“There’s still a lot of work that has to be done. This memorial, this institution, is actually a living and breathing institution.
You are the institution, and so am I. As long as you and I are living and breathing, then we might become better, help each
other become better, help America become a better place. We might not think so now, but you, even you, as young as you are,
one day you won’t be so young, and you’ll have children of your own. And they might not be perfect children, they might be
flawed children, they may end up being children who had to deal with tragic, flawed circumstances, but they will be your children,
ours, and you and we will want the best for them. So there’s still work to do, programs to enact to make sure that people
understand and the future public is educated about the life, work, and philosophy of Martin Luther King, Jr.
“Now, we’re not trying to give him all the credit. Many others contributed and gave their time and talents and lives to the
cause to make sure that all people would be seen as having an equal opportunity in this society. So in many ways, my father
is symbolic of many other names and people. In honoring him, you honor them all. So on behalf of the board of directors of
the King Center, me, and my mother, who could not be here, but who some of you have seen or met before, I welcome you, welcome
you wholeheartedly, thank you for your interest and time; to Reverend King, thank you for your leadership. We hope you all
will enjoy your stay here. While it may be that shortly you leave here, walk away with a sense of purpose and fulfillment;
continue to encourage others, who may not have the time or may not have the ability to be here, to make the trek, to make
the journey to learn more about our history. Remember this great legacy that we all are a part of. I apologize for not being
able to spend more time with you, but if you can feel the spirit of my father here, then me not being around will be no great
loss to anybody.
“My job was to see to it that you got to him. As you go through you’ll see that there are a lot of people from throughout
America and the world, and the future world, that are here with you, and will be spending time with you, in this and the world
we share, so I again thank you and I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. May God continue to bless each and every one of
you.
“During my tenure over the last eight years as the King Center president, I have been fortunate to have had innumerable inspirational
moments. However, I will take this opportunity only to mention a couple of them. Two of them involved former president Bill
Clinton. The first in 1994 when President Clinton asked my brother and I, along with Ted and Ethel Kennedy, to fly aboard
Air Force One to Indianapolis, Indiana, to break ground for a Peace Memorial dedicated to the memories of Robert F. Kennedy
and my father. This memorial is located on the spot where Robert Kennedy spoke on the night my father was killed. He was campaigning
in the African-American community and calmed the crowd with his now famous remarks. These remarks were credited with preventing
rioting in Indianapolis while other cities burned.
“The second incident was accompanying my mother to the White House for a State dinner honoring former South African president
Nelson Mandela. This historic event inspired me because of what it represented in terms of paying tribute to the liberation
of a man and his people.
“On another occasion I had the privilege of meeting His Holiness the Dalai Lama on his visit to the King Center. I remember
my sister Yolanda commenting on how his spirit reminded her of my father’s.
“I also met with Israeli former prime minister and Nobel laureate Shimon Peres on his visit to our Center, where he presented
me with a silver plate with the dove of peace etched upon it. We discussed the importance of using my father’s principles
of non-violence to bring about peace in the Middle East. I truly hope and pray that someday there will be peace in that region,
and both Jews and Palestinians can live together as sisters and brothers.”
The Kings, flawed like everybody else, are good people.
I gladly face that now, in addition to the rest of what I inherited, as part of my obligation and birthright. Now I have to
at least try to identify and find and attend to my own little dreams, because the legacy, obligation, birthright, inheritance,
responsibility is not my only allotment, not all that I am, does not solely define who or what I can be. I finally figured
out why I had always asked, “Why?” I never finished the question—why was this happening to me? I had always waited for things
to happen to me, instead of doing things myself. I realize how much has to be done in terms of bringing this legacy—and myself—full
circle. What is still missing today is the spiritual element that really causes his message to live, in terms of breaking
down barriers in the mind, believing you can overcome obstacles, believing we can get along, not have to solve our conflicts
with violence.
It’s funny, every year we have our King celebration, we get letters and hear speeches from politicians; you hear speeches
from senators, congressmen, talking about how great Dr. King was to this nation, how he led the nation out of racial strife,
used nonviolence, how he should be applauded, but the same people will turn around and vote to start a war without diplomacy
or other means first. So it’s almost like people recognized it in him, in my father, but still don’t want to apply it for
themselves. Have I sorted out the role of spirituality—faith—in my own life?
I have decided to seek a deeper level of life. Faith has really been a key ingredient in my sustenance. I’ve done a lot of
work. I mean internally. The process has been very therapeutic for me out here. Being on the ocean. Being alone. Being at
peace with that. Recovery. Recovery is the word I’m looking for. The recovery is almost complete.
I could not have endured all of the ups and downs, the tragedies, controversies, conflicts, trials and tribulations, if it
were not for my faith in God, believing in a higher power that ultimately the things we cannot see shape us; faith being defined
as the evidence of things unseen, and uncontrollable even, when you truly surrender yourself to it. There’s really a point
of submission where you say, “I’ve done everything humanly possible, and it’s out of my hands. It’s bigger than me.” That’s
when you submit, and know everything’s going to be all right. “Let go and let God.” That’s what I embrace now. It’s not my
nature; I am controlling in terms of wanting to know reasons why. I’m skeptical, but I don’t let it drive me; I’m cautious
by nature, a lot has to do with the experiences that shaped me. But I’ve thrown caution to the winds about spirituality.
My father once said, “Unearned suffering is redemptive.” If that is true—and life has taught me it is—then he earned his historical
place a thousand times over. Not only did he die a violent death diametrically opposed to his ideals, not only did he die
martyred to a great cause, but also his widow suffered, his children were at times considered pariahs… but that’s all gone
now.
