Time Is Tight by Booker T. Jones

Author:Booker T. Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2019-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

MEMPHIS—April 4, 1968—6

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was a man who believed in education. He understood that racism was an encumbrance on the entire human race. He came to Memphis to help the troubled garbage workers with their strike because he was disturbed by the lack of progress.

Then, on April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel.

Because our studio at Stax Records was a made-over movie theater, without so much as a conference room large enough to seat the staff, we convened at the Lorraine’s dining room, often during lunch. There was no lounge at Stax. We hung out in the small foyer, in the hall, or on the street. The Lorraine provided the only suitable location where black and white could congregate without intervention.

When Dr. King was shot there, it was as if the act had been carried out on our own turf—a dreadful mockery of the harmonious racial mixing that went on at the Lorraine, and of our espousing of the motel.

A man of inordinate strength and sensitivity, Dr. King has survived through his four children. There were very few African American preachers who had fewer than seven children in my day. It was a mark of pride and intelligence to be able to recite the names of your pastor’s children without hesitation, like being able to spell Mississippi or know the capital cities of the states.

Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. There is one in every city. You won’t find it in the white neighborhoods. More often than not, it will take you to the airport. I’ve tried this; if you’re lost and need to catch a flight, just get directions to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard.

His name drives my mind to the garbage workers of the world. My daddy used to always tell me, “Make sure to go back to the alley and say hello to Mr. Fletcher; the garbagemen are coming today.” Their fight was our fight, and they had no chance of winning against Mayor Henry Loeb or Mr. Crump’s long-implanted system of city government.

That’s why Dr. King came to Memphis. He was their only hope. He was our only hope. There could be no mistake. No backing down from this one. No violence, no fear, no wavering. The time had come. When I’m driving to the airport, I think about it before every flight.

I was struck by the same force that killed Dr. King. The shot killed him, but it impelled a new part of me to come alive. Now, I live with as much joy and humility as I can.

Thank God, thank God, for my brown, African American skin and all that came with it. How can I tell you the pride I feel—the good fortune to come from the place I do? And as a result, to be who I am. All the oppression, the racial prejudice, the inequalities and inequities, the lack of privilege and opportunity—the lashes my forebearers endured on their backs, the

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