Memories of the death of Martin Luther King, Jr., by Claretta Jackson

I was born and raised in Washington, DC. My sixth grade class trip was to New York city on April 4, 1968. After spending the day sightseeing and exploring the sights and sounds of New York, our bus headed back to DC. Imagine a busload of giggling, playful, excited twelve and thirteen year olds riding down 95 thinking about our experiences and next school year in junior high school. Our bus was stopped outside the city by the National Guard. We didn't know what was happening. My sixth grade teacher asked us to be quiet and then she fought back tears as she told us that Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated. I had experienced the assassination of President Kennedy, but this was so much more personal. Martin Luther King, Jr. was the most important person in my life, outside of my family. My mother had a picture of Dr. King in our living room. He was a leader for my people and my voice as a child who wanted life to be better, just as he had said in his "I have a Dream" speech.

For the first time in my life and my classmates, we felt a collective loss and grief. The noise and chatter ceased at that very moment. First there was silence, then sniffling, followed by crying. For the remainder of the ride, we cried and asked why. The National Guard had told us that riots had started in the city and a curfew was in effect. Our parents would be able to meet us at the school, but we had to go directly home. When we arrived in the city, the neighborhood streets were empty. The street lights made it appear so strange. I can still remember that night. Our parents were standing outside the school, worried and anxious. At that moment, the safest place was in my parents arms.

I still remember my sixth grade trip to New York City and all the excitement, but I also remember it as the night that Martin Luther King, Jr. was killed and my city turned into an inferno.