Doubt
The final chapter in the story that is spun around the SPLC civil rights memorial reads,
“Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. assassinated in Memphis, TN.”
There is some kind of finality in that line. It isn’t a declaration of victory or an admission of
defeat. It’s simply an expression of profound and tragic inevitability. Martin Luther King is about
as close to holy as I’ve ever seen a man come. But despite the gravity of his character, the
clarity of his convictions, and the pure, unwavering goodness with which he lived, Martin Luther
King was assassinated in Memphis Tennessee by the white hot rage of a lifelong criminal,
funneled through the barrel of a .30-06 caliber carbine rifle. All of his power was undone in an
instant. Of course it was. A black man’s divinity in this country is no match for a white man’s
whim. The fight for equality, I know, did not die with Dr. King. But neither did the hatred that
killed him, or the injustice that demanded everything from him. Because intolerance does not
seek catharsis, it seeks stagnation. The gunshot that cut through that Memphis morning was not
a climax in the history of hatred. It was neither inglorious last stand, nor monumental triumph of
evil over good. It was simply the flick of a finger, the elimination of an inconvenience, and the
defense of a status quo. In 2000 the daughters of the confederacy erected a memorial to
Nathaniel Bedford Forrest in a confederate cemetery in Selma Alabama. It has been maintained
meticulously, a symbolic anchor of hatred and intolerance. The hospital, just a few blocks away,
in which hatred once snuffed out a man named Jimmie Lee Jackson, has fallen into disrepair.
Selma still knows nothing of equality.
After crossing the Edmund Pettus bridge on Monday night, we stood in a circle and each shared
a one word reflection. I said doubt. On this trip I have come to doubt many things. In the face of
this country’s great moral entropy, and in the face of the inevitability that has reduced so many
great leaders to blood stains on balconies, driveways, and ballroom floors, I have questioned
whether a world without hatred is even possible. I don’t know, and I fear not knowing.
But I also don’t know if a world without hatred is, should be, or ever has been the goal. I think
the dream was always more of a rhetorical tool than a mission statement. Evil will always have
its foot soldiers. I think a movement set in changing this, on ending hatred, is doomed to fail. So
I will commit myself to affecting change that I know is possible. If we can’t evict hatred from this
country’s hearts and minds, then I will work to drive it from our courts and schools. I think hatred
may be inevitable, but I don’t think it necessitates inequality. So I will fight not for love and
tolerance, but for equality and justice.
-Liam
“Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. assassinated in Memphis, TN.”
There is some kind of finality in that line. It isn’t a declaration of victory or an admission of
defeat. It’s simply an expression of profound and tragic inevitability. Martin Luther King is about
as close to holy as I’ve ever seen a man come. But despite the gravity of his character, the
clarity of his convictions, and the pure, unwavering goodness with which he lived, Martin Luther
King was assassinated in Memphis Tennessee by the white hot rage of a lifelong criminal,
funneled through the barrel of a .30-06 caliber carbine rifle. All of his power was undone in an
instant. Of course it was. A black man’s divinity in this country is no match for a white man’s
whim. The fight for equality, I know, did not die with Dr. King. But neither did the hatred that
killed him, or the injustice that demanded everything from him. Because intolerance does not
seek catharsis, it seeks stagnation. The gunshot that cut through that Memphis morning was not
a climax in the history of hatred. It was neither inglorious last stand, nor monumental triumph of
evil over good. It was simply the flick of a finger, the elimination of an inconvenience, and the
defense of a status quo. In 2000 the daughters of the confederacy erected a memorial to
Nathaniel Bedford Forrest in a confederate cemetery in Selma Alabama. It has been maintained
meticulously, a symbolic anchor of hatred and intolerance. The hospital, just a few blocks away,
in which hatred once snuffed out a man named Jimmie Lee Jackson, has fallen into disrepair.
Selma still knows nothing of equality.
After crossing the Edmund Pettus bridge on Monday night, we stood in a circle and each shared
a one word reflection. I said doubt. On this trip I have come to doubt many things. In the face of
this country’s great moral entropy, and in the face of the inevitability that has reduced so many
great leaders to blood stains on balconies, driveways, and ballroom floors, I have questioned
whether a world without hatred is even possible. I don’t know, and I fear not knowing.
But I also don’t know if a world without hatred is, should be, or ever has been the goal. I think
the dream was always more of a rhetorical tool than a mission statement. Evil will always have
its foot soldiers. I think a movement set in changing this, on ending hatred, is doomed to fail. So
I will commit myself to affecting change that I know is possible. If we can’t evict hatred from this
country’s hearts and minds, then I will work to drive it from our courts and schools. I think hatred
may be inevitable, but I don’t think it necessitates inequality. So I will fight not for love and
tolerance, but for equality and justice.
-Liam
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