Seated at the Right Hand of the King

My Grandfather had always called himself an unfortunate spectator to the spirit of History. Whenever it seemed like some big commotion was going on, he was there. Poorly dressed for the occasions he stumbled upon, but nevertheless enthusiastic for people to change the world, he was there.

The elderly man I remembered was spry and rather gaunt most of the time, despite his love for sweet desserts and hamburgers. At the drop of a hat he would be sprinting down the street or up a flight of stairs, suspenders and all, looking to the world like a man on a mission. He was the first to any function or church supper, and oftentimes was one of the most colorful storytellers in the group of older men who flocked cafes at 8 AM. This spirit of unyielding youthful energy followed him throughout the course of his life, and through various trials and tribulations. My grandfather was a kind, eccentric man who was beloved by history and the sweet old ladies that went grocery shopping on Saturday.

When he passed away last Spring, he left behind a legacy of kindness and friendship within his community, as well as a slew of hand-written journals that recounted many of his unintentional adventures over the last century. My favorite entry to read was written on the evening of August 28th, 1963.

"It had been a flurry of activity all day- all the big names of the movement were here, but there were so many people pushed into one space it was hard to find anyone in the confusion. Keeping my hat low against the glaring sun, I brushed past endless streams of men and women of all colors and creeds to find a seat with a view. Lincoln kept watch over our backs in the upper rows, his face barely visible above the immense crowds. I wonder what he would think seeing so many black and white people on his steps, unified for a cause he started.

Boy, was it a scorcher, everyone seemed to be glaring up at the sun and a hand over their brow to see what was going on, all the way back for what seemed like miles. A woman in a billowy pink dress with a red floral hat preened her white gloves and murmured, “I didn’t even know there were this many people in the world… Just look at them all.” Even being from a city, this was something I’d never seen- thousands upon thousands of people like an army standing shoulder to shoulder waiting for it to all start.

Shuffling the heavy fabric about my shoulders, I cursed myself quietly for not wearing more appropriate summer clothes, I hadn’t honestly expected to get caught up in this stampede. I was always interested in the movement, and given it was in my backyard why not give it a minute of my time? Now here I am in an elevated seating area with a nice view, but no idea about what else I should be doing. Thankfully I was smart enough to bring sunglasses to shade my eyes a little better, as a speaker stepped up to the podium.

These speakers were good, each one leaked charisma and it was evident why they were here, although I seemed to zone out on the single tiny cloud in the sky after a while.

“Please welcome to the stage, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.” I heard that like a shot ringing out. It was familiar. That preacher man always getting arrested? His genuine character was admirable, and the amount of perseverance he had was a bottomless pit of understanding. He was pretty close to me, I could see him shift from foot to foot before beginning his speech. Not bad, a little preachy and slow on delivery, but I understood what he was saying.

There was no hatred in this man, only hope. ‘What a miracle’, I mumbled softly, to which a black man with a white cap and white robes looked over to me, and nodded with a quiet, “Amen”. The sense of camaraderie was palpable and contagious. I caught myself nodding along and listening to Dr. King. He was a soothing speaker and timid in his declarations. A shift in the wind, a gentle breeze. Many fanned the incoming air towards themselves to cool off from the direct sunlight, but I was watching Dr. King’s back without distraction. All of a sudden, he shifted his weight. Slowly, he moved the notecard he had brought with him to the side and gripped both sides of the podium like he was going to bring us all to church.

And bring us he did.

“I have a dream,” He began, his hands sweeping up into various gestures, and the entire crowd transformed into the world’s largest church service. Normally, I would scoff at such an attempt to pander, but there was something different about this man. Absolute authenticity,

“..And let Freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York…”

As he continued, the crowd picked up his fervor and began chanting and throwing their hands in tandem with his own. Impressive in its own right, but when you consider he had thousands of people doing this and hanging off every word- the man was a savant. Something about his complete change of pace and character was mesmerizing, hypnotic, and completely pure.

“...And in the words of the old Negro Spiritual: Free at last!!”

The responding roar of approval was deafening. There was no way to hear one’s thoughts, but here he was, a man of God himself. Standing in the flood of his loyal devotees looking like an African-American Jesus Christ himself preaching from the pulpit to all the lost souls in the world, and they were crying and throwing their hands at him. People threw themselves at his feet and applauded until their bracelets and rings fell off from the force of their approval.

God above, where did this man come from?"