NORMAN — “Race and the University,” a Memoir by George Henderson (OU Press) is expected in mid-August. Excerpts from the book are being published Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday this week.
April 4, 1968 was a memorable day. I was driving to the University to pick up a report that required more revisions. When I approached an outer edge of the campus, a subdued voice on the radio interrupted the music with a news report: “‘Martin Luther King was shot and killed in Memphis.” I wondered why someone would kill Dr. King’s father. The voice continued, “The world has been shaken by the death of one of its most respected civil rights leaders.”
Then I realized that the unthinkable was true. Martin Luther King, Jr., was dead. When I thought Dr. King’s father was dead, I was upset; Dr. King’s death emotionally pulverized me. I screamed, “No! Damn it, no!” I turned the car around and drove home. Barbara and four of our daughters were sitting motionless in the living room, crying and staring at television coverage of Dr. King’s assassination. She and I gathered the girls into our interlocking arms and drew them close to us. In her typical calming voice, Barbara assured them they would be safe. Then she looked at me and mouthed, “You better be safe.” Later that day, when our other children came home, she and I talked to them about the importance of honoring Dr. King’s memory through nonviolent behavior when seeking racial equality.
Around 10 p.m. Maggie Gover, president-designate Hollomon’s administrative assistant, called and asked me to join Hollomon and Bruce Robinson, president of the Afro-American Student Union, as speakers at a noon memorial service the next day, honoring Dr. King. Although Hollomon would not become president until July 1, he wanted the University community to know his beliefs about race relations in general and about Dr. King in particular. President Cross and Hollomon had already issued a joint public statement condemning Dr. King’s assassination as a depraved act. The ceremony would give Hollomon an opportunity to elaborate on the statement. After I agreed to be a speaker, I realized I would not be able to say everything I wanted to in the fifteen minutes allocated to me. I stayed up the remainder of the night writing and rewriting my speech.
On April 5 about 1,500 people gathered on the South Oval, many of them openly weeping as they slowly staked out places to sit and hear the speakers. As I made my way through the sea of silent, somber faces of various ethnic groups and ages, I saw fifty or so black students sitting together, away from the main body of spectators. They were crying, hugging, and otherwise consoling each other, as though a member of their family had been killed. Culturally, that is exactly what had happened. When I reached the platform and took my seat, I began sobbing. It took all the self-control that I could muster to regain my composure. Hollomon was sitting next to me. He reached over and put his right hand on my back, giving me a gentle pat. Then he then got up and delivered a compassionate message of sorrow, and he promised to make Dr. King’s dream real at our school.
I thought about the group of grieving black students. They had come to the memorial to hear my voice speak for them. I hoped that I would be able to adequately express our collective grief and anger. In other venues throughout the United States, those same emotions had fueled riots. My body was in Norman, but my mind was in a black inner city far away. Unfortunately, I ceased to be a spokesperson for all of the people present and instead became an angry black man whose hero had been murdered. It was hard for me to speak. I deviated from my written speech and uttered these words in anger: “We black Americans are losing our zest for the so-called ‘American dream.’ A portion of that dream died with Martin Luther King. … [He] was a nonviolent man, and you [white Americans] killed him.”
I wish those words had not been spoken — and certainly not by me. I had accused innocent people of committing a heinous crime. Some of them were my allies. I had done what I deplored: I generalized and stereotyped people. “Shame on you,” someone rightly wrote to me a week later in an anonymous note. All of the hours I had spent encouraging students and others to respect and accept each other were thrown into question during that brief fit of rage. Some of those I’d accused were also ardent civil rights advocates, committed to the movement for religious or moral reasons. They were the kind of white people Malcolm X encouraged blacks to form coalitions with. This incident was a painful reminder to choose my words judiciously. Words matter because they have consequence.
