Having a Cup of Coffee With Dr. King: The Activists’ Burden
I was fourteen years old when I led my first anti-oppression workshop. A wonderful black woman, Charisse Jackson, took me under her wing and guided me toward my purpose. Since that catalyzing moment I have lived a life dedicated to activism and intersectional anti-racist change. I now lead an organization which I founded (Overcoming Racism) whose sole purpose is to end racism in schools. I grew up idolizing superheroes, so when kids ask what I do, I tell them that I fight evil for a living. In my youth I accepted that I would probably die, or perhaps even be killed, while fighting for a world that is equitable and just for children of color like me. I envisioned a world free of the poisonous oppression that my forebearers and I have been forced to endure. What I didn’t anticipate was that the mental, spiritual and physical stress of this work would be the killer.
I read Dr. King’s autobiography in High School, I only really remember one story from the book almost as if it was filed away in my head for future reference. It was not uncommon for Dr. King to receive 30, 40, sometimes 50 threatening calls a week. Because of these calls he often slept with his phone off of the hook, but one night he answered the phone. “N-,we’re tired of your mess. And if you aren’t out of this town in three days, we’re going to blow up your house and blow your brains out.”
Dr. King then went into his kitchen, prepared himself a hot cup of coffee and sat down at the table of his humanity. At the table he contemplated his exit from the Civil Rights movement, it was killing him, it was placing strain on his family, he wanted out. He didn’t however, want his exit to signal victory to white America or undermine the collective effort of the movement. With his face buried in his hands he cried out “Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right … But … I must confess … I’m losing my courage.” He ends the story by recalling a booming voice entering the room, the voice of God, and that booming voice told him that he was to keep going. “Martin Luther, stand up for truth. Stand up for justice. Stand up for righteousness!”
I connect this story to a moment later in his activism in which King would draw the ire of some of his peers. After his choice to turn back during the first Selma to Montgomery march, Dr. King got into a heated argument with some of his closest allies and the leaders of the local movement. People had traveled far and wide to attend the march but after praying Dr. King decided, unilaterally, that they would not continue because the marchers were not guaranteed protection. I’ve read in other texts that in the midst of the argument King exploded and said something to the extent of “I get to choose my own Golgotha!” which was the place where Jesus was crucified. The comment was off-putting to his fellow activists, especially those from Selma who had been fighting this battle long before Dr. King arrived. Did this dude just compare himself to Jesus?
Three years after the Selma to Montgomery March Dr. King was in Memphis to protest alongside striking sanitation workers. He had begun to focus his activism on the intersections of race, class and the hypocrisy of American capitalism and democracy. Prior to heading to Memphis, Dr. King was warned of credible threats to his life. That night he preached what, unbeknownst to him, was his own eulogy to a packed church. He shouted that “he had been to the mountaintop!’’ The next day while standing on his motel balcony a shot rang out, the bullet entered into the cheek that he had turned time and time again and exited through his throat. Dr. King was dead, his Golgotha was a motel balcony in Memphis, Tennessee. I am not justifying what Dr. King said that night during the argument, but I do understand it. At that moment the humanity of Dr. King cried out, and we often don’t respond well when we see our heroes without their capes. Perhaps what he was trying to say was that he was afraid…that he was afraid to die.
As a kid I idolized Dr. King so much that I forgot that he was a human. Not a human in terms of his physical mortality, but a human who had hopes and dreams outside of his activism. A human that had struggles in his marriage and concerns about his kids. A human that deserved to live in a country that wouldn’t require him to brace for the destruction of his body, and now his legacy, in order to stand for justice and truth. This is why it is so infuriating when people who are not anti-racist invoke his memory and white wash his legacy. At that kitchen table Dr. King was seeking something truly radical for black people in America, he was seeking freedom and he hasn’t even been emancipated in his death.
