“April 4,” the young lady at the gym said as I signed my name to a form and stopped to think of the date. April 4, which will always mean just one day to me, that day 47 years ago when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. I still remember the tears that would not stop and still feel the impact of his life and his death.
I was seventeen years old, finishing my first year at the University of Chicago, full of the excitement of the university and the city and the tension between being a student on the south side and learning community organizing on the north side, praying Sunday mornings at St. Dominic’s Catholic masses in Cabrini Green and Saturday mornings at soulful, prayerful, songful Operation Breadbasket meetings at Chicago Theological Seminary. Continue reading