My Life, My Love, My Legacy Read online

  In the end, I had no choice but to do another year of practice teaching in the Antioch private school to qualify for my Ohio teaching certificate. This incident left me terribly disappointed, but I refused to allow it to interfere with my determination to excel. The experience also fed my inward yearning to involve myself in something bigger. This was the first time I stood up publicly against discrimination, and I found that I rather liked making waves and being a catalyst for change. And the experience only deepened my resolve to continue the struggle blacks had always fought, which was for inclusion and respect. I knew that I would be black the rest of my life, so I could not back down or remain silent in the face of the injustice I would inevitably face.

  At the time, leaving my particular protest aside, Antioch bubbled with student activism, and I plunged right in, becoming active in the Antioch NAACP, a race relations committee, and a civil liberties committee, as well as with the peace movement, an organized group that aimed to bring about peace in the world. Having just lived through World War II, in which about sixty million lives were lost, peace activists wanted an end to wars. They refused to be drafted, based on their conscience. Students like me formed a coalition around the peace activists, to give them support and to send a message to the powers that be. I began to consider myself a pacifist. Pacifism felt right to me; it accorded with what I had been taught as a Christian: to love thy neighbor as thyself.

  I was also active in Henry Wallace’s Progressive Party, which had a student chapter at Antioch, and two of my favorite professors, Walter Anderson and Dr. Oliver S. Loud, were officers in the Ohio branch. For a long time, I avoided talking about my Progressive Party affiliation; the party was often accused of having links to communism, and I did not want to besmirch my reputation. Later, with the battle J. Edgar Hoover was waging against my husband, I didn’t want that past affiliation to become a noose around Martin’s neck. But in 1948, I went to the party’s national convention in Philadelphia as a student delegate. Its platform sought to end segregation, support voting rights for blacks, and provide national health insurance. That year, the Progressive Party won more than one million votes in the national election.

  Our local chapter convention was held in Columbus, Ohio. Paul Robeson, one of my greatest heroes, spoke, and Professor Anderson gave me the opportunity to appear on a program with him. Robeson had a lot in common with Martin. Widely remembered for his starring role in Eugene O’Neill’s The Emperor Jones and his performance of Shakespeare’s Othello, Paul was a hero to blacks because he stood up for their rights. The poor guy was harassed by the FBI (just like Martin) until his death in 1976. I was so impressed with him at our meeting and flattered that he liked my singing. Such a gifted man finding talent in me was great encouragement. After watching Robeson’s performance, I tucked it away in my memory. It would provide inspiration years later. When I began giving my freedom concerts to raise funds for the movement, I patterned my concerts after his performances. He would give a political commentary before he sang, so that’s what I did. I would talk about the struggle, the movement. I would narrate and sing, alternating parts of the story with a song.

  At Antioch, I also began to question organized religions and to experiment with kinds of worship that were different from what I had experienced at my little country church back home. I wondered if I would continue my religious expression through Methodism (AME Zion), Congregationalism, or Unitarianism—or even become a Quaker. I had come under the strong influence of the Quakers at both Lincoln and Antioch; historically, they were zealous advocates for abolition, equal rights for women, and peace issues. I used to sit quietly in the chapel at Antioch and try to deepen my relationship with God in the Quaker way. The Quakers would sit and wait for hours for the Holy Spirit to move them. The process is like meditating and communing with the Spirit. Whoever is moved gets up and says what’s in his or her heart. If you feel like singing, you sing. There is no choir, so if you feel like joining in, you do, but there is no formalized worship. The Quakers also believe in an uncluttered life and living simply, without a lot of materialism.

  This aligned with the philosophy my mother had passed on to me, which emphasized that material things were not important and that education was a prime value. She had urged us to get an education first; if we wanted clothes, cars, and other things, we would then be able to afford them. She used to say, “Clothes don’t make you. It’s the way you carry yourselves that makes you important.” In this way, my experience with the Quaker influence at Antioch only deepened my family values.

  Finally, after six largely wonderful years, full of enlightenment and self-discovery, it was time for my chapter at Antioch to come to a close. But what would be next for me? Again, I relied on my faith to show me the path forward, and on what I’ve come to think of as guardian angels.

  Two beloved mentors, close friends, and role models, my faculty counselors, Mrs. Jessie Treichler and Walter Anderson, helped me through Antioch and prepared me for the great leap forward, to follow my passion for classical music born in childhood and nurtured in college, and to pursue training at a music conservatory. Dr. Anderson, the college’s sole African American faculty member, headed the music department. He was remarkably gifted and could entertain the students by playing bebop, or glide just as gracefully into a Mozart sonata. Through his counsel, I applied to five of the best music schools in the country, including Juilliard in New York City and the New England Conservatory in Boston. Although I was always interested in Juilliard, I received an early acceptance to the New England Conservatory and decided to go there. I thought it would be less expensive and stressful than New York City.

  So, in September 1951, it was time to put Antioch behind me and head to blue blood country. There I would follow my passion to study music, and there a certain suitor would come calling, a call that would change the entire course of my life.

