The morning sun filtered through the small window of the kitchen, casting golden streaks across the worn oak table. The smell of sizzling bacon filled the room, mingling with the faint sweetness of cornbread cooling on the counter. A young boy sat at the table, his legs swinging back and forth as he scratched on a small slate board with a stub of chalk.
“M.L., you keep leaning on that table, and you’ll scratch it up,” his mother called over her shoulder as she flipped a strip of bacon in the cast-iron skillet.
“I’m being careful, Mother,” M.L. replied, though the slate wobbled slightly under his hand. He leaned back to examine his drawing—a pair of shoes, clumsy but clear. “Daddy, do you think they’ll have my size? I bet they’ll fit just perfect.”
At the head of the table, his father set down his coffee cup with a soft clink and looked over at him with a faint smile. “Maybe they will, son. But why you want these shoes so bad?”
“I wanna look sharp!” M.L. beamed, his face lighting up. “Like you do on Sundays, Daddy.”
His father chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Shoes don’t make the man, M.L. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” M.L. said quickly. “But they help, don’t they?”
The deep rumble of his father’s laugh filled the room. “Maybe they do. But don’t you forget—what makes a man isn’t on his feet. It’s in his heart.”
M.L. furrowed his brow as if working to commit the words to memory. But the seriousness didn’t last long. He grinned and tapped the slate. “When I get those shiny shoes, I bet even Mrs. Claybourne will notice!”
His father shook his head with another laugh. “You’re something else, boy. But all right. Let’s go see about these shoes. Only if you promise to behave yourself.”
“I promise!” M.L. scrambled off his chair, leaving the slate forgotten, and darted for his coat.
“Stick by me, now,” his father said, standing. “No running ahead. You hear?”
“Yes, Daddy!”
The streets buzzed with life as they walked hand in hand. The heat of the late-morning sun pressed down, carrying the mingled smells of fried food, coal smoke, and magnolia blossoms. M.L. held tightly to his father’s hand, his other hand clutching a shiny dime he’d been given earlier—his allowance.
“Daddy,” he asked, glancing up as they passed a streetcar rattling by, “do you think my new shoes will make me look important?”
His father’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked down. “Shoes don’t make you important, son. What you do with your life is what counts. You understand?”
M.L. shrugged, though he nodded slightly. “I guess so, Daddy.” He didn’t really understand, but like all little boys, M.L. knew when to agree with his father and listen.
When they reached the shoe store, M.L. pressed his nose against the glass. His breath fogged the pane as he pointed. “Look, Daddy! There they are—shiny black ones! Just like I said!”
“I see them,” his father said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s take a look.”
The bell jingled above the door as they stepped inside. The air was cooler, carrying the faint scent of leather and polish. M.L. tugged at his father’s sleeve, his voice bubbling with excitement. “Daddy, can I try them on? Please?”
Behind the counter, the clerk—a wiry man with a pale face—stood and adjusted his apron. His smile froze when his eyes landed on them.
“Afternoon,” the man said, his tone clipped.
“Afternoon,” M.L.’s father replied evenly. “We’re here for some new shoes for my boy here. He even brought some of his allowance money to help pay for them.”
M.L. grinned with pride and the anticipation of how his feet would look in the shiny new shoes in the window. He pointed toward the display. “Those ones, Daddy! Can I try them on?”
The clerk hesitated, his smile fading. “We… don’t serve colored folk up here,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “You’ll need to go to the back section.”
The words hung in the air like a heavy weight. M.L.’s excitement faltered, his eyes darting to his father. “Daddy? What does he mean?”
His father’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder. “He means they don’t want to serve us where we belong,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
“Sir, I don’t make the rules,” the clerk stammered. “It’s just store policy.”
“No, but you follow them,” M.L.’s father replied, his tone unyielding. “Don’t you now?”
“Now listen here, boy. I dun told you the way of things. Now you mind your manners ‘fore I need to call the police.” He reached for the telephone and pulled the receiver from its cradle.
M.L. felt a chill at the base of his spine at the mention of the word, “police.” He tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Daddy, we can just go to the back. It’s okay.”
His father turned to the man, anger quelled behind a veneer of self-control. “That won’t be necessary,” he replied through gritted teeth. “We’ll take our business elsewhere.”
The man nodded and replaced the phone receiver.
“Come along, son,” his father said, taking M.L.’s hand and pulling him firmly.
The bells on the door jangled again as the door shut behind them on the street and M.L. tried to hold back his tears.
Seeing his distress, his father crouched down to face him, his dark eyes steady. “M.L., listen to me. You don’t ever let anyone tell you where you belong. Not in a store, not anywhere. You hear me?”
M.L. nodded, though his small face was still clouded with confusion.
His father straightened, taking his hand again. “Come on, son. We don’t buy from folks who don’t respect us.”
M.L. glanced back at the shoes as they walked away, their polished surfaces gleaming under the dim light.
The streets were quieter now, or maybe M.L. was just quieter. His small hand gripped his father’s tightly as they walked, the sound of their footsteps blending with the hum of the city.
After a long stretch of silence, M.L. finally spoke. “Daddy, why didn’t we just do what the man said? I’m sure they had some nice shoes in the back.”
His father stopped walking and carefully considered what to say. At first M.L. wondered if he was about to be scolded for talking back, but instead, his daddy crouched down, his deep voice steady and unshaken. “M.L., listen to me. It is far better that you be barefoot, with your head held high in dignity, than clothed in the shoes of a King, but your head bowed low in shame.”
He paused, his voice steady and certain. He took a breath and let it out.
M.L. continued to listen with reverence until his father continued.
“For a King without dignity is no king at all.”
M.L. nodded again, his grip tightening slightly on his father’s hand as he considered the words he’d just heard.
Decades later, ML, who had grown in both wisdom and dignity as he grew in age, found himself in the nation’s capitol, standing before a sea of faces at the Washington Mall, preparing to take his turn on the stage.
He shifted his weight uneasily and looked down at his feet. His polished black shoes gleamed in the afternoon sun. He’d purchased them the day before, from a cobbler who was not only proud but excited to sell them to the man M.L. had become. A small smile flickered across his face as the memory of that day so many years before, in the shoe shop came back to him, clear as day. His father’s wisdom echoed in his mind, steady and certain.
His memories were interrupted by the announcer calling his name. The crowd began to cheer. He straightened his tie, and stood tall and then, remembering his father’s frequent admonitions to walk with the dignity of a king, M.L.—shoes shined bright—took the stage and smiled out upon the hundreds of thousands of people who attended. He shook the hands of a few of the event organizers and stepped to the microphone.
He paused briefly, taking in the clear blue skies and the warmth of the afternoon, allowing the enormity, both of the audience and the moment to wash over him, and then he began to speak. “I have a dream today,” he said, his voice rising with power, hope, and conviction. And the world has never forgotten.
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