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Today is a day we can’t forget: “Double D Day,” Birmingham, Alabama.

In Birmingham that year, April had been a month of Civil Rights demonstrations, marches, rallies, picketing, boycotts, sit-ins.

The city had fought back, violently, and arrested hundreds of protestors, including Martin Luther King, Jr. (MLK wrote his famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail” over the Easter weekend.)

By May, the effort was flagging. Adult protestors were exhausted, discouraged, beaten down.

children arrested in Birmingham

Then came the Children’s Crusade: On Thursday, May 2, under Rev. James Bevel’s leadership, 1,500 black students skipped school and marched. 600 were arrested. 2,000 attended a rally that night.

The next day—Friday, May 3—1,000 students marched. Birmingham firemen blasted them with high-pressure hoses. Police sicced dogs on them and beat some with Billy clubs.

Over the weekend, 3,000 young people marched.

On Monday, fewer than 900 of the school district’s 7,500 black students attended class. The marches continued. Police arrested 2,425, overfilling the jail. Many were bused to the state fairgrounds. Some were housed in 4-H barracks, others kept outdoors in the rain.

Dogs attack in Birmingham

The Children’s Crusade catapulted Birmingham into the national spotlight.

These photos—and others like them—brought the savagery of segregation into full view on America’s TV screens and daily newspapers, and inspired demonstrations across the country.

What a momentous spring! And what a gutsy commitment by the students of Birmingham.

Check our day-by-day timeline at http://www.terrymarshallfiction.com/Martin-Luther-King.html

MLK in Birmingham jail

Martin Luther King, Jr. in the Birmingham jail, April 1963

Another Martin Luther King Day came and went last week. We celebrated. We listened again to “I Have a Dream.” We held parades and dinners and social gatherings and applauded the glowing remembrances.

And, of course, a number of us raced off to the malls to pony up hard-earned dollars at those “MLK-special” sales that have proliferated over the years. Any holiday is a great day to shop in America!

This year’s MLK Day was exceptional for me: I was a guest on three radio stations that day – WUTQ, Utica, NY; WKCT, Bowling Green, KY, and WCCO, Minneapolis – talking about Martin Luther King’s heritage, nonviolence, how those principles apply today, and how these all are embodied in my novel, Soda Springs: Love, Sex, and Civil Rights.

I normally spend my days in front of a computer, writing. This year I said more publically on MLK Day than I’ve said all year.

My main point in all my MLK Day talks was that all of us – Whites as well as Blacks – have reason to honor Dr. King. Why?

  • As a man of letters, he articulated a philosophy of nonviolence that remains a model for us today.
  • As an orator, he inspired us with his vision of a truly just society.
  • As an activist he showed us how to meld our deeds to our words; he took his message into the streets.

That point seemed so simple and straightforward I thought it almost an affront to spell it out.

But this past weekend our local newspaper ran a letter to the editor that confirmed our need to remind ourselves that Dr. Martin Luther King’s message is for all Americans, not only for Black Americans.

The letter writer praised a couple of her white coworkers for having wished her a happy MLK Day. She was astonished. She wrote, “How can two white people be perfectly at ease with expressing and accepting such a holiday greeting that didn’t apply to them specifically?” (emphasis mine)

She went on, “This exchange between coworkers proves that one doesn’t need to respond with bitterness to such greetings that may not apply to them.”

OK, let me be clear here: Black Americans justifiably should be proud of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his leadership in the Civil Rights movement. He and those who marched with him changed the course of American history. That heritage is central to MLK Day.

But King changed my life as well . . . and I’m a white guy from a small farm town in southern Colorado.

  • In “Pilgrimage to Nonviolence” in his book Stride Toward Freedom, MLK taught me the intellectual rationale for nonviolence.
  • In “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” he pointed out a role for us whites in the Civil Rights movement.
  • With “I Have a Dream” he inspired me to work for Civil Rights.
  • In his April 1967 speech “Beyond Vietnam,” he braved the wrath of many – including his Civil Rights followers – to point out why we should get out of Vietnam.
  • And from Montgomery to Birmingham to Chicago to Selma and beyond, he showed me that we have to stand up for what we believe if we are to change this world.

In short, Martin Luther King Day is my day, too. I celebrate it – as we all should – because MLK was an inspiration for us all.

MLK at March on WashingtonToday is a day to celebrate. It’s Martin Luther King’s birthday, Sunday, January 15.

No, wait . . . we’re supposed to celebrate tomorrow – that way those of us with jobs get a three-day weekend. Thank you, sir.

I’m going the whole distance. I’m celebrating both Sunday and Monday.

