Coretta Scott King - My Life, My Love, My Legacy

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T HERE IS A Mrs. King. There is also Coretta. How one became detached from the other remains a mystery to me.

Most people who have followed my career from afar, or even given me a second thought, know me as Mrs. King: the wife of, the widow of, the mother of, the leader of. Makes me sound like the attachments that come with my vacuum cleaner. In one sense, I dont mind that at all. Im proud to have been a wife, a single parent, and a leader. But I am more than a label. I am also Coretta.

Isnt it time you know the integrated, holistic woman: one spirit, one soul, one destiny?

In reading this memoir, I hope somehow you see Coretta .

As I reflect upon the chapters of my life, peering into the margins and fine print as well as at the boldly illuminated headlines, I am simply amazed. I was born on April 27, 1927, in Heiberger, Alabama, at a time and in a place where everything I would eventually become was impossible even to imagine.

Who could have dreamed that a little girl who began life as a part-time hired hand picking cotton for two dollars a week in the piercing hot sun would rise to a position that allowed her to help pick U.S. mayors, congresspersons, and even presidents? Or that in the 1950s and 1960s, when a womans place (and sometimes her imprisonment) was clearly defined as the home, I would be both an avowed homemaker and a liberated feminist? That I would be able to help build a human rights movement while also raising four beautiful children? And by no means did I dare think as a child that I could ever help create a more humane environment for African Americans: from my earliest childhood, whites regularly terrorized our family, and it was not a crime. In the 1940s and 50s, one dared not dream of equality under the law. We could not sleep in our beds without fear of being burned out by white vigilantes. We could not walk in the front door of an ice-cream parlor without being shooed to the back. We had to step off the sidewalk and lower our eyes when a white person approached. This is the narrow door I entered as a young girl. It is not the same door from which I will exit.

The movement did not only lift blacks. It elevated the entire nation toward a place of true respect, love, and justice that transcends race, color, or creed. I call that place the Beloved Community. The road to the Beloved Community is the road of nonviolence. The roadblocks are hate and prejudice. We are not there yet. But there are more doors open than ever before. We stand on the cusp of a new day, one brimming with possibilities that once lived only in the restricted passageways of our dreams.

In my teen years, I spent a lot of time trying to discover who I was. I used to look at myself in the mirror and ponder why I had been placed on this planet. Sometimes I would grow nervous; it was as though I could perceive myself as another human being, someone much larger than a little country girl sitting on a bench in the backwoods of Alabama. I used to go out in the woods and sit for hours, thinking and meditating. Rodins statue had nothing on me. I imagined myself seated next to the proverbial man in the moon, blasting off to adventures far past Heiberger. At thirteen, that was the only way I could transcend the small space I occupied. My mind left home long before I packed my physical bags.

I hope that now, in some way, you will know this Coretta.

Of course, while my memoir is about me, it is about Martin, too. Our lives were too inseparable to be perforated. Cutting us one from the other would leave a jagged edge. Yet, I did have a life after Martin, just as I had a life before Martin. I have a purpose. I have a mission, and I have carried it out on the world stage.

To discover what youre called to do with your life, I believe you have to be connected to God, to that divine force in your life, and that you have to continue to pray for direction. I did that. My life careened down roads I had never imagined traveling. I took on tasks requiring skills and wisdom I didnt have until circumstances demanded them. All this kept me on my knees, calling on God. Over the years, as I prayed for strength, I felt a sense of relief. I was doing Gods work, I knew, and He would take care of me and my family. That didnt mean that nothing bad would ever happen. It didnt mean that at all. But pain is the price some people have to pay, and death can be a redeeming voice; it can promote change and advance the work of Gods kingdom. I came to understand all this in the early days of the Montgomery movement. And the understanding I found then has never left me: I had a divine calling on my life, a charge, a challenge to serve not just black people, but all oppressed humankind. That calling will be with me to the end.

As my life unfolded, I saw a pattern. My value system formed and was strengthened through pain and sacrificenot through talking the talk but by walking the walk in the line of fire. In Montgomery, Alabama, during the famous Bus Boycott, I came to understand what I was made of, what pressures I could withstand without breaking or running away. I was not a crystal figurine, fragile and fearful. If I had been breakable, I would have been a major distraction to Martin. His concern for my safety and that of our children would have prevented him from being able to stand in the line of fire. Instead, he soon found that I could be trusted when facing trouble.

When I look back on the harassment we endured, on the persecution of my husband and the threats to our lives, I am still amazed at what lies within me. We cannot know how far we can soar until we are tested. Strangely enough, I actually become stronger in crises. I didnt understand that until I found myself in the midst of a tsunami. During that time in Montgomery, I felt an inner strength; it told me that, if necessary, I could do it again. And again.

Did Martin ever understand how deep my inner calling was? I dont think so. It transcended even our marriage, and he sometimes struggled to capture its essence. Once, when we were talking about the importance of ensuring that our children receive a proper amount of attention from their parents, he blurted out, You see, I am called, and you are not.

I said to him, You know, Ive always felt that I have a call on my life, too. I have been called by God to do something, too, and I have to do it.

Generally, Martin was very encouraging, and there were times when he was frustrated with himself, too; he wanted to be a father who was very involved in the lives of his children, but the movement required so much of his time. In any case, our debates about how best to take care of our children did not disturb me, because I knew exactly where he was coming from. We felt a similar pull, a similar pressure from God. I was married to Martin, but I was even more married to the movement and its mission of helping to create a Beloved Community of compassion, justice, and nonviolence.

Was my path a lonely one? Yes, at times. You do not lose your husband, who is also your best friend, and not feel lonely. But I was never alone. I had my mother and father, my mother-in-law and father-in-law, my sister and brother, my sisters-in-law, my nieces and nephews, my four wonderful children, and the King Center, which I envisioned as the West Point of nonviolence, and often thought of as my fifth child. I also felt the warm embrace of that great crowd of witnesses, those yet unborn, who will live their best lives beyond limits because we dared to struggle, to put our lives on the line, to make America and the world a better place.