Growing Up King (32 page)

My dad—some people called him a communist, a rabble-rouser, an unfaithful husband: all false, but after he’s gone they say,
“Aw, what a good man he was, how sincere he was, how tragically he died, how sad it is, how noble (now that he’s no threat
to our comfort)—he deserves a holiday! He’s great now because he’s no longer a threat. Keep him as a dreamer rather than as
a realist and he’s great.”

But the minute you start dealing with what he was talking about before he died—some people don’t want to hear that. They don’t
want to see that. So I’ve got to say it the way I find it. I have to say it. A last full measure of devotion. If somebody
tells me I can’t offer him that, all the more reason I must. The more people try to keep me from it, the more I must do it.
Why? Something pulled me back to it. I’m still trying to figure that part out. I still don’t have all the answers.

The meetings with Pepper, with Ray, with Memphis, were important.

They weren’t the only important meetings I took during that time.

I
interrupt this public quest to talk about a more personal aspect of my life, and to give a view of what it’s like to try to
have a close personal relationship while trying to be heir to this kind of volatile legacy, after being damaged by the murder
of your father when you were a child. It’s hard enough connecting with somebody in the first place at the turn of the millennium.
So I’m going to let you in. It is a tough thing for me to do, but it has been suggested that I try, so I will.

Mon Ami is a Cuban American. Mon Ami is not her real name, but it describes how I came to feel about her over the four years
we were together. We met in February 1996. She was living in Birmingham, Alabama. She worked for a well-known pharmaceutical
company. We met in Washington, at a black-tie dinner for the Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies think tank. She
was there, even though she was sick. She’s a real trooper, and business is business. I was on the dais as a guest. Vice President
Al Gore was the evening’s featured speaker.

Mon Ami was bored. She’d been a lobbyist at a chemical firm, then director of corporate affairs with this pharmaceutical firm.
Born in Havana, she and her family emigrated to the United States and she grew up in South Florida. She came to America at
age two, spoke only Spanish then. Even with a fever, she went to this function; didn’t seem to have a lot of time for a lot
of B.S.; when you’re in corporate America, based in the South, and you’re Latina, you’ve heard it all.

As a young child she knew what money problems were too. Her mom and dad washed dishes, cleaned offices, drove trucks to make
money in a new country. They put her through school. She was driven by ambition at her jobs, but when it came to dating, she
had no clue. There was little room for an emotional side in her life. She was comfortable as long as she was dealing with
a man on a professional level. In Birmingham, she owned a nice house on Baltimore Street. The neighbors thought she was weird
because she was the only one in the development not married or with kids. She was hardly ever there, because of traveling.
But she said she was having a great time until she realized she was about to be thirty-one. It happens to women. Must be genetic.

Later she said she’d let God know she was ready. Her prayer was, “I know you’ll give me what I need; Lord, you sent me here
naked and alone, so I know that with you I have everything I need in life, but I’d like to have a partner, be in a relationship
if that is your will. If it’s my destiny to walk alone, I’m cool with it. Just give me what I need to do it.”

So we’re at this function. She was in a serious mood, I could see that; she wore her very curly dark hair pinned back; glasses;
looking at her watch every two minutes; the only female in her contingent. It wasn’t that crowded, as we were in a large hotel
ballroom. I was wearing a tuxedo. When she turned her head away, I stared at her across the room. “Hey! Who’re you staring
at?” asked one of her colleagues, Miles; they were talking. Miles was an African-American gentleman from the West Coast.

She asked him, “Isn’t that Dexter King over there?”

“Yeah, you want to go meet him?”

“… Oh… well… if he’s not… not really.”

Miles said, “Ah, come on.” Well, the next thing I know… there I am meeting this woman, and kind of liking it, sort of, maybe…
I don’t know. Miles sits on the King Holiday Committee in Seattle, and had been to the King Center through the nonviolent
training program. He told me what a fine lobbyist and fund-raiser she was. I began to think of how she might positively impact
the Center—or maybe I was thinking subconsciously how she might impact me. Maybe I thought a few other things, but they were
untoward thoughts for the son of Dr. King. She caught my eye.

Too soon for me, a glass was struck by a piece of silverware, calling the room to order.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go up on the dais. Do you have your business card? Thanks. Well, nice to meet you.” I turned around and
walked off. Miles asked her in a whisper, “What did you think?” She said, “About your stories, or him?” She told me later
she put the episode out of her mind. I didn’t.

A couple of weeks went by. I found myself thinking about her. Finally, I paged her. She was in Chicago when her pager went
off; she read the number: 404 area code. She was on the phone with a girlfriend at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on Michigan Avenue,
and asked her absently, “Wonder who this is paging me from 404?”

“Hello?”

“Mon? Mon Ami?…” I’d never been nervous like this before. My veneer of nonchalance was cracking already. “This is Dexter.
Dexter King. I’m pleased you called me back.”

“Oh, Mr. King, very nice to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine thanks, I’m returning your page, or trying to—”

“What? Was everything all right with how the phone was answered?”

“Well… don’t worry about it.”

“One reason I’m calling you—is because I’m really interested in finding out more about what you do with your company and its
Foundation, and was wondering if you and I could meet so that I can go over some of the plans the King Center has, and…”

She’d finished her MBA a few years before; grant-finding, fund-raising, and ally development were part of her skill base.
I wanted to know more.

“Okay, that sounds good. When would you like to meet?”

“Next week.”

“Let me look at my calendar.”

At the time, it was the first week in March.

“I have April 15 available. How does that look for you?”

“Excuse me?”

“… You know, Mr. King…”

“Please… call me Dexter.”