  THREE

  I Have Something to Offer

  NINETEEN FIFTY-ONE WAS such an extraordinary year. I felt as if I had blasted through that moonlit sky in Heiberger and touched the hem of heaven. My life, one of picking cotton and milking cows in the Deep South, was now consumed with singing classical music as a student at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. I was fulfilling my dream of becoming a concert singer. I imagined that one day I would study in Europe and debut at the Metropolitan Opera. These were the desires of my heart. They would only be a stepping-stone, though, because I had never looked at my career as just being onstage. I wanted something more meaningful. I felt in my heart that I had to make a contribution to serve others, through music, but also in other ways I had yet to discover.

  So it was with a great deal of promise and passion that I set off for the New England Conservatory, but it wasn’t always, especially initially, an easy course. The main problem was that I had no money to continue my education. I agonized over asking my parents, but decided against it; I wanted them to enjoy the fruits of their labor instead of financing my dreams. Through my friend and adviser from Antioch, Jessie Treichler, I applied to more than a dozen places for scholarships. One, the Jessie Smith Noyes Foundation, sent an encouraging reply that although its grants were already awarded for the current year, if someone dropped out or chose not to reapply, then the foundation would award me a scholarship. In retrospect, that promise was as thin as a tea leaf, but in my youthful zeal, I found it solid enough to take off for Boston.

  I arrived with fifteen dollars to my name, which I soon learned would not take me far. I had a place to stay and breakfast daily, thanks to Mrs. Treichler, who had written to a contributor to the Antioch Interracial Scholarship Fund asking for help. I stayed in a five-floor rooming house on Beacon Hill, a lily-white section of Boston. I was the only black student in my building. For seven dollars a week, I had a roof over my head, but I had to get a job to buy food and take care of the rest of my expenses. My money was running out too fast. What was I going to eat? The day before my money ran out completely, dinner consisted
of peanut butter, crackers, and an apple. The next day I only had thirty cents for a round-trip subway ride.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, help came from Mrs. Bertha Wormley, a person I had met only once, through a mutual friend. During a phone call, she asked if I needed anything. Instead of answering immediately, I paused and cradled the phone, not wanting to lay myself bare and admit that I was broke. I was proud and embarrassed, but I could not hold back my feelings of desperation. I blurted out my troubles. To her ears it must have sounded like torrents of pain, because she quickly arranged for me to meet her where she worked, at the Massachusetts State House, around the corner from where I lived. When I arrived, she handed me a sealed envelope.

  After I left for school, I opened it on the subway. What joy! It contained fifteen dollars. It was such a help in my dire situation that tears coated my face. The kindness of this virtual stranger served to reinforce my belief that there is no situation in which we can find ourselves where God won’t send help. Mrs. Wormley shared the spirit of many blacks of that day; she wanted to be a link in the chain that prepared the next generation. Where would we be without the Mrs. Wormleys of the world?

  In order to pay for my room and board, the landlord permitted me to clean three rooms on the fifth floor and to wash and iron the linens. I scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees. Because of my meager funds, however, I had to find other sources of income, which led me to part-time work with a mail-order company. It was hard work, but I was used to that. I had worked hard all my life.

  Now, with a goal clearly fixed in my mind, I sang as I scrubbed. I may have been on my knees, but in my spirit I was onstage, sending my arias leaping through the concert halls. At those moments, I never felt like a scrubwoman. I felt more like a performer, playing a role that was ushering me into the fulfillment of a cherished dream.

  In my second semester, my financial lot improved—but for very ironic reasons. Thanks to the 1896 Supreme Court ruling of Plessy v. Ferguson, which made it illegal for blacks and whites to eat together in public, ride public transportation together, share water fountains, or, of course, go to the same schools, the State of Alabama, in order to maintain that ridiculous caste system, had to go through the motions of setting up “separate but equal” educational facilities. Alabama thus gave financial aid to black students who went out of state to get the professional graduate training only white colleges and universities provided. This aided the state’s goal of keeping its schools segregated. Regardless of the motivations, I enjoyed spending Alabama’s money after all the hard work my family had invested in Alabama soil.

  Overall, I was extremely happy. I was studying voice with Madame Marie Sundelius, a golden age Swedish American Metropolitan Opera soprano. I was also making a contribution to improving society. In Yellow Springs, Ohio, I had challenged segregated teaching assignments. Now I saw myself adding color to the overwhelmingly white concert performing arts scene. Eagerly, I looked ahead at the ground I could cover; I saw myself as a concert singer, paving the way for other blacks. As I looked at my new experiences, I felt something exciting stirring within me. It felt good trying to make a difference. I was gaining a sense of how to create a life of meaning. Granted, I had tasted only small slices of success in that area, but it was fulfilling to know that my appetite for creating change was not something nebulous or ethereal. Things really could change if you prayed about it, were determined, and worked to achieve your dreams. Although I had a gentle manner, I was beginning to suspect that I had a warrior’s spirit. I was not the kind of person who was content leaving hurt or harm unchanged.

