i watch a lot of science fiction, so i knew that the green glow throbbing inside that room was nothing less than extraterrestrial.
in the center for civil & human rights i had seen martin luther king’s loopy draft for his nobel peace prize acceptance speech. i’d been shook around on a lunch stool, and heard what hatred was. i’d learned that if a white woman in certain states ‘allowed herself’ to be impregnated by a black man, she’d be imprisoned for 18 months. that was striking, because while i’ve been made by the circumstances of the things i’ve seen to acknowledge my own humanity and feel empathy for the plight of people of color in america, i saw someone like me getting fucked over by segregation too. the whole ‘white guilt’ thing sort of disappeared for a minute, and i just kind of thought about myself. i had seen the neon cursive signs- ‘White’ on one side, ‘Colored’ on the other, showing the stark similarities of the two cultures, and the fact that differences were manufactured by a discriminatory system, not innate. we were all human.
but the most striking thing to me were just a few blown up black and white photographs on a wall. they always say that a picture says a thousand words, but while a photographer captures a physical moment, our minds have ti reconcile what that means to us, emotionally. there were 4 pictures hanging on the wall of the staircase- one of dr. king standing on the lorraine motel balcony with other activists, including andrew young, who we interviewed today. one of dr. king’s body on the floor of the balcony, a cloth covering the wound on his face, his friends, aghast looks twisting their faces, standing helplessly above him. that picture was fear. the third was his body on a stretcher being handed down, and the fourth- the fourth was something else.
the emerald panicked light below cast a telling shadow on the photograph. there was only one subject- an older black man, head bent forward over his task. his hair and eyebrows were greyed, with a mustache covering his lips. i could see no expression on his face. i read the plaque underneath- his name was theatrice bailey, whose brother owned the lorraine motel. it went on to say what he was doing. cleaning martin luther king jr’s blood from that balcony. hell. his blood looked sticky and black against the bright, cracked balcony. in his right hand, he held a tool similar to what i’ve seen members of the tech crew at park use, to scrape paint off of the floor. in his left, he held a jar, full of chips of his blood. i could see the imprint of a shoe that had left its pattern on the ground. it was a quiet picture. the eye of the storm, maybe.
it stood in contrast to what came before it, and the speech by mlk that came after, about how he wanted to be remembered. he said not to remember him as a nobel peace prize winner, or call him by his accolades. he wanted to be remembered as a servant of god & justice (if those things were even different to him). listening to him speak is unbelievable- sitting in ebenezer baptist church, listening to his old speech, i felt like i finally understood something that i can’t quite put a name to. mlk was fervent in his quest for justice, for equality, for peace! when he spoke, you can see the passion pulse through him, see by the look in his eyes what heroism looked like! i struggle with knowing what happiness is, or what goodness is, but i see dr. king and i just sort of know a little better.
and i see that quiet photo, washed in green, and i feel my lungs twist inside of me.
- naomi
in the center for civil & human rights i had seen martin luther king’s loopy draft for his nobel peace prize acceptance speech. i’d been shook around on a lunch stool, and heard what hatred was. i’d learned that if a white woman in certain states ‘allowed herself’ to be impregnated by a black man, she’d be imprisoned for 18 months. that was striking, because while i’ve been made by the circumstances of the things i’ve seen to acknowledge my own humanity and feel empathy for the plight of people of color in america, i saw someone like me getting fucked over by segregation too. the whole ‘white guilt’ thing sort of disappeared for a minute, and i just kind of thought about myself. i had seen the neon cursive signs- ‘White’ on one side, ‘Colored’ on the other, showing the stark similarities of the two cultures, and the fact that differences were manufactured by a discriminatory system, not innate. we were all human.
but the most striking thing to me were just a few blown up black and white photographs on a wall. they always say that a picture says a thousand words, but while a photographer captures a physical moment, our minds have ti reconcile what that means to us, emotionally. there were 4 pictures hanging on the wall of the staircase- one of dr. king standing on the lorraine motel balcony with other activists, including andrew young, who we interviewed today. one of dr. king’s body on the floor of the balcony, a cloth covering the wound on his face, his friends, aghast looks twisting their faces, standing helplessly above him. that picture was fear. the third was his body on a stretcher being handed down, and the fourth- the fourth was something else.
the emerald panicked light below cast a telling shadow on the photograph. there was only one subject- an older black man, head bent forward over his task. his hair and eyebrows were greyed, with a mustache covering his lips. i could see no expression on his face. i read the plaque underneath- his name was theatrice bailey, whose brother owned the lorraine motel. it went on to say what he was doing. cleaning martin luther king jr’s blood from that balcony. hell. his blood looked sticky and black against the bright, cracked balcony. in his right hand, he held a tool similar to what i’ve seen members of the tech crew at park use, to scrape paint off of the floor. in his left, he held a jar, full of chips of his blood. i could see the imprint of a shoe that had left its pattern on the ground. it was a quiet picture. the eye of the storm, maybe.
it stood in contrast to what came before it, and the speech by mlk that came after, about how he wanted to be remembered. he said not to remember him as a nobel peace prize winner, or call him by his accolades. he wanted to be remembered as a servant of god & justice (if those things were even different to him). listening to him speak is unbelievable- sitting in ebenezer baptist church, listening to his old speech, i felt like i finally understood something that i can’t quite put a name to. mlk was fervent in his quest for justice, for equality, for peace! when he spoke, you can see the passion pulse through him, see by the look in his eyes what heroism looked like! i struggle with knowing what happiness is, or what goodness is, but i see dr. king and i just sort of know a little better.
and i see that quiet photo, washed in green, and i feel my lungs twist inside of me.
- naomi
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