Central America, as poor and oppressed Latin countries were tiring of the domination of American corporations and the exploitation of their people and land. Closer to home, in Cuba, Fidel Castro marched into Havana and overthrew Fulgencio Batista, the US-supported tyrant who had allowed American businessmen to use Cuba as their personal whorehouse and casino. The dynamic intensified when Castro aligned himself with the Soviet Union. The increasing probability of Russian missiles being positioned close to US soil led to a failed CIA plot to overthrow Castro, the Bay of Pigs debacle. And across the Pacific, following World War II, the Allied powers had foolishly and selfishly split Vietnam into two nations, giving North Vietnam to the French, and setting the stage for what would become Americaâs own Waterloo.
In the Deep South of the United States, Black folks began to lay the foundation for the permanent transformation of America. I remember well sitting at home, watching the black-and-white images on TV. The sit-ins, the demonstrations, and the faces of hatredâwhite men beating or hosing down the protestors, Black and sometimes white, who were mobilizing against segregation, a byproduct of three hundred years of slavery, oppression, and terrorism. Change was in the air, and soon my generation would step up to play a leading role in confronting the archaic and puritanical past.
I had seen Martin Luther King Jr. on TV, fearlessly leading his demonstrators into the jaws of the enemy. He was poised for greatness, almost saintly. In November 1961, King came to Seattle to support a march against redlining. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, I found myself marching down 23rd Avenue South, walking arm to arm with thousands of other people of all colors, singing âWe Shall Overcomeâ and other protest songs. It was a unifying moment of solidarity, a feeling of serene peace and the possibility that our world could come together to create something new, something different. You could feel the determination, the sense of purpose, the spirit of oneness engulfing us all, culminating in a large rally and a speech by Martin Luther King.
Quietly and solemnly I made my way to the bandstand at Garfield Park, watching him and listening to his wordsâwords that I had heard on TV, on the radio, and on record albums. I took a spot on the edge of the bandstand, scanning the crowd, looking for a threat to our savior and spiritual leaderâas if a thirteen-year-old could do anything to stop an assassinâs bullet. But I realize now that my taking that spot, that position of defense, was symbolic. It represented an impending shift, a changing of the guard. All across the country, thousands of Black, white, Asian, Native American, and Latino kids, just like me, were slowly making an unconscious move, positioning for the big push to change America.
The integrationists were organizing and fighting for desegregation of the schools, probably the biggest strategic blunder of the Civil Rights Movement in that it forced Black kids to travel across town to hostile, racially charged environments. While white kids were able to stay comfortably in their own schools and communities, Black kids had to give up their secure surroundings and the dedicated attention and understanding of their Black, or sometimes white, teachers. But at the time school integration sounded good, and it felt right for me, personally, to work toward Martin Luther Kingâs dream. So in 1964 I signed up for Seattleâs first voluntary busing program. The timing was perfect because I felt I needed to get out of the gladiator schools in the Black community. In junior high the combat had slowly moved beyond fisticuffs to include weapons such as push-button knives and switchblades, like the ones we had seen in West Side Story and Blackboard Jungle. I owned several push-button knives and stilettos. We would play with our knives and show them off during recess,
In the Deep South of the United States, Black folks began to lay the foundation for the permanent transformation of America. I remember well sitting at home, watching the black-and-white images on TV. The sit-ins, the demonstrations, and the faces of hatredâwhite men beating or hosing down the protestors, Black and sometimes white, who were mobilizing against segregation, a byproduct of three hundred years of slavery, oppression, and terrorism. Change was in the air, and soon my generation would step up to play a leading role in confronting the archaic and puritanical past.
I had seen Martin Luther King Jr. on TV, fearlessly leading his demonstrators into the jaws of the enemy. He was poised for greatness, almost saintly. In November 1961, King came to Seattle to support a march against redlining. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, I found myself marching down 23rd Avenue South, walking arm to arm with thousands of other people of all colors, singing âWe Shall Overcomeâ and other protest songs. It was a unifying moment of solidarity, a feeling of serene peace and the possibility that our world could come together to create something new, something different. You could feel the determination, the sense of purpose, the spirit of oneness engulfing us all, culminating in a large rally and a speech by Martin Luther King.
Quietly and solemnly I made my way to the bandstand at Garfield Park, watching him and listening to his wordsâwords that I had heard on TV, on the radio, and on record albums. I took a spot on the edge of the bandstand, scanning the crowd, looking for a threat to our savior and spiritual leaderâas if a thirteen-year-old could do anything to stop an assassinâs bullet. But I realize now that my taking that spot, that position of defense, was symbolic. It represented an impending shift, a changing of the guard. All across the country, thousands of Black, white, Asian, Native American, and Latino kids, just like me, were slowly making an unconscious move, positioning for the big push to change America.
The integrationists were organizing and fighting for desegregation of the schools, probably the biggest strategic blunder of the Civil Rights Movement in that it forced Black kids to travel across town to hostile, racially charged environments. While white kids were able to stay comfortably in their own schools and communities, Black kids had to give up their secure surroundings and the dedicated attention and understanding of their Black, or sometimes white, teachers. But at the time school integration sounded good, and it felt right for me, personally, to work toward Martin Luther Kingâs dream. So in 1964 I signed up for Seattleâs first voluntary busing program. The timing was perfect because I felt I needed to get out of the gladiator schools in the Black community. In junior high the combat had slowly moved beyond fisticuffs to include weapons such as push-button knives and switchblades, like the ones we had seen in West Side Story and Blackboard Jungle. I owned several push-button knives and stilettos. We would play with our knives and show them off during recess,
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