I was not quite eight years old when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in April of 1968, and consequently, my memories of the event are hazy at best.
There were vague rumblings of uncertainty expressed by my parents and their peers as rioting broke out in cities across the United States, to be interpreted primarily through the images and testimony provided by network news reporters on the black and white television set in the living room.
It was obvious that something important was happening, but even if I had been old enough to grasp what it was, I’m unlikely to have been offered a clear explanation — owing not so much to malicious intent as simple ignorance.
Being charitable, I suppose it isn’t easy for parents to admit to what they don’t know.
From what I can remember, my upbringing in Georgetown was not tainted by overt racism. If anything, rather al ......
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