being of course my grandfather’s tidy, eight-hundred-seat red-brick Ebenezer, at the corner of Jackson Street and Auburn Avenue, where my father was co-pastor.

  We were not only sons of a preacher man: we were the grandsons of a preacher man, and the great-grandsons of a preacher man. My grandmother Big Mama’s late father, A. D. Williams, only vaguely intimidated us via sepia-toned photographs. Isaac and I were terrors anyway, and though Martin wasn’t my running buddy anymore, he too found his ways to escape the collared noose, though Martin was always too shrewd to be caught doing the things Isaac and I got caught doing routinely. People probably thought we had fallen a bit far from the tree. We had fun, though.

  My father was not always in the pulpit on Sundays; the Cause had taken over his life. Granddaddy took more of a disciplinarian role, and my mother too, in the absence of my father.

  So on that day when we were in the balcony Isaac said something to make me giggle. One giggle. It was inappropriate, but as a kid you don’t think like that; we were kind of talking through the service and my grandfather didn’t play that. Did we think we had already obtained salvation? If we did, he had an update for us. He called us down after his sermon. My grandfather called us down on the wine-colored carpet. He asked—that’s funny, “asked,” right, he “asked” me and Isaac to come down— “Come down here!” That was a long walk. Church members nodding solemnly. Peers looking on, dropping heads to hide grins. Marty surreptitiously drawing a finger across his throat.

  “Now, my grandboys will tell the congregation what the message was about.”

  Maybe it was genetically encoded. I didn’t recall the sermon then, and don’t now, but for whatever reason, I was able to wing it; people were “Amen”-ing, and our young peers were disappointed that we were not in for more public humiliation. I shocked my own self.

  “Well…” I began (several church members echoed me: “Waal, waal”), “… you talked about the importance of the Lord, not just on Sunday, but every day. You said there were too many Simons and not enough Peters, too many Sunday Christians and not enough everyday Christians.”

  People kept “Amen”-ing, and “Waal”-ing, so I figured I was getting by. Finished her off by saying Abraham had a son after age one hundred, so you never know what God has in the storehouse for you. Isaac whispered to me to remember that Leviti cussed and Deuter ronomied.

  My grandfather’s massive, waxy-looking hands worked as if our you
ng necks were in them and he might strangle them. Veins in his temples throbbed. He looked at Isaac, and said, “And what’s that you say, Isaac Newton Farris? What’s your interpretation of the message today?”

  Isaac, being typical Isaac, said, “Well… I… actually think Dexter summed it up well.”

  A few people nearly rolled in the aisles laughing. We’d winged it. Later people said, “You know, you boys ain’t all that dumb. Your day’s coming.” A slow—and I mean a very slow—smile crept across Granddaddy’s face.

  Martin Luther King, Sr., didn’t play. He’d leave the pulpit to collar us; or he’d send a deacon to retrieve us, inside the sanctuary or out. Often we were out, across the street, at Carter’s Sundry. He believed sparing the rod meant spoiling a child. If he was preaching and you got up to leave he would challenge you.

  “Where you going, Brother So-and-so? Do you not need to hear the rest of God’s word?”

  Evidently what my grandfather saw in me and Isaac at that age brought him little comfort in the way of succession. I don’t think we did anything any different from any other youths. Nobody else’s youths were expected to sit through these stifling Baptist services; because of who we were different standards were applied. We resented it. We’d see other kids on walkabout, not coming at all, coming down with Sunday morning flu, and we’d say, “How come we have to do it when they don’t?” Martin’s public face was more in keeping with tradition, as were cousin Al’s and Derek’s, Uncle A.D.’s sons. Martin was shrewd; he’d put up a good front, usually avoided Granddaddy’s belt. I envied him. I knew deep down he didn’t have any plans to be a preacher any more than we did, but he didn’t bridle against it so openly. When time came to pray, he’d pray hard. Pray to be spared becoming a preacher. He’d say something like that out of the side of his mouth to get us going, we’d laugh, get called out, feel the sting of a strap later. Martin would shake his head like one of the octogenarian deacons: “Umum-um, them boys ought to be shamed of themselves.”