Growing Up King by Dexter Scott King, Ralph Wiley Page A

regular basis who would just come up and say, “I’m your third cousin, So and so.” Oh,
     is that so? My mother or grandmother would say, “Yes, that’s So-and-so’s child.” A lot of times they would embarrass you,
     and take a little pleasure in it too. You might have met them before, just a quick meeting, and they might say, “You ’member
     me, don’t you? What’s my name?” How can you remember all these people? So it’s funny on one hand; in the country they all
     know each other so it doesn’t matter that they are that many times removed. Inevitably they all know each other. There’s some
     comfort in that.
    It was always like a homecoming, or a reunion; people would find out we were there and they would drive over from their farms,
     just to come and say hello to the Kings, or the “Kangs,” as some of them pronounced it, and ask, “Is the Rev’un here? Can
     we shake hands with the Rev’un?” His name preceded him. They appreciated my father. Mother knew them all by name, but I honestly
     can’t say I could keep track of them all.
    My parents were always very loving. I think the best word for their marriage is partnership. It wasn’t like one parent was
     dominant over the other. You felt shared responsibility. When we would sit around the table, they both would have input in
     the drift of the conversation. My mom gave my father respect, as man of the house.
    I never heard them argue. Maybe they were good at keeping it from us, since the married couple doesn’t exist that hasn’t had
     arguments. My mother was always a concerned parent who would say her piece; if he was going somewhere and wanted to take my
     brother and me with him and if this was a trip that she thought might be in some way inappropriate, or maybe dangerous, she’d
     say, “Well, Martin, I don’t know if you should take the boys on this one.”
    And we would say, “But we want to go, we want to go!”
    And he’d say, “Well, I think it would be okay.” And she wouldn’t press it, not in front of us. She would just look at him
     and lower her head, but not her eyes. Usually, later on, he’d wind up explaining to us why we couldn’t go. We’d gone on just
     a few trips, like the James Meredith march in Mississippi, and were surprised when in late March of 1968, she allowed us to
     go with him on a tour around Georgia. Just us fellas. She wasn’t the type that challenged him in front of us, but later, when
     it was just them, one-on-one, she got her point across. If she had a concern, she would express it, but after being heard
     she wouldn’t press it. So she respected him as a man, as the father, as the head of the household.
    Christmas and other holidays and birthdays were celebrated in our house regardless of any current situation, campaign, or
     cause. Gift giving, gift exchange, and reflection on spirituality were what holidays meant. My mom is a big believer in traditional
     celebrations and ceremonies.
    The last Christmas we all shared was in 1967. At the time, we didn’t know it was the last Christmas we’d all share. It was
     just another great Christmas. Mother bought my father and me identical bicycles. Mine was just a junior version of his. Same
     brand, same color, same style. Purple. A new three-speed with the shift knob in the middle on the column. A purple metallic,
     sparkly color that trans-fixed me; a new model. The “in” thing. Really the coolest thing going.
    Mine had training wheels. His did not. His was also bigger. I remember my father and me riding them together Christmas of
     1967, down Sunset; we always felt kindred, there was always a shared sense of closeness between us because we both had January
     birthdays and our birthdays were close to Christmas, so when it came down to gifts, we knew we had a double hit coming.
    “Dad-day! Wonder what else we’re going to get, Daddy?”
    “Isn’t this enough, Dexter?”
    “It sure is. Until our birthday.”
    He laughed with me. And