Rev. Benjamin L. Hooks
President, National Civil Rights Museum
President, NAACP (1977-1992)
"Where Do We Go From Here?"
January 22, 2002

Rev. Hooks: This is a commemoration of Martin Luther King, Jr.--how well I remember him, how I wish that you could have known him and worked with him. He was a fine man of humility, a man of genuine greatness who loved this nation with a passion and who was willing to, and in fact did, give his life that we might move forward.

April 3, 1968 was a gloomy, stormy, rainy night in Memphis, Tennessee. The chairman of my deacon board came by to pick me up to attend a memorial service for the deacon-- Alexander of the Baptist Church who had been one of my closest friends. On that rainy, stormy night I went out to the Baptist Church. The storm was raging, the winds were howling, the rain was falling incessantly, and thunder was roaring ominously across the dark of the skies.

After we left the memorial service, we started for home. But somewhere between the church and home, Turner and I turned to each other and reminded each other that we had started out to go by the memorial service, and to then go to hear Dr. King’s speech when he was in our town. He was speaking at Mason Temple--a larger auditorium owned by the members of the Church of God in Christ that seemed to have some 5,000 to 6,000 people. Later on I want to emphasize the role that the black church has played in the freedom movement and the role that it plays even today.

Not only was it a dark, gloomy, stormy night in Memphis in the viewpoint of the weather, but it was also am ominous time in Memphis from the viewpoint of racial relations because there was a strike going on. The sanitation workers of Memphis--the men that we call garbage men, the men that we sometimes look down on and yet they perform such a very important function—had been so grievously mistreated, so badly handled that they had gone on strike. They made very small wages, they had no civil service protection, they had no union representation, and they had nobody really to speak for them. Time after time they had been to the ministers of our city and we had gone down to City Hall to intercede for them, but had not accomplished anything. They went to work, and if, after they got there it rained, they were sent home and were not given a dime or any credit for having reported to work. Garbage in those days was put out in tin tubs, not these things that you see now. Sometimes if you get to see a picture, you’ll see these men walking with big, dirty tubs of garbage on their head with the debris overflowing and the juices from the garbage coming down on their clothes. They were not even given an opportunity to wash up for lunch. When the day had ended, nobody provided a place for them to wash up—clean their hands, change their clothes—they had to go as best they could. And, in the midst of this, there was a faulty truck (you have perhaps seen the trucks that compact the garbage).

One day two of the workers, in attempt to escape the storm and rain that had gotten into one of the trucks that had malfunctioned, they were crushed to death and no particular thing was done for the family. So, 15,000 men decided that they would strike, that they would show the city that they did not have to take that kind of treatment. It was amazing. Day after day they went down on Main Street, nobody to raise money to feed them and their children, no union to supply them with strike wages. They had the signs that you see on strikers sometimes—the sign that hangs in front and in back of a person. As you walked down the streets of Memphis, you saw the simple, plain and straightforward sign. It simply said, "I am a man." A statement--since I am a man, I deserve to be treated with some kind of dignity and respect, not to be treated as a serf, a servant or a slave. I am a man.

The city had refused to yield one inch. The city said that they would bring in people to break up the strike, that they would never recognize the union or the peoples’ grievances because they knew what was best themselves. In that terrible situation, Jim Lawson, a great apostle of non-violence who had been associated with Dr. King in the early days of the movement, called Dr. King and asked him to come over to Memphis and to help them.

At that point in his life, Dr. King was putting together a movement called, "The Poor People’s March." He was wrapped up with poor people—black and white. He had been convinced that you could bring together people, regardless of their race, religion, their color, creed, or their sex, and present a united front in Washington with those who have been left out, ignored, the least that belong. He believed that somehow he could tweak the conscience of America to become concerned about everyone’s condition.

In this dramatic moment of his life, Dr. Lawson asked Dr. King to please drop that and come to Memphis and help these men who don’t seem to have anything except a little faith that somehow things will be better. Dr. King left preparation for the poor people, left the thing that he was working so hard on, and came to Memphis to help sanitation workers live a better life.

On this night at Mason Temple, he was to make the address. He was weary, he was physically tired, and his mind was worn. The papers were saying that he had lost his leadership ability because a week before he had attempted to lead a march which had been disrupted by violence. The papers were quick to seize the fact that King could no longer command the attention of the people, that his philosophy was ill-founded, that he was a lost leader, that this man was now a non-entity and had been relegated to those that had no influence. He read through these papers. He knew the struggle that he was making. He knew the sacrifice and recognized that he had been to jail over and over again some 39 times.

