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This was May 1967, a time when racial strife along with protests over the war in Vietnam seemed to be ripping the country apart. In his speech, he urged students to refuse military service, and there were some boos from the crowd. Just the day before, when he spoke on the campus of the University of California at Berkeley, most of the school's 200 Black students boycotted the event, concerned that his anti-war message was diluting the civil rights effort.
After introducing King on KVDU, the campus radio station, I began by asking what it was like to live with the constant stress of demonstrations, death threats and uncertainty.
Referring to white racists, he answered in the singular: "The law can't make him love me, but it can restrain him from lynching me." Indeed, though he often spoke about brotherhood and love, King's view of human rights was more fundamental.
That was evident when I asked about his speech and what lay ahead. "Most people see integration in romantic and aesthetic terms," he said, "but true integration means shared power. I'm in the heart-changing business, but if morality cannot be legislated, behavior can be regulated."
Those words make me think, that if he were alive today, King would be deeply troubled by efforts to change voting laws and reshape districts through gerrymandering to suppress voices of minorities and the poor. Unquestionably, he would have championed voting rights measures in Congress including the John Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act, which would restore elements of the landmark Voting Rights Act of 1965 that King worked so hard to promote.
"So long as I do not firmly and irrevocably possess the right to vote, I do not possess myself," he once said. "I cannot make up my mind — it is made up for me. I cannot live as a democratic citizen, observing the laws I have helped to enact. I can only submit to the edict of others."
Looking back on that night in '67, I've asked myself why this revered man, with such a hectic schedule, would turn down interview requests from the Denver Post and numerous other local news outlets and then sit for a half-hour with a journalism student having few credentials and little in the way of an audience. King valued truth and sought to encourage those who might someday be able to spread it.
One of my favorite quotes by him is: "Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity."
So another thing I think King would be concerned about today is the way truth has been discarded by a reckless segment of the media. Haters and racists are sheltered by the conscientious stupidity and mendacity of those promoting lies about our government, urgent health needs and current efforts to Build Back Better.
Late on the night that we spoke, King flew to Chicago to continue sharing his message. Eleven months later, he told a gathering in Memphis, Tennessee, that Black Americans, although poor as individuals, had considerable economic power collectively — power that could be harnessed to effect change without violence. A few hours later, he was shot dead.
In that final speech, he declared, "I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!"
It's good that we have a day to honor King. We'd be better off if we lived his teachings every day. That, with an abundance of calm.
(c) Peter Funt. This column originally appeared in The Chicago Tribune.
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What was palpable, as he walked into the small room and shook my hand, was a certain calmness. Outside, sirens blared, and shouts could be heard in the night. He looked weary, and I asked if under the circumstances he might wish to cancel our conversation. He pursed his lips, shook his head and sat down.
