MLK in LA

MLK. alan caudillo

My wife and children and I make the trek in the family station wagon to the parade celebrating the birth of Martin Luther King, jr. Because of the parade, we must park several blocks from the parade route, MLK boulevard from Leimert Park to Western, in the heart of the hood.

We had expected a joyous time, the following day was the inauguration of Mr. Obama, and we wanted our children of color to have a memorable experience. It was a sad occasion for me. There were cops, tense and edgy, on both sides of the street, twenty feet apart facing the crowd for the entire parade.

Instead of celebration and pride, there was a great deal of living down to cultural stereotypes; children smoking blunts, while holding their even younger children, as they yelled into the cell phones "nigger, this the stupid fuckin' thing I seed."

The night before, we watched the stars come out and perform in Mr. Obama's honor. We cried as we hopefully awaited a new day. My wife saw a friend, Arno, performing with James Taylor, and only a few months ago she bumped into him, broke, working for peanuts as an extra on a long canceled TV show, and she weeped in happiness for him as he sang his heart out for the President.

For nearly the whole performance, a young girl slept behind the President-Elect and slept. It is and not the reality of the parade I held in my mind when I wrote this poem.


While the world watches

the change that has come a

child sleeps peacefully.

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