My brothers and my sisters, I cannot tell you how much courage it took. I’ve watched Dr. King being arrested—seeing his arms pulled up behind his back, pushed up against the car, not resisting, willing to put his life on the line, believing that there was a God who rules above. Somehow, because of the strength of his character, America had seen enormous change.

And now, tired, weary, abused, mistreated, he was called upon once again to give all that he had. And so, Turner and I went back to Mason Temple. I wish that I could have the words to describe the somber feeling. On the tin roof you could hear the rain falling. Every time the door opened, it appeared that the wind would take it off its hinges. The thunder was roaring like a thousand hungry lions. Looking out at the wind through the stained glass windows, zigzagged fingers of lightening played a nimble game of hide-and-seek. And yet, on that dark night, more than 3,000 people gathered to hear Dr. King.

Dr. King said that he could just not speak tonight because he was so tired. The Rabbi told Dr. King that they people were there to listen to Dr. King, not him. He spoke that night with more eloquence and more passion than I had ever heard him speak. I have heard him speak all across this nation. I was with him in Brown Chapel in southern Alabama. Isn’t it strange how the names of these churches ring out—Ebeneezer in Atlanta, Dexter Avenue and First Baptist in Montgomery, New York City, Concorde in Brooklyn, 16^th Street in Atlanta. People got the encouragement and enthusiasm to keep marching.

But never had I heard him speak with such passion than I did on the night of April 3, 1968. He talked more about his own death and mortality. He even talked about the time when he was in Harlem signing a book and a deranged woman stuck a letter opener in his chest—stabbed him. They rushed him to the hospital and a day or two later the doctor said that, had Dr. King so much as sneezed, he would have died. And Dr. King talked about it that night and said that he had visits from heads of government, letters from kings, presidents of universities, but the thing that struck him more than anything was a letter that read something like this:

"Dear Dr. King—I am 11 years old. I am a white girl and I live in Alabama. I read that if you had so much as sneezed, you would have died. And Dr. King, I just wrote to tell you that I am glad that you didn’t sneeze."

He took that letter as a tribute to an awakening of the conscience in America that this could be a better world. I remember he talked about his desire to live when he finished his speech that night. He went to sleep, in one of the few times of my acquaintances with him, the tears were literally rolling down his cheeks. He began to quote one of his favorite Psalms: "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." He never finished. He sat down and grown men were weeping like children.

Little did I know that before 24 hours had passed, he would be dead, that a cowardly assassin would put a bullet through his body. I had no way of knowing and I’ve often wondered if Dr. King had some sort of premonition. I remember very vividly that he had talked about dark and difficult days ahead. I think about that very often. That night I wanted to say, "Doc, you have done so much. We have come so far." We were talking about 1968, and here he is talking about dark and difficult days ahead. Little did I know how prophetically true Martin was. Just for a moment or two, think of some of the things we have faced since 1968. I could stand here all night and talk about the difficult days. Benjamin May said that, "he who starts behind in the race of life must forever remain behind unless those in front run more slowly, or those behind run faster."

And so this University, in all of its greatness and all of its tradition and history, had never admitted a black student. And when some feeble efforts were made to make sure that blacks could become a part of this student body in the great Commonwealth of Virginia, students said that it was reverse discrimination—that they are not satisfied with 95 percent of the students, that they wanted them all.

I remember them catching a picture of the police beating Rodney King on the side of the road. They had denied it, but there was video camera footage. The riots broke out in Los Angeles—dark and difficult days.

Down in Miami, Florida, a black man riding a motorcycle was beat to death by police, and they lied and said that he had run into a tree. There was no way that a tree could put that many nicks on anybody’s head—dark and difficult days.

In South Africa, Mandela was in jail, people were being killed—dark and difficult days. In the black community it seemed we were making some progress, but had forgotten where we were coming from.

The number of babies having babies was increasing. There was a deterioration in the black family. We had forgotten the hard struggle, how many tears had been shed. Then there came a renewed pride of hating white folk because they were white—because they had blonde hair and blue eyes. We were forgetting that the struggle had not been completed except there were some whites all the way back to 1619 who had been a part of this. There was a John Brown, there was a Windelford (sp?) Harrison, there was an Abraham Lincoln, there were those who put their lives on the line.

Since I have left being in the NAACP, I have had a chance to do some research. I did not have much of a chance to do research in the NAACP. I have discovered that most of the people, here, did not have a thing to do with how they got here. When they woke up they were black, white, male, or female.

So, if you hate me because I am black and I hate you because you are white, then I hate what God has done. I can’t afford to do that. I can still sing black and white together. We shall overcome some day. I say come with us and let us get to that magic city set on the hill. And, if you don’t want to go, I can invite you to go where the devil lives because the struggle is on.

