I remember my mother crying. I remember her sadness. It was unlike anything I had ever sensed before. She was in disbelief. She was frightened. She was shaken.
When you are six years old, you remember the first time your rock is shaken. That’s my first recollection of my rock, my mom, being shaken. I know now she loved who Martin Luther King Jr. was. I know now that she believed the things he believed in. I know now, she was a woman from the North, raising four kids (along with my hard-working dad) in the South at a time when many old, opposing values still existed. She was an outsider in terms of social thought. She wasn’t like many of the old white southerners in Tucker, Georgia who lived in the town we moved to a few years earlier.
Now, I can look at the history of the day…
View original post 535 more words