Our Holiday

When I was a kid, we spoke of him with great reverence, his full title in tact: Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior. His legacy was fresh then. Our way of life was the immediate product of his life’s work. He was a hero of our time.

When my parents married, their interracial union was still illegal in some of our United States. Here in New York, my father reported the latest developments of the Civil Rights Movement on WWRL, the city’s Colored radio station. He landed a jailhouse phone interview with the great man himself, the Reverend Doctor King, all in the line of duty.

Martin Luther King, as my kids casually call him, was our martyr.

For that he got a holiday.

On Monday morning, we began our observances in our pajamas, ensconced in Pink Panther cartoons and the weekend’s New York Times. I heard my maternal self assert the importance of his work – his legacy – to my children:

“You guys remember why Martin Luther King is so important, right?”

Yes, Mommy. He made it OK for black people and white people to be equal.

“He devoted his life to bringing about that very important change.”

Yes, Mommy.

“Well, you know how we have all these holidays from school? The religious holidays, and the three-day weekends?”

Uh-huh.

“For our family, this holiday – Martin Luther King’s birthday - is the most relevant holiday of all. You understand that, right?” Relevant. Good word. Do they know what I mean?

Because we’re black and white.

“That’s right.” We are black and white. And last weekend, when we celebrated Daddy’s friend’s 50^th birthday, and we three and a Latino bartender were the only brown people in the room, it was all right. We were welcomed into the restaurant by a smiling white hostess, and we shared the dishes and the bathroom same as everyone else. We had a fine time, all of us mixing it up. There was nothing strange about it. 

My girls are surprised by my need to explain. This is how we live.

THANK YOU, DOCTOR KING.