Why? I was inspired by Martin Luther King’s words . . . and deeds. Like Rick Sanders in my novel, Soda Springs: Love, Sex, and Civil Rights, Dr. King changed my life. He impressed both Ricky and me with his book Stride Toward Freedom, where, in a chapter called “Pilgrimage to Nonviolence,” he laid out the intellectual argument for his philosophy of nonviolence.

My copy is old and tattered, yellowed, some of the pages falling out. It’s a Ballantine Books paperback, second printing, January 1961. It cost me 50 cents. The message hasn’t changed; it’s as fresh as it was 51 years ago.

Rick and I both devoured MLK’s books. We marveled at his oratory. We celebrated his Nobel Peace Prize. We applauded his opposition to the Vietnam war. We cried when he was murdered.

I’m honoring Martin Luther King today by re-reading “Pilgrimage to Nonviolence,” as well as two of his most famous pieces, “Letter from Birmingham Jail” and “I Have a Dream,” both of which I’ve reprinted in their entirety on my website. Click on them below.

Then, join me in reading them all. That’s the spirit behind this holiday.

MLK gesturing at March on DCWe’ve waited six weeks to dedicate the new Martin Luther King National Memorial on the Mall. No earthquake today. No hurricane. No rain. Today, a crisp fall morning in D.C. October is a good time to be in D.C., and the memorial is another reason to revisit Washington.

I couldn’t make the dedication, but at least today we’ve got C-Span. Only one of the speakers was back on stage from 48 years ago – John Lewis. But we had folks who were there: among them, Diahann Carroll, Jesse Jackson, Andrew Young, Dan Rather, a wonderfully fiery Al Sharpton. Plus the two King kids, all grown up now, but alas, not nearly the speakers their father was.

The President spoke, too, and his speech reaffirmed my faith in him. He neatly tied MLK’s message to today’s hurdles, urged us not to give up in the face of recalcitrance, to fight on, never to lose hope. What an optimist, particularly given his battle with Congressional Republicans, who seem willing to sink the Ship of State itself, so virulent is their intent to run the Captain off the plank. Or keelhaul him.

They played MLK’s “I Have a Dream” on the giant screen. His voice still resonates, and the panning cameras showed again how huge the crowd was. (Would that we could fill Wall Street with such a crowd!) It also reminded us that 1963’s March on Washington was a cry for jobs, as well as freedom. How ironically timely!

I missed the original March on Washington –I was off in back-roads Colorado . . . actually I was on the road, wending my way over a narrow mountain pass en route home, listening to him on the radio.

I wasn’t the only country bumpkin moved by King’s speech. Take Rick Sanders, the protagonist in my novel, Soda Springs: Love, Sex, and Civil Rights. He was farming that day, caught up in thoughts of how difficult life had become, about . . .

No, wait, King’s “I Have a Dream” changed Rick’s life forever. Rather than tell you how, let me show you: the following is from Soda Springs. Here, you can read it for yourself:

Wednesday morning, the belching Case drowned out Rick’s anguish over the barrio’s defeat. But then, the tractor’s beat began hammering out strike chants: “two, four, six, eight, who we gonna liberate? Cis-co, Cis-co, Cis . . .”

A jackrabbit bounded alongside the tractor and zigzagged into uncut alfalfa; next round she would be in his path. The tractor was Soda Springs: relentless.

By noon, clouds formed over the Sangres and rolled toward him. He chomped down two baloney sandwiches as he drove. Even if he finished mowing before it rained, he wouldn’t have time to rake, let alone bale. No matter what, he would leave Friday for Cornell.

Midafternoon, shiny rain splotches dotted the hood. Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed, and rain pummeled him. He raced for the shop.

He flipped on KSCV: Lil Baker’s inane clubs report, “Valley Do-ins.” He jockeyed the radio to KOA-Denver: a pitch for Chevys. Then, mellifluous Walter Cronkite came through the static. “Mr. Randolph has come back to the podium, he . . .”

Rick fussed with the dial. “. . . presenting Miss Mahalia Jackson.” That civil rights rally in Washington? He checked Pops’ grimy wall calendar.

August 28. He had forgotten.

Mahalia Jackson sang a cappella, and a roar drowned out the last echoes of her song. Cronkite said it was hot and two hundred thousand people had been crammed into the mall for hours. A rabbi came to the podium. Rick imagined Charlie popping jokes, Deb beside him, all goo-goo eyes.

Outside, the rain let up, but the yard oozed goo. No more mowing today.

Cronkite again: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. next. Rick wiped down the Case as if it were a prize foal. Through the static, King cried, “Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells.”