What I see for Atlanta, the home of my youth, is that it continues growing on a steady path. Daddy’s legacy is one of the
city’s biggest claims to fame now, the thing that undergirds it. Andy Young says that’s why the Olympics came there, the African
delegates delivered it to Atlanta. We didn’t win all European nations. We got a few votes, but it was that bloc of the African
continent saying, “I haven’t been to Atlanta, but isn’t that where Dr. King is from?” Yet his surviving family continues to
be attacked, for no reason except none of us, his children, turned out to be him. All of us together are him—the part that’s
left on this earth. The King Center’s original purpose was to be a nonprofit programming organization educating the public,
serving as a clearinghouse of information and training in nonviolent techniques. It was also intended as—and has become—a
repository of artifacts, a learning place. It serves as a blueprint provider, a kind of resource manager, focusing more on
the software, the message. It can help take you there.
After I spent a few months in California, Mother came to visit me. When she looked out over the ocean from my heightened vantage
point, all she could say was a word I’d never heard her say before: “Wow!” Then she said, “It’s… so beautiful… only God could
create such as this.”
Mother hasn’t left Atlanta—not yet. I’d like to see her spend her later years in a comfortable place, giving out her yearly
children’s book award, being representative. At peace. She deserves it. Where Mother will go from 234 Sunset, Vine City, only
time will tell. One reason L.A. appealed to me is that I know Yolanda—my not-so-terrible big sister Yoki—is very happy out
here in Los Angeles, living, working. She had a guest shot on an episode of the TV series
JAG.
She played a judge, of all things. Played it well too. She always did have that knack.
My father’s legacy is universal. It’s not limited to Atlanta, Georgia, or the South. It tends to follow one around. He changed
a social landscape in Atlanta, and places like Montgomery, Selma, Birmingham, Chicago, Cleveland, Harlem, Memphis, and L.A.
His base was always Atlanta. He was a not-so-simple country preacher—not so simple at all.
For me, it all comes back to communication. We all want to find the right vehicle to communicate. I plan to try to do it by
venturing out here on the West Coast, in L.A. I feel liberated by the anonymity of it, the new, open spaces, the creative
environment, the feeling of a frontier, and of being more free, the fluid, constant yet eternal change of the waves coming
in off the Pacific. There is power in their sound and in their eternal force, the feel of the spray, the ions in the air.
A reinvention of self. I feel free to do it now. For a long time I never felt comfortable being thought of—as honorable as
it is—as the son of Martin Luther King, Jr. I’ll be at peace when I have something on my own. Self-expression is subjective;
people don’t care who you are. They care what you can produce, how you make them feel. I hope and I fear at the same time.
I hope people will accept us, the children of Martin Luther King, Jr. I hope people will accept me. I know now I’ll live,
whether they do or not. So I start again. Fresh.
The terrorist attacks and subsequent events on and after September 11, 2001, have profoundly rocked and changed America forever.
Once again, my father’s message of nonviolent social change seems relevant. As one who has lost loved ones through violence
and tragedy, I continue to pray for the victims and their families as they endure a long, difficult recovery. My brother and
sisters are okay. Martin’s heart is in the right place. Bernice—you may hear from her one day, in a spiritual way. She will
always be a special messenger. Don’t take my word for it. Just listen to her. You haven’t heard the last from her, as a spiritual
guide, as an orator. Yoki—she’s so creative, expressive, so honest and unafraid. She’s like our Daddy too. Like one of my
father’s sermons. I love her very much. Maybe one day she can come up with another new role for me. Prince Charming always
was a stretch.
As for me, I’ve left Atlanta, but it will never leave me. Vine City, Collier Heights, West End, Cascade, Ebenezer, Galloway,
Douglass, Peachtree, Morehouse, Spelman, the AU Center, Sweet Auburn, the King Center, Midtown, Buckhead; Uncle Andy, Isaac,
my cousins, aunts and uncles, my friends, even my foes, and some people who were both friend and foe—none of them will ever
leave me.
I think of this and all of them while overlooking the Pacific Ocean, listening to the roar of breakers rolling in. I am reminded
of my father’s voice, how it comforted me, and does still.
Freedom never comes easy. Neither does life; maybe that’s part of my contribution. Maybe to show how easy it isn’t, is my
contribution. I don’t know. I’ve learned that not knowing is permissible— it carries no shame. Part of a journey is struggle,
failure. You still must give yourself permission to live. Would he approve? Would he disapprove? I let it go. I didn’t follow
tradition, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be about my father’s business. It was part of a greater plan. God’s plan.
Any scholar who wants to dispute that—feel free. No more about me now. I’m unworthy. I know it. I feel glad to have this opportunity
to remember.
I sit on the beach. I feel stronger with each passing minute, each bracing inhalation of sea air. I stay near the water. I
see the little boy. He looks like… Daddy. The boy finally asks me:
“Can you show me how to walk on water?”
“… I don’t think I can,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
“But it’s all right,” I say.
“I know.”
I hear my father’s voice inside the waters. He walks with me and he talks with me and he tells me I am his own, and the joy
we share as we fade into memory, none other has ever known. We plot a course in the Promised Land. It’s up to Yolanda, Martin,
Bernice, me, and you. I pray for health, understanding, character, progress. I hope God is not finished with us yet. So our
story really ends at the beginning. This is our story, this is our song. So was it Written, in a minor key.
It’s not sad. It’s life.