And so, my brothers and my sisters, we have to recognize that we have had some dark and difficult days. We had Ronald Reagan and then we had Clarence Thomas, born from the womb of affirmative action, nursed at the breast of affirmative action, and yet, on the Supreme Court, he tried to fight the very thing that made him great. I sometimes think that if you took their brains collectively and you put them in the head of a bird, that bird would fly backwards forever and ever.

We have had some dark and difficult days, but Dr. King, a Baptist preacher, who understood the freedom march of the church, who knew about those early pioneers, said, "before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave." They did not own that bondage, they did not own the clothes that they had on, but before they yield their mind and their soul to the master or to the overseer, they would die in the grave. Those were dark and difficult days.

Then some black folk went half-nutty and would go around saying that things were worse than they ever were. I was sitting one day at the Peabody Hotel—where the ducks march in. They would blow a trumpet and the ducks would march in, swim around for a half-hour. Then they’d blow another whistle and the ducks would shake themselves off and march out. They’ve got more sense than some adult humans that I know. Somebody bought my dinner, so I had a filet mignon, medium, and a Caesar salad (I was a grown man before I knew what a Caesar salad was). I didn’t lose my head, though, because I still had my Diet Coke to go along with all of this.

Sitting there in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, my friend looked at me and said, "Hooks, things are worse than they ever were." I said, "boy, you need another hole in your head. No wonder your children are crazy. If you are, how can’t they help but be crazy?" Here we are in the Peabody Hotel lobby, got white waiters waiting on us. We were sitting here eating and enjoying ourselves. Was he saying that Martin King lived and died in vain? That all the work of the NAACP was a waste of time? That Marshall, Powell, Tubman, Truth, and Brown died in vain—all these people who gave their very last drop of energy to prove a fault? He must have been crazy. No wonder his son puts on his pants and has them hanging down behind his behind and his cap on backwards and doesn’t know what he is doing. You are telling him all of this was in vain. I’ll tell you that we have come a long way and we ought to celebrate, but don’t forget that we still have a long way to go.

But I’m glad that Dr. King did not leave us in the gloom of dark and difficult days. In the end of that speech, he went back into the beautiful imagery of the Old Testament and Moses in the lonely plains of Moab. God showed them the Promised Land even though Moses would not get there. On that last speech that Martin ever gave in this world, we now call it "the mountaintop speech," he said, "I’ve been to the mountaintop. I may not make it there with you, but I’m sure you’ll make it over into the Promised Land."

And tonight, I rest on the promise--the hope and the dream that America, one day, will raise up and be the nation that it ought to be. I’ve seen a lot of changes.

In my hometown, Memphis, we have Metropolitan Interfaith Association where the churches, black and white, have come together. Only beginning just a few years ago, today they have more than $22 million and feed 20,000 homeless and have Meals on Wheels. We have a shelter for the abused and neglected, the Shelby County Interfaith Association—an amalgamation of churches that are putting together money to help minorities start business enterprises. We have a faith and hope healing center where, for people who cannot qualify for regular care, Dr. Reverend Morris opens the doors for the poor and the indigent and offers them good medical treatment. So many things are happening. Black churches are aware of AIDS and other things that are destroying our community. We are trying to deal with mental health and the conditions that effect our lives.

I thank God for this renewed interest because, in the height of the Civil Rights Movement, the church was the only thing that black folk owned and controlled. Therefore from the church, we had to start our marches. It is no wonder that Mason Temple and that Second Baptist in Los Angeles were places where people gathered during the storm. The black preacher stood in that pulpit and gave people what it took to make it through another year. Thank God for that legacy and thank God that Martin King saw the Promised Land. I thank him for reminding me of so many wonderful things that happened then.

A few years ago at Clinton’s inauguration, I was looking around and I noticed that four members of the president’s cabinet were black. I looked over somewhere else and saw some 38 members of Congress who were African American. I said, "praise God from whom all blessings flow."

And soon after, I came to Virginia and saw Doug Wilder assume role of Governor in this Commonwealth. All over this country--in New York, Washington, Chicago, Dallas and Houston, Memphis, Atlanta (you name it)--we were gaining office. I believe that we have made progress and that the day is coming when you, in your lifetime, are going to see, and I know you won’t believe it when I tell you this, a woman as the President of these United States. It’s going to happen.

Mine eyes have seen the glory. Thank God that you and I have a part to play. Where do we go from here? You are either a part of the problem or a part of the solution. Only you can determine that.