  I was settled into what I thought would be my life’s work, thriving and happy, when one afternoon in my second semester at the conservatory, I got a call from my classmate Mary Powell, a Spelman graduate. “Coretta,” she said, “have you heard of Martin Luther King Jr.?”

  When I conceded that I hadn’t, she went on to tell me about this impressive young man she had met. He was a promising minister ordained in his father’s church, Ebenezer Baptist in Atlanta, who was working on his PhD at Boston University’s School of Theology. She told me what a great orator he was and how popular he was in Boston’s black church circles.

  It was clear that Mary was playing matchmaker, but from what I was hearing, I was not that interested in a meeting. At the mention of his being a minister, a mental picture flashed through my mind: someone narrow-minded, black-suited, and boring, whereas I wanted to meet someone who was exciting. I didn’t want to be a minister’s wife and subject my family to living in a parsonage. (You know how everybody talks about the pastor’s children.) Besides, as a good Methodist, my style of worship was much quieter than that of the more emotional “shouting Baptists.” I didn’t know if I could make that great a leap of faith.

  Mary went on to tell me that Martin Luther King Jr. had confided in her that he was on the verge of becoming cynical. “I have met quite a few girls here,” he told Mary. “But none that I am particularly fond of. Aren’t there any nice, attractive young ladies that you might know?”

  After Mary described me, his interest was piqued. He pressed her into giving him my number, which I believe she, happy to be a matchmaker, was secretly delighted to do. Soon after I spoke with Mary, Martin called and introduced himself. On the telephone, we chatted for several minutes, and then he said something I thought strange, considering the short time we had talked.

  “You know, every Napoleon has his Waterloo. I’m like Napoleon. I’m at my Waterloo, and I’m on my knees. I’d like to meet you and talk some more. When can I see you?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He said, “Well, any time you have.”

  “Perhaps lunch on Thursday,” I said.

  “That’s fine. I’ll come over and pick you up. I have a green fifty-one Chevy that usually takes ten minutes to make the trip from Boston U. to the conservatory, but I will do it in seven.”

  With interest but not any special anticipation, I waited for Martin outside the conservatory two days later, a cold January day. Under my tightly buttoned coat, I wore a light blue suit. When the green Chevy pulled to the curb, my first thoughts reaffirmed what I had anticipated: he was too short and he didn’t look that impressive. He looked like a boy when I had expected a grown man. (I later learned that he always wore a mustache, which made him look older, but had shaved it off because he was pledging the Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity.)

  We drove a few blocks to Sharaf’s Restaurant, on Massachusetts Avenue. As we talked about our different schools over lunch, I felt his stare. He examined me carefully; his eyes moved across my face, lingering on my hair. I found him easy to talk to, and we chatted about everything, from questions of war and peace to racial and economic justice. Martin seemed impressed that I was knowledgeable about subjects other than my chosen field of study in music. In turn, I felt he was a man of substance, not like I had envisioned. In fact, the longer we talked, the taller he grew in stature and the more mature he became in my eyes. As he was driving me home, we stopped at a light and he turned to me.

  “You know something?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You have everything I have ever wanted in a wife. There are only four things, and you have them all.”

  “How can you say that?” I replied in disbelief.

  “I can tell,” he said. “The four things that I’m looking for are character, intelligence, personality, and beauty. And you have them all. When can I see you again?”

  I was shocked into silence. What was I hearing? A man I had just met face-to-face a few hours ago seemed to be hinting at matrimony. I stared at him, trying to determine if he was joking with me, if his expression would fade into a big smile and he would offer some kind of disclaimer. But he was intensely serious. Martin showed every sign of someone falling in love at first sight. I was certainly flattered by his attention, and he impressed me as a man on a mission, on an urgent assignment, who knew exactly what he wanted and wanted to rush on.
But for me, it was an overload, too much to handle at one time.

  Back in my room that night, sleep was impossible. I tossed and turned as I thought about Martin. I tested myself as if I were cramming for a final exam. What did I really feel about this man, Martin Luther King Jr.? My goal was clearly established: I had come to the conservatory to become a concert artist. Music was my first love, and I didn’t want anything to get in the way. I didn’t want to be in love, not now. Besides, I had thought myself in love before and later found out I had made a mistake. Could I afford that same mistake again? But even though I felt as though venturing farther might put my career in jeopardy, my heart told me I clearly had to see Martin again.

  The next day, he called, and I found I was excited at the sound of his voice. We chatted, and he asked me for a date on Saturday. I had a tentative date for that afternoon, but I told him I would let him know if that fell through. Sure enough, it did, so when Martin called me midafternoon on Saturday, I agreed that he could take me to a party.

  When we walked in the door, girls swooned over him, and he seemed to bask in their admiration. In a bit of self-flattery, he told me, “You know, women are hero-worshipers.” Their fawning behavior over Martin, my date, certainly heightened my interest. For someone only five foot seven and twenty-two years old, his personality was such that all the girls seemed to look up to him. Here he was, one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston, and he had taken me to the party as his girlfriend. Virtually every woman in the place would have traded places with me gladly.