Rick chimed in, “And others from sopping wet alfalfa fields.”

King said he dreamed about the red hills of Georgia. “My dream is that Concha will come with me to the gorge-studded hills of Ithaca,” Rick replied. Man, that was stupid to ask her to live with me. She’ll never speak to me again.

Even over static-encrusted KOA, King wrung nuance from every syllable, turned pauses into insights. He’d been jailed, beaten, stabbed. Yet, he dreamed on.

“With this faith we will be able to work together, pray together, struggle together, go to jail together.” Little shouts of joy punctuated his words: Amen. Amen, Lord.

“Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York . . . from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.”

Wow, King zipped from Washington into Pop’s very shop and shifted into overdrive. The static melted away.

“From every mountainside, let freedom ring . . . from every village and hamlet, from every state and every city . . . speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last!’”

King’s dream rolled down from Lincoln Memorial over the crowd, crossed the Sangre de Cristos, gathered in the San Juan foothills, and came to rest in a tiny cementerio beside the old Catholic church at Las Piedras.

Every village and hamlet. Protestants and Catholics. Mexicans and whites. Farmers and farmworkers. Freedom together, not separately.

“Continue until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” Keep it up until you free the Cisco Kid, until justice hunts down Tommy’s murderer.

Rick knew the barrio couldn’t right the wrongs of history in one summer; racism ran too deep. But they had to struggle on. Martin Luther King demanded it. Soda Springs’ battle had only begun, and Dr. King called on him personally to join him: You out there in the Rockies, in Soda Springs, Colorado. You, Rick Sanders.

At last, the summer made sense. Rick’s mission wasn’t in Birmingham, nor Washington, D.C. Go back to the Rockies, to Sanders Farms in your little village of Soda Springs. That’s where he was meant to be. And not only for the summer. Dr. King committed himself to a cause greater than himself; that was his dream.

Rick had failed this summer in part because he dreamed of lust, not justice. He had to stay and fight with Concha, even if it cost him his family and earned him white Soda Springs’ eternal hatred. “So long, Cornell. It’s been nice.”

A double rainbow broke through the haze. Rick’s hay lay water-logged. At best, raking was two days away. No matter. He could rake and bale next week.

“Thanks, Martin, if nothing else, I’ll get Pops’ hay up this summer.” He sharpened the mower blades and gassed the tractor. He had to be ready for every ray of sunshine.

Rick raced for town to deliver his vision to Concha.

En route, he sobered up. For a few euphoric moments, Martin Luther King trumped reality. Concha would eviscerate him. Am I some puta to live with you in sin?

Worse, she would have told Elias and Nacho. You gringos beat us, so now you dare ask Conchita to be your mistress?

They would come for him with Espino’s cutters, brandishing their razor-sharp lettuce knives. Nah, he was being melodramatic.

He pulled up to Concha’s house, and a new thought struck. What if she chose Chicago? He would not only lose her, he would be left behind to face the cavalry by himself.

MLK gesturing at March on DCToday was supposed to be the big day in Washington, D.C.: dedication of the new Martin Luther King National Memorial on the Mall. Postponed by a hurricane named Irene. But the Memorial is up, a new mecca for visitors. I’ve added it to the long list of reasons to revisit Washington one of these days.

Forty-eight years later, I can still hear Rev. King’s “I Have a Dream” echoing over the Washington mall. I didn’t make it to D.C. that day – I was off in backroads Colorado . . . actually I was on the road, wending my way over a narrow mountain pass en route home, listening to the March on Washington on the radio.

I wasn’t the only country bumpkin moved by King’s speech. Take Rick Sanders, the protagonist in my novel, Soda Springs: Love, Sex, and Civil Rights. He was farming that day, caught up in thoughts of how difficult life had become, about . . .

No, wait, King’s “I Have a Dream” changed Rick’s life forever. Rather than tell you how, let me show you: the following is from Soda Springs. Here, you can read it for yourself:

Wednesday morning, the belching Case drowned out Rick’s anguish over the barrio’s defeat. But then, the tractor’s beat began hammering out strike chants: “two, four, six, eight, who we gonna liberate? Cis-co, Cis-co, Cis . . .”A jackrabbit bounded alongside the tractor and zigzagged into uncut alfalfa; next round she would be in his path. The tractor was Soda Springs: relentless.

By noon, clouds formed over the Sangres and rolled toward him. He chomped down two baloney sandwiches as he drove. Even if he finished mowing before it rained, he wouldn’t have time to rake, let alone bale. No matter what, he would leave Friday for Cornell.

Midafternoon, shiny rain splotches dotted the hood. Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed, and rain pummeled him. He raced for the shop.