I am not trying to compare myself, or my activism, to Dr. King’s or anyone else’s for that matter. But in my lowest moments doing this work, I have wondered why more change agents don’t talk about their “kitchen table” moments. Or worse, why those of us who benefit from their activism don’t make space for them to be human and to feel pain. Recently a person, who I hold dear in my heart, asked me how I was doing. The answer I gave wasn’t sufficient so they asked “no really, how are you doing?” I was feeling particularly down, my work was going well but my personal life was in shambles. After expressing my emotions the loved one reminded me of my organization’s “success” and mentioned that “a lot of people would trade places” with me. While there was truth in the statement, it felt like a punch in my stomach. My mind already does a good enough job of telling me that my pain is weakness, that my concerns are complaints, or that I am not good enough or strong enough to carry out my vision. I have already gotten good enough at putting on a suit and a smile, teaching people to tears about racism, only to return to my hotel to weep over my failed relationship, a student of mine who prematurely lost their life, or financial burdens in my family. I cling to this story of Dr. King at his kitchen table because it is one of the few reminders that I have that it is ok to both fight racism and to feel. Black people, especially black womxn, have long been painted as “strong” because of what we are forced to endure. However that label’s only utility is to convince us that it is normal to exist in a country that is, and has always been, actively undermining our basic existence.
During our anti-racism intensives we present an emotional timeline of racial inequity that grips my throat, tightens my chest and causes unsolicited tears to fall from my eyes in front of rooms of strangers. At the end of the timeline I ask participants how it made them feel. People of color are expected to watch as their cousins are shackled at the border, as their sisters and daughters go missing without search parties, as their son’s body lie in the street after being executed by the state and then wake up and go to work the next day as if nothing happened. Medgar Evers, before his assassination in 1963, wrote about a time when he had to drive past a lynching victim, daily, on his way to the NAACP field office. The story is almost a prophecy for our fight with contemporary racism in America, the white people who performed the lynching expected the black community to take the victim’s lifeless body out of the tree. When I ask how people feel after the timeline, it is not uncommon for people of color to say, “numb.” I understand this “numbness” well because that was always my answer when I attended other anti-racism engagements like ours. One day it clicked with me, that I wasn’t actually numb but instead numbness was a means to cope. The psychological stress of dealing with racism, or even my inability to avoid racist spaces, has ransacked my psyche. The medical field is now calling this stress, “weathering,” but that is just a euphemism for soldiering through racist spaces until it lands you in the hospital, causes your baby to be born premature, gets you fired from your job or… kills you.
In my activism I consider myself to be “one of the lucky ones.” While I have endured threats, I have not been beaten or jailed. I hold in my same racialized body a multitude of intersecting privileged identities which afford me access and the ability speak and show up in ways that others cannot. I also have supporters, and people that care about me. Even with all of that, this work is hard. I often find myself fighting a dual battle with the systems that I seek to dismantle and with myself.
Although I have sat at my “kitchen table” more times than I like to admit, I have no plans on turning back or quitting. I know what I signed up for, and I plan on carrying out my calling.
I just hope that anybody else who is feeling human in this work doesn’t look at me, or Overcoming Racism, and put me on some pedestal. This work takes a piece of me on a daily basis that I may or may not recover, and I know this is true for others fighting for justice as well. I also hope that those who benefit from my work realize that there is a human inside of those suits, that I am a person and not a commodity. Working with me, or my team, does not absolve your organization of harmful racist practices. Engaging in our work is to be used as a sword to cut through systems that reinforce oppression, not as a shield to protect your organization from internal and external accountability.
I am eternally grateful for all who see and celebrate the successes of the work. It truly keeps me going to see schools shifting policies and practices and doing what is right by kids. I just ask that when you see the progress, also acknowledge the pain.
The first book that I read in school that had a black main character was a story about John Henry. The book made me beam with pride. John Henry was strong, he looked like me, and he made me think of my father. You might know the story, John Henry (a freed slave) was promised by a railroad company some land if he finished laying railroad tracks in a certain amount of time. Midway through his task, the company told John that they no longer needed his services. The company invented a steam engine that could lay the tracks faster than any “man.” I don’t know if John Henry was motivated by duty, or by purpose, but he raced the steam engine and won… but he dropped dead at the end of the story.
The cost of “winning the race,” shouldn’t have to be our spiritual, mental or physical health. Additionally, we are committing violence when we tell students of color to simply “work harder” while doing little to lighten their load or to question the legitimacy of the race in the first place. As I sit at the kitchen table with the spirit of Dr. King, the voice that is booming in my head is telling me to continue, but to do so transparently and with humility. The voice is telling me to not be afraid to walk in my brokenness and my truth along the way. As I reflect on Dr. King’s legacy today I am reminded that he was courageous, not because of the way that he died, but because of the way that he lived. If you do one thing after reading this, send some love to an activist that you admire today. Let them know that you see them for more than the change that they produce.
Matthew Kincaid is the CEO and founder of Overcoming Racism. You can learn more about his work on their website or by following them on Instagram (@overcomingracism).
