Conversation in the car yesterday:
Daughter: Mom, do you know how old Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. would be?
Me: No, how old.
Daughter: Like 92 or something. And did you know that they called him something else besides that long name he has?
Me: No, what did they call him?
Daughter: Weeeelllll. I don’t remember. It starts with an “N” and it is the same as African American.
Me: (deeeeep slow cleansing breathe, eyes forward as I drive) Hmmm. Could it be the word Negro?
Daughter: THAT’S IT! We don’t use it anymore because it is a hysterical word.
Me: Historical?
Daughter: What?
Me: Do you mean that Negro is a Historical word?
Daughter: Right. That’s it. Can we stop for a treat? I’m hungry.
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Cute.
He was killed on my birthday, but not my birth year, I wasn’t born yet. But I feel a kinship to him for that. U2′s “Pride in the Name of Love” captures it – “early morning April 4, shot rings out in the Memphis sky, free at last they took your life, they could not take your pride”
My birthday falls on Easter this year!