The Dream

I’m not sure why, but I’d always assumed Martin Luther King Jr died in his late 40s or early 50s.  I thought that assassin took him away from us as a middle-aged man.  This past Black History Month I heard on the radio he was 39 years old.  Thought to myself, “Oh, damn.”

He was 39 and at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement.  I thought to myself, “I’m 37 years old.  What have I done with my life?  What difference have I made?”  That sad self-reflection, that pity party was short lived though.  Later that week my son Julian drew a picture for me.  He drew a man from memory but it was instantly recognizable to me.  I knew who it was.

A Julian Jones original.

“This is great!  Is this Martin Luther King, Jr?”

“Yes!”

I then asked about who he was and Julian was excited and told me about boycotts, writing letters from jail, and giving a great speech.  I was proud of him.  When I was seven my heroes were Gary Coleman, Patrick Ewing, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Rambo.  I’d say he’s got me beat there.

Back around January 2016, after seeing Star Wars: The Force Awakens in theaters I asked Julian, “Who was your favorite character?”

“Fin.”

“Which one was Fin?” I asked, expecting him to say “The black one.”  He didn’t.

“He’s the one who used to be a storm trooper!”

I was a proud papa. 

I will not achieve what MLK did.  I’ll have no well-known legacy that strangers will look at and admire.  But that’s fine.  I have a boy that is absolutely a sign of MLK’s legacy.  I think that I certainly contribute to his goodness.  I will be doubly proud when little brother Willem shows the same sentiments. 

Children like that will only facilitate the long overdue realization of King’s Dream.  That’s no small feat.  To play a part is nothing to be ashamed of. 

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