Windy Day

The day was darkening.  It was early April of 1968 and we still had no idea of what was to come in this fateful year.  I'd been in a three-hour poetry seminar that met weekly high up in UCLA's iconic Royce Hall.

It was the end of a very long day that began driving through Beverly Glen Canyon as the sun was rising.  Now, hoping to get back home before the LA traffic worsened, I began the long uphill trek to my VW bug parked up the Sunset Blvd. hill near one of the mammoth dorms that overlooked the campus.
Ordinarily, there were more people bustling about on the campus of 30,000+ students.  My hike back to the car seemed uncharacteristically silent and lonely.  Just as I approached the student path that ran beside the athletic field that is now a track stadium, I noticed one car speeding wildly down the accompanying road.  It stopped suddenly, two or three times in front of small groups of students and then in front of one person walking alone.  Words were exchanged and then the car moved on.
When the manic car finally went past me, without stopping, I noticed that all three occupants were African-American.  I recognized two by their naturals and from the Black Panther Party table that was a daily part of the bustle of the Student Union.
Shortly before I reached my parking lot I came face to face with one of the students the frantic car had spoken to.
"What's going on?" I asked.

"Martin Luther King has been assassinated," he replied. "He's dead. He was shot in Memphis this afternoon."
I couldn't very well thank him for this news, I muttered something and just stared off and walked away. I listened in silence to my car radio on the drive home.
By 9:00 that evening many cities, including South Central LA, erupted in violence and fires.  No doubt the last thing Dr. King would have wanted.  Yet, understandable, in some ways.
The next morning, driving back to the campus, expecting some AdHoc rallies and speeches, I listened to the news from Memphis.  I then switched to radio station KRLA in the car because they began playing some of the most relevant songs of the Civil Rights Movement.  By the time I heard "Blowin' in the Wind" the tears began to flow.
A montage of faces and places in my mind accompanied the soundtrack. I thought of the three slain Civil Rights workers in Mississippi, Medgar Evers, and of course, that unforgettable August day when I watched the March on Washington on TV and first heard that famous "I have a dream" speech.  I recalled saving the money to buy a paperback copy of Why We Can't Wait from the book rack in my local drug store. Then marveling at the "Letter from the Birmingham Jail" that first appeared in that text. Skipping along in that little bug of a car I was one person amid millions trying to deal with the sudden loss of a leader and trying to find the strength to keep the movement moving forward.  50 years later, the memory is sharp and clear.