A Dream Deferred
When I was eight years old in 3rd grade, I was asked to read Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech in front of the two neighboring elementary schools, the Monday following his death. Looking back at this event, I understand more fully the level of sorrow and loss that my community in St. Louis, Missouri felt that day upon learning King had been assassinated.
by Gail Thornton Borkowski
The Dream A Shot Deferred (A Radio Production)
Narrator: It was April 3, 1968. My 3rd grade classmates and I were buzzing with anticipation for our Spring Festival performance. The two elementary schools, Hamilton Branch No. 3 and 4, in the heart of St. Louis, Missouri, had created a variety of performances for parents and teachers. It was a celebration we all looked forward to. My class had spent the last month practicing.
Narrator: Our class had created a matador themed story, complete with sock puppets and a cha-cha line dance, choreographed by our young teacher. I was the narrator and I was excited, unlike my last public reading as a kindergartener, when I feared that God would strike me down for reading about holly & mistletoe in a Catholic church. I was taught that only members of my small, inner-city, Pentecostal church would make it to heaven, and I just knew this blasphemous reading in a Catholic church was surely my ticket to hell. Surviving until 3rd grade, I was hopeful that having dodged that bolt of lightning, God was okay with me reading in public. More importantly, so was my mother.
Narrator: I was born to a mother, left single. She was a domestic worker living in poverty. One of the unnoticed, a mere statistic on the welfare roll. Faithful to God, her church and doing her best to raise a teenager and two young children.
Narrator: She was strong, educated in life, not a classroom, and struggling to survive. Her political acumen consisted of reading every magazine she could get her hands on. And even when given the power to vote, she chose to pray for those leading the nation. Bittersweet to those of us who came to understand the power of voting and the memory of those who died in the struggle for one person, one vote.
Narrator: As an 8-year-old, my world consisted of the 10 or so blocks that made up my inner-city neighborhood. The people, shabby like the sidewalks and alleys strewn with broken glass and dry dirt, existed like the dead grass that never seemed to have a chance to grow even in spring when the sun would shine.
Narrator: There was the church, the laundromat, the five & dime, the butcher shop, the Velvet Freeze ice cream shop, and school. Aside fromchurch, school was the anchor in my neighborhood. School was the other place of order and discipline and occasionally creativity.
Narrator: Wednesday, April 3, 1968, harsh light blocked my view of the parents and teachers in the auditorium. But, I read my heart out at that microphone, telling the story of the matador that fought the bull and won. I joined my classmates on the dance floor and cha-cha’d to rousing applause as we ended our presentation. It was a thrill to hear the praise of parents and teachers for my reading. Our class celebrated the next day with an impromptu party, hosted by our teacher. She was young compared to other teachers. Maybe in her 20s or 30s. She was brown, beautiful and shared her passion for experiential learning with a room full of eager, little Black boys and girls.
Narrator: Friday, April 5th 1968, I walked into my 3rd grade classroom to see my teacher, head-down on her desk with a radio turned on next to her head. She sobbed
Narrator: Most of my classmates, like me, were confused and scared.
Why was our teacher crying? Why did she have a radio on in class? She (teacher’s name forgotten) eventually told us, through choking tear
