It’s February, the month of the year designated as “Black History Month,” and I feel compelled to say something about it because Black History is American History and we should all care about it as Americans, regardless our skin color.
In 1976, President Gerald R. Ford officially recognized February as being Black History Month. Before that, it was Negro History Week, started in 1926 by Dr. Carter Woodson, who is known as the “Father of Black History.”
The contributions to our country made by African Americans are wholly incalculable and I can’t imagine anyone disagreeing with that. Those innumerable contributions should be commemorated and celebrated.
As a young boy I learned about black history through the struggle for civil rights. My father was a college professor and saw that struggle up close. My mother, also an educator, graduated from NYU in 1952, spending her free time singing folk songs in Greenwich Village… many of which were songs of the Civil Rights movement.
I was eight years old when we went to Washington DC to attend an anti-war protest march, too young to fully understand everything that was happening, but I knew two things: 1. That the war in Vietnam had to be stopped. 2. That Martin Luther King was a real American hero.
My parents tried to teach me what racial segregation meant and the idea sickened me.
I try to imagine growing up under the horrors of segregation. I try to imagine how it must feel to not be allowed to go where others go, eat where others eat, drink from the same drinking fountains others drink from, use the bathroom that others use. I try to imagine how it could not hurt badly… how it could not scar deeply.
I close my eyes and see the face of a young boy, my age in 1965, but with skin of darker brown. I look deep into his eyes. I see him pressing his face up against the glass, looking longingly at what others have, that he does not. What he may never be allowed to have. I see him questioning… why? And I want to weep. I want to stop him from hurting… save him from that pain.
I want to scream louder than any scream that has ever been heard. I am ashamed of my country for its policy of racial segregation that continued through the 1960s, our new laws notwithstanding. And I am only eight years old.
I didn’t see racial segregation with my own eyes. If I had, I’m quite sure that it would have burned an impression into my soul that could never have been removed. I don’t know how you grow up and overcome something like that. Do you always feel uncomfortable… always… forever?
Do you look at everyone and wonder what they’re thinking about you? Will you always be angry, no matter what? Do you wake up every morning and wonder how it could be that such injustice was ever allowed to happen?
This is Black History Month.
February is Black History Month, but “black history” is also American history. This is a month when we should remember our past and look to our future, pledging to always be better… pledging to be a country where all men and women are treated equally, regardless of race, gender, creed or sexual orientation. Because that is the real American dream we should all share.
I learned of Dr. Martin Luther King from my parents at home, and from teachers in school. He was fighting racial segregation… fighting for civil rights. He was strong. Immeasurably strong. Strong like Superman was strong. He had a dream. He was right. He was a hero to so many.
Dr. King was a hero to me.
Martin Luther King would not back down from what must have seemed like insurmountable odds. Nor would he allow himself to express the rage he must have felt as much as any. He was the youngest person to ever receive the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to fight discrimination and racial segregation through civil disobedience and other non-violent means.
He was the greatest kind of American. Because of what he and many others like him did, what he stood for, what he accomplished… because of him we are the country we are today. Without him we would be far less.
Dr. King was a man of faith. Faith in God. Faith in America. Faith in its people. Faith in all of us. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to be that strong… some day.
Then he was assassinated. Shot. Killed. It was April 4th, 1968. My mother cried. My father did not want to talk about it. I could not understand how… why… I wanted to shoot the person who had shot him.
I learned about death from Martin Luther King. I learned about peace from Martin Luther King. I learned about hope from Martin Luther King. I learned about struggle from Martin Luther King. I learned about my country from Martin Luther King. I learned to love… and I learned to hate HATE, because of Dr. King.
January 16th is Martin Luther King’s day, and he deserves his day as much if not more than any other for whom a day is named… he earned his day… gave his life for his day.
President Ronald Reagan signed the bill that created Dr. King’s day as a federal holiday. Some say that he didn’t want to do it, but he really had no choice. Many fought against his day. I’m sure many of those who fought it back then, wish they hadn’t.
I turned eight years old one month after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. left this world forever. They sang happy birthday to me… and it was the very last time I was called “Marty.” Because from that day forward… and for the rest of my life… I told everyone: My name is MARTIN.
Mandelman out.
If you enjoyed this article, you might also like:
My Father’s Many Gifts, and Mom Let Him Live
Cancelling Culture by Dr. Seuss