“All right. Dexter, you know if that’s not a good time—judging from your reaction I gather that’s not a good time—I have dates
available later in April or May, but April 15 is the first time I have available.” Hmm. Didn’t know how to take it. Seems
like you could squeeze somebody in.

We set up a meeting for April 15. A month goes by, I call her and ask, “We still on?” “Yes.” She drove over from Birmingham.
I’d arranged a tour of the site. Finally, we met. She had her hand out for a handshake; I took it, and kissed her on the cheek;
she kissed me on mine, which she said she normally did, because she’s Hispanic and that’s how they greet, but she also said
she’d learned in business that you can’t be going around kissing folks; still, she figured, “He’s African American, I’m Hispanic,
that’s what we do in a social setting. He won’t read it wrong.”

“I want us to have dinner to discuss some things,” I said. “Business proposals and possibilities. We need assistance. But
I wasn’t sure what you’d like to eat. I’m particular.”

She said, “So am I, but I can find things to eat everywhere I go.”

“But, do you have a preference?”

“My preference is any place I can get vegetarian food.”

I looked at her. “You’re kidding.”

She raised her eyebrows and said, “No. I’ve been a vegetarian for about twelve years. Why would I kid about that? I know it
might be a little weird for some people’s taste…”

“No, no, no, no, no—it’s fine.”

I didn’t tell her I was a vegetarian just then.

Mon Ami and I sat on the couch and I showed her the architectural blueprints for the King Center. I asked her about the tour,
showed her the King Center plans, and right then I was torn because on the one hand there was no doubt in my mind that I was
attracted to her, and on the other hand she seemed like a sharpie who could help advise me on directions the King Center was
taking. Somehow I’d tamp down the attraction.

That afternoon and early evening Mon Ami and I talked about her career and background. We discussed business over dinner,
politics over dessert. We talked about how to help the King Center and if her company could be involved.

It was an interesting, strangely short evening. It was over like that. We were at my car, headed back. She’d left her car
in the King Center.

We were laughing and I thought, “Wow, this has been one of the best times I’ve had since… I don’t know when.” What I didn’t
know at the time was that she was thinking the same thing. But neither of us had time for that stuff. And we both sort of
made it clear without being specific. She had been married before, while in her early twenties, and hadn’t been looking for
any kind of serious relationship or commitment. Neither was I. I’d taken her to a small café for dessert. We sat at a corner
table and my fingers touched hers, and she jumped back a little. We got in my car and drove back to the King Center garage.
It was 11
P.M.
She had to drive back to Birmingham that night because she had an early-morning flight the next day, had a meeting up in
Portland the next afternoon. She would be there all week. We were nearly at the garage. Soon she would be gone. I became pensive.
She noticed, and said, “Dexter King, I have a question for you.”

“… Okay.”

“Just an innocent question. Out of curiosity.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you typically play with people’s fingers during business dinners?”

“… No, but, uh, well… why do you ask?”

“Well because I’m figuring it might make some of the women uncomfortable…”

After I stopped laughing nervously, I had to tell her my interests in her were not limited to business—or so I thought. Some
of it was also personal. She said, “Can you please say that again?” I said, “I’m attracted to you. I found you very interesting
when I met you and I really wanted to get to know you.” She said, “I’ve got to hand it to you. I’m good, but I didn’t see
this coming. I spend four hours taking tours, seeing business plans, talking about donations and politics, and this is really
personal? Gosh I’ve really been out of the social scene for a while, then…”

I smiled ruefully. “You’re getting under my collar,” I thought. It was so intense, we spent another hour talking. It was really
great. When we finally got out of my car, I said, “It’s late and you have a two-hour drive. Maybe you’d like to spend the
night here in town. I can…”

She looked at me, arched an eyebrow, and said, “No. I have to drive back to Birmingham. I’m going to drive back now.”

I said, “I was going to say, I can get you a hotel room. There are a lot of good hotels.”

She said, “I have to drive back to Birmingham and I am driving back.”

She later told me she didn’t think I’d ever heard a woman say no. Little did she know.

I paged Mon Ami while she was in the Pacific Northwest.

“When are you coming back?” I asked.

“Coming back where?”

“I mean, when are you going home?”

“I’m going home tomorrow. I’m flying to Birmingham.”

“Do you have a connection in Atlanta?”

“Now, Dexter, surely you must know by now that you can’t get anywhere south of Chicago without connecting in Atlanta.”

“Really? I mean, do you mind if I pick you up? I’ll drive you over to Birmingham.”

So we did that. In fact, we saw each other every weekend after that for about six months.

I’d been dating here and there since Good Natured bore the brunt of the funky malaise after I left the King Center in 1989,
nearly seven years before. Mon Ami had been dating, off and on, another person located in Birmingham. I met her at the plane.
She told me stories, made me laugh; how, her being Cuban, people didn’t know what she was outside Florida. Black folks thought
she was passing, white folks thought she was black. “When you see life through God’s eyes, there is no color,” she said. “That’s
how I was raised.”

All I could say was, “Me too.”

Going on through the year of 1996, we became closer; eventually she asked where we might be going with this relationship.
I felt a chill. I said, “Thought you weren’t looking for commitment, that your commitment was to your career? If that’s the
case, then I’d like to help you advance your career… There are many things I have not dealt with in my life on a personal
level. I don’t want to put you through it.” This was toward the end of ’96. I knew we were going to meet with Pepper; I knew
there was going to be controversy, that there were things coming up like the Ray meeting, the trial. I didn’t want her to
be hurt by that. But at the same time… So what did I do?