Personal Narrative Essay: The Memphis Sanitation Worker
“My husband is dead. My husband is dead. Martin. Is. Dead.”
I repeated these words to myself as I looked in the mirror wondering how I could tell Yolanda, Martin, Dexter, and sweet little Bernice… Oh, Bernice! She had just turned five less than a month ago. How could I tell them their beloved father has been shot? How will they understand? Yolanda was the oldest and the wisest. There is no way I could sugarcoat this. I slumped down behind the bathroom door and took a deep breath. What originally began as a day filled with strength, service, and self-reliance had now ended filled with despair, disbelief, and damage.
You had been in Memphis just last month to lead the march for the Memphis Sanitation Workers Strike. The Memphis Sanitation workers had been experiencing overall unfair treatment like …show more content…
I was wrong and the march hadn’t even started.
I couldn’t believe it. Your body laid limp on the gurney. The autopsy had been performed. Dr. Francisco had declared your official death and yet, I still could not comprehend this mere and simple concept. The facts were right in front of me. At 7:05 pm on April 4th, 1968 at St. Joseph Hospital, I became a widow and all it took was a single bullet to the chin, a mortal wound, from a white supremacist named James Earl Ray.
I didn’t know that your last speech would be “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” and neither did your followers, nor did the sanitation workers, nor did our friends and family. But if I did, what would I have done? The truth is, nothing. There is nothing you have done that I could have done better. That was your last day and I think you spent it well.
I promise we will get to the Promised Land, even if you are not here with us, Martin, and it will be because of you.
The march will continue and we will have justice. I nodded to myself and gathered my weight up off the ground again. I wiped away my tears and turned the lights on. As I grabbed the door handle, I heard light footsteps towards the
I repeated these words to myself as I looked in the mirror wondering how I could tell Yolanda, Martin, Dexter, and sweet little Bernice… Oh, Bernice! She had just turned five less than a month ago. How could I tell them their beloved father has been shot? How will they understand? Yolanda was the oldest and the wisest. There is no way I could sugarcoat this. I slumped down behind the bathroom door and took a deep breath. What originally began as a day filled with strength, service, and self-reliance had now ended filled with despair, disbelief, and damage.
You had been in Memphis just last month to lead the march for the Memphis Sanitation Workers Strike. The Memphis Sanitation workers had been experiencing overall unfair treatment like …show more content…
I was wrong and the march hadn’t even started.
I couldn’t believe it. Your body laid limp on the gurney. The autopsy had been performed. Dr. Francisco had declared your official death and yet, I still could not comprehend this mere and simple concept. The facts were right in front of me. At 7:05 pm on April 4th, 1968 at St. Joseph Hospital, I became a widow and all it took was a single bullet to the chin, a mortal wound, from a white supremacist named James Earl Ray.
I didn’t know that your last speech would be “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” and neither did your followers, nor did the sanitation workers, nor did our friends and family. But if I did, what would I have done? The truth is, nothing. There is nothing you have done that I could have done better. That was your last day and I think you spent it well.
I promise we will get to the Promised Land, even if you are not here with us, Martin, and it will be because of you.
The march will continue and we will have justice. I nodded to myself and gathered my weight up off the ground again. I wiped away my tears and turned the lights on. As I grabbed the door handle, I heard light footsteps towards the