MLK March Sparks Memories

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A flood of memories returned as I participated in the Martin Luther King, Jr. march in Longview on a picture-perfect day. It was cool enough to keep one from perspiring while walking, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. It took about 20 minutes for a few hundred folks to stroll and sing “We Shall Overcome,” from Broughton Recreation Center to Mt. Olive Baptist Church for the service. We walked down MLK Boulevard, of course, as is the case in hundreds of towns and cities across America. And as it should be.

I thought back to 1968, a seminal year in our country’s history and my own personal history. On the morning of the New Hampshire primary, I passed out fliers in early March, in a snowstorm in Pembroke, N.H., backing Eugene McCarthy, the anti-war candidate. I did so because a pretty college girl asked me to. (I was 12). I watched with great interest on our fuzzy black-and-white television on March 31, as Lyndon Johnson announced he would not run for re-election after nearly losing the N.H. primary to McCarthy.

Four days later, on April 4, King was assassinated while standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. Everyone I knew in lily-white New Hampshire was horrified and nervous about what would happen next. And riots ensued, though arguably not as severe as one might expect. Still, times were unsettling.

Meanwhile, we were preparing to move to Longview, where my paternal grandfather, recently widowed, lived. The economy in New England was sluggish at the time, the winters gruesome. The moving van arrived a week or so after a second political killing left the nation stunned. Robert F. Kennedy was murdered by Sirhan Sirhan in early June, in the wee morning hours after winning the California and South Dakota primaries. Kennedy had jumped in the race after Johnson withdrew.

The world appeared to be spinning apart. And we were moving to Texas, where another Kennedy had been killed less than five years earlier, two hours west of where we would live.

We spent the summer living with my grandfather in his small ranch-style house in Greggton. It was temporary, until my dad — a commercial artist — could find a job and my parents could buy a house. Across Harrison Road from Grampa’s home was a convenience store and laundromat. (Forgive me if you have heard this story before. It bears retelling.) I would walk over there to buy an ice cream sandwich, trying to adapt to the heat and humidity. (Nearly a half-century later, I still have not adapted. I loathe summer.) I noticed a sign hand-painted on the front glass: White Only.

I walked home and asked my mother how a laundromat could survive only washing sheets, pillowcases and towels. She sighed and shook her head, explained what “White Only” meant in East Texas in 1968.

I entered Longview High School the following year after a tumultuous eighth grade at Foster Junior High. I quickly learned several things:

• I needed to lose the Yankee accent in a hurry or face regular butt-kickings in P.E. class.
• Coaches posing as history teachers loved to give licks. I got my share.
• Both white and black students were adapting to attending school together, instead of on separate campuses.

Longview High School was fully integrated for the first time in 1969, when Mary C. Womack was shut down, and its students shoehorned into the old campus just north of downtown. T.G. Field, the namesake of the recently razed auditorium, was principal. He and I had issues. Times were tense. Fights broke out, police summoned. I lay low best I could, made friends with the people who interested or entertained me regardless of skin color.

I left Longview a year after graduating from high school, only returning to visit my parents. They had purchased a house on South Twelfth Street in 1968, behind LeTourneau University. My parents remained in that house until 2007, when they could no longer care for themselves. I finally moved back eight years ago to run the newspaper, until it sold in early 2010. Now, after several other newspaper gigs, I spend most my time working with a non-profit that hopes to make a difference in the lives of young people who might not receive the opportunities other children receive. It is worthwhile work, a privilege to contribute in some small part. I work in the same neighborhood where many of my friends grew up in modest homes between High Street and Mobberly Avenue.

I sat in the standing-room sanctuary of Mount Olive after the march, listening to a fiery sermon from Dr. Cary Hilliard, pastor of First Baptist Church, a young white preacher. It occurred to me that we really have come a long way. I am old enough to remember when — I’m fairly certain since my grandfather was a member there — when a black face would not be seen at First Baptist — or a white face at Mount Olive’s.

We have come a long way. No doubt about that. But we still have a very long way to go. No doubt about that either. At least a lot of folks are trying.

We need more folks to try.

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