Take Me To The River

In 1967 Detroit police raided the Algiers Motel. The Algiers was a blind pig, in a predominately black neighborhood, it led into one of the bloodiest race riots in US history, now known as the 12th Street riots.

I could hear gunshots from my house. I never saw any of the violence. I was nine years old. At the time it seemed like a distraction from the Detroit Tigers pennant race. They ended up in second place that year. Later I realized that city blocks were razed during the riots, 43 people died, 467 injured, 7,200 arrests were made, over 2000 buildings burned, countless were disenfranchised, almost all of the victims were black.

A year later Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis. There was some more rioting in Detroit, and many other American cities.

The Tigers won the pennant that year and the World Series. There were stars like 30 game winner Denny McLain, hall of famer Al Kaline, perennial all star catcher Bill Freehan and Willie Horton, an African-American who had grown up in the neighborhood of Tiger Stadium. During the 1967 riots Horton went into the crowd with a loud speaker urging people to stop the violence. Willie ended up retreating from the angry mob. The mob normally would have regarded him as a hero. The Tigers were the second to last team to have a black player. Ozzie Virgil became the first black to play for Detroit in 1958, eleven years after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. The Boston Red Sox were the last to integrate in 1959.

Along with Horton the 68 Tiger's had a few other black stars, Earl Wilson the slugging pitcher, who just a few years back was the first person of color to pitch for the Red Sox. Gates Brown who had been discovered in prison, went on to become a great pinch hitter and a fan favorite.

It was all very confusing to me when I was nine. Why would anyone shoot Martin Luther King? Wasn't he trying to do good things? My mother told me, sometimes it doesn't matter, people don't always agree on things.

Seven years ago I went to Memphis. I attended Al Green's church. It was a two and a half hour hip shakin', God lovin' session. A chubby short woman, who was probably in her mid 70's kept knocking hips with me. Praise the lord.

The day before, I went to the Lorraine Motel. The motel is a museum now. It's also the place where Martin Luther King was murdered. I went through all the impressive multi-media presentations, the last stop was the room where King spent his last night. You can't go inside the room. I looked through the window at the unmade bed, a half eaten sandwich, an ashtray full of cigarettes, the room was supposed to look like it did the day he died. Then I looked across the parking lot to where the gunman was. I started to shake. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. My eyes welled up. What kind of motherfucker would kill this guy? I couldn't figure it out. I still can't.

Today is his birthday. I think the nation officially observes his birthday Monday.