I was sitting on the bed, eating an apple and watching cartoons when the show was interrupted by the announcement of the death of Martin Luther King Jr. I was 6 years old.

Up until that point in my life, MLK was just one of those many people out there in the world that my parents spoke of quietly, respectfully, almost reverently over the evening meal. They’d grown up in Mississippi and Tennessee during the first half of the 20th century and were fully aware of what he represented in the quest for equality for people of African descent in America.

I remember my mother crying. I remember my father pacing the floor angrily. I remember dinner being silent that night.

My parents firmly believed that if their children were well educated and well spoken; if we were able to present ourselves in an intelligent way; we’d be “accepted” by the majority. So, they spent money and time and energy in preparing us to go forth and be the “Great Black Hope” from the family. They wanted more for us than they’d been able to achieve, these two college educated teachers.

So, I worked hard: I studied, participated, discussed, assimilated. I became the thing Martin said I should become in order to be accepted and respected among my “peers” of another color. While all around me, some were rebelling and others rejecting and most, simply hoping they’d survive.

I lost myself. Not that I really knew or understood who I was in the first place. Martin’s dream, that his children and the children of all other races, would stand together, happily, one big happy human race family, was, for me, a crock of mess.

The most miserable time of my life was when I allowed others to interpret Martin’s dream for me. I, for a while, honestly was angry about this “assimilate and they will embrace” thing that I’d been fed. I blamed Martin for destroying me and my generation. We weren’t even “black” anymore. We were simply wannabe white folk with really great tans.

The day I discovered I wasn’t black anymore, it took a white man to tell me. I was being “dismissed” from my job because I was “way too aggressive” and I “didn’t fit the corporate plan”. I stormed home and considered these words. I examined myself and considered what he REALLY meant.

I realized that MY dream had nothing to do with competing for that job that someone else decided I should have because I happened to be black. My dream was the same as Martin’s: that I could live peacefully as I chose, being who I was and simply being accepted as such.

My interpretation of the dream includes knowing who I am, where I come from, what I bring to the table intellectually, spiritually, emotionally AND culturally. My dream includes my being happy in my own skin and not being concerned about whether this happiness is predicated on how others feel I should function.

Martin has affected my life. In a way that I really didn’t expect. I AM content and unafraid and confident and bold, because of him. He was the example I have consciously and unconsciously followed all these years, in finding strength in my faith, and in recognizing and KNOWING I have a purpose and can go unafraid into the darkness to fulfill my purpose.

I thank you, Martin. May your spirit remain a soft touch on my shoulder and a strong beat in my heart.