Martin Luther King was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel around 6pm on Thursday,
April 4, 1968. Around the corner of the Lorraine Motel on B.B. King Blvd., sits a billboard, thrown and hanging from it is a worn sack reading "owner-operated."
My father owned operated and repaired pinball machines, jukeboxes and vending machines in bowling alleys, funky businesses in garages, and taverns throughout the west and south side of Chicago. The people he laughed, talked and served were people of color. So when the announcement came across the television set that Martin Luther King had been assassinated, I hurried to wake my father up on the couch and tell him. His response to this twelve year old girl and her sister of eight years old was one I never expected "good the only good 'nigger' is a dead 'nigger.'" Those words never left that room nor my memory--the heaviness of deceit set in.
The very fact that between a trauma like this and my parent's continued negligence could lie a seemingly normal childhood increased my awareness of the neglect that is often around us.
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