MLK Drive
In the wake of a joyous Easter, is it possible to feel sadness and joy at the same time? I say yes, because of how I felt April 4 celebrating one of my favorite holidays. Sadness, recalling April 4 ended the lives of my mother, Juanita Carter, and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. And joy, recalling Milwaukee-based Easters in New York.
On April 4, 1992, Mrs. Carter died at 79 of natural causes, in Milwaukee, the city of her birth. When it happened, I was overwhelmed that Dr. King—my greatest hero and the greatest man of the 20th century—had died at 39 by assassination in Memphis, on the same date in 1968.
And this Easter holiday week—so many years later—thoughts of these two remarkable human beings who sadly share April 4, still linger in my memory. Each brought joy and sadness to my life.
More years ago than I care to recall—as my mother was ready to give birth to her first child—she was taken to a Catholic hospital in a racially mixed neighborhood on the Near North Side of Milwaukee. But there was a problem. She was a black woman.
“We don’t allow colored mothers here,” she and her worried husband were told. My brown-skinned mother was a Catholic, and my father, Sanford Carter—a distinguished, tall man—was a dark-skinned former star in the Negro baseball leagues. She ended up having her baby (this writer) in a second-floor bedroom a few blocks away at her own mother’s home, at 117 W. Vine Street.
This great lady and model mother went on to make her mark in the Order of the Eastern Star. And she glowed with pride when her daughter—my sister—was accepted into the Milwaukee Police Department and her grandson—my son—served in the nuclear navy.
Mrs. Carter was happily married to my late father for 58 years. But I had three wives -- the first of whom was the mother of my four children, including Sherry Carter, formerly of Black Entertainment Television. Yet, my mother gave each of my wives unrequited loyalty, reasoning that if I loved the women, it was good enough for her.
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Civil Rights Days
In the long, hot summer of 1967, Mrs. Carter survived the bombing of the Milwaukee NAACP office on West Center Street where she worked for Judge Clarence Parrish as its first paid secretary. She also spent election days and nights employed at polling places and helped her night-working husband succeed in business as he tried, but failed, in politics.
My mother also was tirelessly involved in her grassroots support for the Rev. Jesse Jackson, as he forged ahead in politics. Years earlier, she had done likewise for my father when he lost a close race for alderman in Milwaukee’s heavily black Sixth Ward.
Of course, Dr. King never lost at anything of importance. Not really. And on this April 4, many of my most cherished memories of him were personal—especially his visit here to address a fund-raising rally for his Southern Christian Leadership Conference.
It was Jan. 28, 1964—the first of our two meetings —with The Milwaukee Star staff at Downtown’s storied old Schroeder Hotel, at Fifth and Wisconsin. That evening, as associate editor of The Star, co-workers and I met Dr. King’s plane at Mitchell Field and were part of an airport news conference with black police detectives Dewey Russ and Leroy Jones providing security.
After traveling in separate cars to the Schroeder, we crowded onto a couch in a VIP suite with Dr. King and I seated side-by-side. These moments were captured by a staff photographer in a historic photo with him holding a copy of The Star that appeared prominently in our newspaper, other black papers around America and, later, in The Milwaukee Journal.
My second interview of Dr. King was in 1967, as a reporter with the Cleveland Plain Dealer. To my surprise and delight, he recalled meeting me in Milwaukee, and our widely published photo which helped recognize the vitality of the black news media. Finally, there was my joy this Easter Sunday in recalling being photographed in 1978 with my wife, Janice, by a former Milwaukee news colleague, as we walked up New York’s Fifth Avenue in the famous Easter Parade. To my astonishment, Associated Press photographer Paul Scruggs appeared, recognized me, and took our picture, which I still cherish.
Equally joyful this week was recalling my Easter reunion in New York in 1982 with my boyhood pal, Milwaukee’s celebrated Al Jarreau crossing Seventh Avenue on my way to the Carnegie Hall Tavern for a holiday lunch with a lady friend.
Focusing on my attentive date, I suddenly heard a familiar voice yell “Dickie Carter.” Startled, I looked up and, as we approached each other, recognized a grinning Jarreau, accompanied by a male confidante. We immediately embraced—as if the intervening years had never taken place—and had Easter lunch together.
This year, and every Easter, I recall this joyful encounter with my late Milwaukee friend and schoolmate, just as I recall the sadness of April 4 for my mother, and Dr. King. It’s noteworthy how memories of special people and special places often seem to return on special holidays, as they did for me this Easter week.
