I never knew him in person, though I could have, because we both were living at the same time.

I loved him as a guide and mentor and because he thought the same way I did. And he was still learning, as I was too, so we were learning together.

I still don’t know enough about him. I know I don’t have his patience and impatience. I saw how he endured the slings and arrows of fellow ministers of the status quo who couldn’t see to the heart of their religion and ganged up on him. Now he’s a national saint.

I shared the pain he had felt, when I was invited by close friends to their Sunday service in a local Black church to hear a visiting guest minister preach. His sermon was basically, “The Good Lord knows what He’s doing, trust Him, don’t rush Him, be patient, wait for Him to choose the time…”

I was upset and wanted to cry out, “Why are you so against Martin Luther King? Haven’t you read his arguments about “Why we can’t wait?”

I held back, out of deference to my friends.

But I can’t stop any more than Martin could, and when the Poetry Contest announced the topic theme: “Living the Dream,” I had my students write for it. They told me I should write too, so I did, and won the First Prize, awarded by the eldest son Martin III.

I cherish the photos of us together holding the prize. I love him the way I love his father.

The prize was a framed artist original survey of the great life of the great man.

As wonderful as the prize was, and the recognition that came with it, the most meaningful part of the experience was the chance to meet and talk with Martin III. He startled me by seeming to know me. He said, “How are things going at Marshall these days?”

More important to me were the words in his speech to the assembly. He apologized to us. He said something like, “I know many of you are wondering why I haven’t taken up the mantle of my father to lead the marches. He was a great leader with a large congregation of followers, ready-made from his church. I don’t have that, the church congregation. We all know how far he got and how he was ended. If I were to try the same, without the followers, they would end me as they did him, and my life would have come to nothing more, and the problems would continue. I want to continue the fight, to do as much as I can for as long as I can live. I don’t want to throw my life away while the problems persist. I’m working with the youth, with education, because I believe that’s how we can save the world.”

Those are not his exact words, but they resonate with me because they could be my words too.

I want to share my poem with the world, but I don’t know if there are copyright complications. I don’t even know if the poem was ever printed or published. I sent a letter to Martin III, praising him for continuing the work, asking him if I could share the poem. I haven’t heard back, and should try again.

I was delighted at the High School where I was teaching, Marshall Fundamental Secondary, when the Speech and Drama Teacher had her students recite the poem at a January assembly. They all seemed to think I was on a pedestal because I had influence in the larger world. I was just happy to have more people hear my words.

The school newspaper printed an article.

I’m going to take a chance and share the poem. At least that’s something I can do.

Living the Dream

Before I knew what it was to be awake
there were those who dreamed
and knew their dreams so well
they infused into the sleep of others
a kind of waking brightness
like the sun when the sky
has had enough of night and dark

and so I wake again
living the dream
my eyes open
my eyes full

— By Gary C. Sterling