Inside Ebenezer Church, a choir began singing the minister’s favorite hymns, “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “In Christ There Is No East Nor West.” Time stood still. The crowd was quiet, intense. A knot gathered in my throat. (I was thinking how, according to Andrew Young, when King fell on that balcony, Jesse Jackson covered his palms with the minister’s blood, wiped them on his sweater; then the next day he flew to Chicago to appear bloodstained before the press, declaring he’d held a dying King in his arms. That was untrue, said Young, and I was haunted by the feeling that this act of theater and falsity, this photo-op, would define the spirit of the black struggle for decades after the minister’s demise. Had he not said to Carmichael, “I’ve been used before”?) Then my heart gave a slight jump when Abernathy played a recording of King’s sermon, “The Drum Major Instinct,” which the minister had delivered at Ebenezer earlier in the year, on February 4, taking his text from Mark 10:35, where James and John, the sons of Zebedee, approach Jesus with their desire to sit beside him in Glory. King’s bronze voice, that startling basso profundo, washed over the crowd in skin-prickling waves and reverberated in the ether.
“There is, deep down within all of us, an instinct. It’s a kind of drum major instinct — a desire to be out front, a desire to lead the parade, a desire to be first. And it is something that runs a whole gamut of life … We all want to be important, to surpass others, to achieve distinction, to lead the parade. Alfred Adler, the great psychoanalyst, contends that this is the dominant impulse … this desire for attention … Now in adult life, we still have it, and we really never get by it. We like to do something good. And you know, we liked to be praised for it … But there comes a time when the drum major instinct can become destructive. And that’s where I want to move now … Do you know that a lot of the race problem grows out of the drum major instinct? A need that some people have to feel superior. Nations are caught up with the drum major instinct. I must be first. I must be supreme. Our nation must rule the world … but let me rush on to my conclusion, because I want you to see what Jesus was really saying … Don’t give it up. Keep feeling the need for being important. Keep feeling the need for being first. But I want you to be first in love. I want you to be first in moral excellence. I want you to be first in generosity. That’s what I want you to do …”
Pallbearers brought out King’s bier, loading it onto a flatbed farm wagon pulled by two mules — a striking, martyrial phaeton symbolic of the Poor People’s Campaign that consumed King’s last days. The funeral bells tanged and the wagon began its long trek halfway across Atlanta to Morehouse College, where Rev. Benjamin Mays would give the eulogy. A slow march. A sorrowful march with the mules chacking beneath a sun that burned mercilessly overhead. We fell in behind fifty thousand mourners following the procession. I heard the clop-clop of the mules’ heels on hot concrete. Along the way, spectators crowded the sidewalks, a herd of multicolored humanity guilty of sloth, pride, anger, gluttony, covetousness, envy, lust, and acedia. Some dropped to their knees to pray. In spite of myself, my face broke. Amy took my hand, intertwining her fingers with mine, and I took her grandmama’s. Dressed in black, Mama Pearl had to be hot, there on a spring day in Atlanta, with the crush of bodies that closed us in. Her skin was sweat-streaked. She was weeping as we walked, her mouth quivering. I gave her my handkerchief.
“He was a beautiful man. I know he’s got his jeweled ring and purple robe. And he liked my rugala.” She dabbed at her eyes and handed back my handkerchief, rumpled and moist, and thanked me for it.
“Sama-sama.”
“How’s that again, Matthew?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking—”
“About who killed Dr. King?” asked Amy.
“No,” I said. “I know that.”
“Who?”
“We all did.”
Amy shot me a look, all irritation, as the throng labored with a cautious tread, one that said she couldn’t see herself as responsible. But I saw. I understood. We’d killed him — all of us, black and white — because we didn’t listen when he was alive, though this was, of course, the way of things: no prophet was accepted in his own country. Even before his death, we were looking for other, more “radical” black spokesmen. The Way of agapic love, with its bottomless demands, had proven too hard for this nation. Hatred and competition were easier. Exalting the ethnic ego proved far less challenging than King’s belief in the beloved community. We loved violence — verbal and physical — too dearly. Our collective spirit, the Geist of our era, had slain him as surely as the assassin’s bullet that cut him down. We were all Cainites. And deservedly cursed. Did we not kill the best in ourselves when we killed King? Wasn’t every murder a suicide as well?
All around us, the crowd of the apostates kept pace behind the wagon, concrescing. Walking on, the air now a bright shimmer, I believed in each of us there was a wound, an emptiness that would not be filled in our lifetime. But we could not stop if we wanted to, or go backward.
Amy pressed a little nearer to me, squeezing my hand. “What do you think he’d want us to do now?”
“Excuse me, keep moving forward. If we stop, we’ll fall and be trampled.”
“Matthew?”
“Eh?”
Her eyes swung up, searching my face. “What about Chaym? Where do you think he is?”
I dropped my gaze, watching my feet and those of the sinners in front of me. I thought hard. “Everywhere …”
That seemed to satisfy her, and she smiled as the crowd of the contrite rolled on like a piece of the sea, both of us but waves blending perfectly with its flow, our fingers interlaced, and perhaps she felt, as I did, that if the prophet King had shown us the depths of living possible for those who loved unconditionally in a less than just universe engraved with inequality, and that only the servants should lead, then Chaym had in his covert passage through our lives let us know that, if one missed the Galilean mark, even the pariahs, the fatherless exiles, might sometimes — and occasionally — doeth well.
Amen.
A SCRIBNER PAPERBACK FICTION READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION POINTS
Who is the real “dreamer” in this novel? Is it Dr. King, dreaming of a world filled with equality and racial harmony? Is it Matthew Bishop, dreaming of the day he will truly become his own man, an individual who shines in his own glory rather than hides in the shadow of others? Or is it Chaym Smith, dreaming of the day he will achieve greatness like Dr. King, yet remain true to his own beliefs?
A major turning point for Matthew is the moment he gives in to his anger at the diner, lashing out at the waitress for her racist behavior. He is exhilarated by his response, even though it goes against everything Dr. King stands for. Discuss other events in Matthews life that reflect Chaym’s influence. Is it wrong for Matthew to behave in this manner, or is it a necessary step he must take to come to terms with his own anger and disillusionment?
Discuss ways in which Chaym and Matthew mirror each other. Both are smart and insightful, but while one always tries to take “the high road,” the other is empowered by his refusal to accept the terms of others. Who ultimately emerges as the winner?
Many literary texts use the “doppelgänger” as a means to explore issues of good versus evil and nature versus nurture. How effectively does Johnson use this device to examine these and other issues? Compare his treatment to other books, such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein?.