He flipped on KSCV: Lil Baker’s inane clubs report, “Valley Do-ins.” He jockeyed the radio to KOA-Denver: a pitch for Chevys. Then, mellifluous Walter Cronkite came through the static. “Mr. Randolph has come back to the podium, he . . .”

Rick fussed with the dial. “. . . presenting Miss Mahalia Jackson.” That civil rights rally in Washington? He checked Pops’ grimy wall calendar.

August 28. He had forgotten.

Mahalia Jackson sang a cappella, and a roar drowned out the last echoes of her song. Cronkite said it was hot and two hundred thousand people had been crammed into the mall for hours. A rabbi came to the podium. Rick imagined Charlie popping jokes, Deb beside him, all goo-goo eyes.

Outside, the rain let up, but the yard oozed goo. No more mowing today.

Cronkite again: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. next. Rick wiped down the Case as if it were a prize foal. Through the static, King cried, “Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells.”

Rick chimed in, “And others from sopping wet alfalfa fields.”

King said he dreamed about the red hills of Georgia. “My dream is that Concha will come with me to the gorge-studded hills of Ithaca,” Rick replied. Man, that was stupid to ask her to live with me. She’ll never speak to me again.

Even over static-encrusted KOA, King wrung nuance from every syllable, turned pauses into insights. He’d been jailed, beaten, stabbed. Yet, he dreamed on.

“With this faith we will be able to work together, pray together, struggle together, go to jail together.” Little shouts of joy punctuated his words: Amen. Amen, Lord.

“Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York . . . from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.”

Wow, King zipped from Washington into Pop’s very shop and shifted into overdrive. The static melted away.

“From every mountainside, let freedom ring . . . from every village and hamlet, from every state and every city . . . speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last!’”

King’s dream rolled down from Lincoln Memorial over the crowd, crossed the Sangre de Cristos, gathered in the San Juan foothills, and came to rest in a tiny cementerio beside the old Catholic church at Las Piedras.

Every village and hamlet. Protestants and Catholics. Mexicans and whites. Farmers and farmworkers. Freedom together, not separately.

“Continue until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” Keep it up until you free the Cisco Kid, until justice hunts down Tommy’s murderer.

Rick knew the barrio couldn’t right the wrongs of history in one summer; racism ran too deep. But they had to struggle on. Martin Luther King demanded it. Soda Springs’ battle had only begun, and Dr. King called on him personally to join him: You out there in the Rockies, in Soda Springs, Colorado. You, Rick Sanders.

At last, the summer made sense. Rick’s mission wasn’t in Birmingham, nor Washington, D.C. Go back to the Rockies, to Sanders Farms in your little village of Soda Springs. That’s where he was meant to be. And not only for the summer. Dr. King committed himself to a cause greater than himself; that was his dream.

Rick had failed this summer in part because he dreamed of lust, not justice. He had to stay and fight with Concha, even if it cost him his family and earned him white Soda Springs’ eternal hatred. “So long, Cornell. It’s been nice.”

A double rainbow broke through the haze. Rick’s hay lay water-logged. At best, raking was two days away. No matter. He could rake and bale next week.

“Thanks, Martin, if nothing else, I’ll get Pops’ hay up this summer.” He sharpened the mower blades and gassed the tractor. He had to be ready for every ray of sunshine.

Rick raced for town to deliver his vision to Concha.

En route, he sobered up. For a few euphoric moments, Martin Luther King trumped reality. Concha would eviscerate him. Am I some puta to live with you in sin?

Worse, she would have told Elias and Nacho. You gringos beat us, so now you dare ask Conchita to be your mistress?

They would come for him with Espino’s cutters, brandishing their razor-sharp lettuce knives. Nah, he was being melodramatic.

He pulled up to Concha’s house, and a new thought struck. What if she chose Chicago? He would not only lose her, he would be left behind to face the cavalry by himself.

Critics be damned: The Help is a great showcase for women

The Help resonates because its stories are about ordinary women coping with life – and in the end, demonstrating that maids, too, can have a meaningful voice in Civil Rights. Read the full blog here.

How both The Help and Soda Springs honor Medgar Evers

The 1963 murder of NAACP leader Medgar Evers is a pivotal event in Kathryn Stockett’s The Help, as it is in Terry Marshall’s Soda Springs. This article shows why. Read the full blog here.

The Help: Let’s celebrate both movie and book

The Help relives’60s Civil Rights days with stories of Black maids in Mississippi. Author Kathryn Stockett is my soul mate; my novel, Soda Springs, set in the same years, charts a lesser known struggle of Mexican-Americans. Read the full blog here.

newspaper art

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