Those of us living in Oxburg, Maryland have followed with great interest the erection, dedication and events surrounding the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial on the mall. We put up our memorial in 2001, a full ten years in advance of national trends. Actually, Vincenzo Panini, our local mafioso, and I put up the monument. One of my black buddies in the Army had informed me of the nice urn-and-eternal-flame monument erected in his Alabama hometown in honor of the Reverend Dr. King. Once planted, this seed took root. Lacking a ready network of contacts, I canvassed the PTA, the Town Council, the Better Business Bureau, the Oxburg Homeowners Association and even the Federated Oxburg Retailers Organization for help in launching a monument. No takers. Initially enthusiastic and intrigued, these stalwart assemblies each ran headlong into the political squeamishness of their members. Everyone agreed that a bright, shiny metropolis of democracy like ours should exhibit an ode to racial equality, yet no one group wished to be singled out as in the forefront.
The only person unsullied by any such scruples was Vinnie Panini. “Wassa problem?” he groused. “Ya wanna putta up a statue, we raise-a the money and putta up these monument.”
“They don’t want to be Politically Incorrect.”
“’ do’ na! “
Taking our cue from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, we accumulated construction funds through private fundraising drives, only petitioning the town for the actual plot of land to put it on. Relieved that they weren’t being called upon to spearhead the project, the Town Council readily coughed up a 4-foot by 6-foot rectangle right in the middle of the Towne Center Shopping Plaza.
Great location! A paved, mauve walkway already in place, there were shops aplenty attracting customers, the hustle and bustle of traffic on the surrounding streets, and superb lighting to discourage vandalism or neglect.
I love the work of Chinese sculptor Lei Yixin from Changsha in Hunan province, but our likeness required a weight (less than a ton), height (four feet) and cost ($250,000) commiserate with the shopping center. Anything too large or ostentatious could awaken the ire of the shop owners, who much preferred their storefront window displays to be the center of attention, not some dime store wooden indian depicting a last-century civil rights crusader known to have visited Oxburg only a single time in his entire life!
“This is a very small suburb,” I pleaded with the retailers. “I mean, thank God that King and his entourage stopped here for gas and Cokes one day in 1962. I still feel we should spring for a memorial.”
“Fine,” Milicent Palmer of Palmer Drugs agreed, “just put it over by the United Auto Service Center. That’s where they got their gas and Cokes.”
See, even my supporters weren’t exactly helpful. For starters, we have no bones to pick with the blacks living in Oxburg, whether they live on The Palisades or in the Clearwater neighborhood. These are families who can trace their presence back generations to slaves and freed men from both sides of the North-South divide. The very farmland used to build the Town of Oxburg came from their holdings. Even the Dipple family, whose house occasions the only S-curve in The 1812 Highway, is viewed with humorous condescension, but no true animosity. If they want the constant roar of traffic and the stink of auto exhaust in their front yard, the choice is theirs. No entreaties could get them to move, not even the offer to relocate them and their house to 20 acres and a mule outside of town.
We have no ambivalence toward the black community. Color isn’t an issue. The progressive, well-intentioned whites of our town are as oblivious of the blacks as they are of one another.
Vincenzo and I commissioned local artist Tom de Witte to do a portrait likeness of King in bronze, 80% lifesize.
“Why not 100%?” asked de Witte. “The cost is basically the same.”
“Naw,” I explained, “a 100% lifesize bronze King would feel kind of creepy, like those wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s. We don’t want it to seem like a parody.”
“I’m glad you told me that,” Tom exclaimed. “I thought you wanted a caricature. You want an actual photo likeness of Martin Luther King. “
“Definitely.”
“Jus’ make him looka good,” rumbled Vincenzo threateningly, ever observant of the niceties of negotiation.
“Uh, Vinnie, relax,” I admonished him. “This is a friendly discussion.”
“Sure! Jus’ so he make-a him looka good.”
Tom de Witte assured us he would.
Unlike the later, national monument, we didn’t fall into the trap of some lamebrain quote. On the side of our gray marble base, we had Jimmy the stonecutter simply inscribe, “I Have a Dream!”
I understand that if the whole Martin Luther King thing on the mall doesn’t work out, aides to President Obama have expressed a willingness to have the block containing the head switched… to one resembling the president. Talk about “thinking outside the box”!
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The events of 9/11 overshadowed public attention, but on December 18th in the year of Our Lord 2001, we held an unveiling.
We invited President George W. Bush, of course, knowing full well that he wouldn’t come. We were shooting for Cheney or, if not him—in his green parka— at least Scooter Libby. Instead, an off-duty Secret Service black guy in a suit and an official of the Congressional Black Caucus both attended. From their grim inspection, it felt like they were there principally to ensure that we not make a mockery of King or his legacy.
The ridiculously warm weather did have one effect, bringing a flock of seagulls wheeling down out of the sky to join us. Cawing noisily, they perched and defecated on our shiny new sculpture, giving Martin an interestingly mottled pate. Annoyed, we attendees took turns waving our printed programs at the birds to shoo them away.
Thus, it seemed only fitting that bird-like, little Margaret “Maggie” Dipple, 94 years young, black as coal, gnarled as winter bark, dressed in a moth-eaten wool coat, should speak for the community. Croaking in a palsied voice, she announced: “T-T-T-Today, w-w-w-we c-c-c-celebrate the m-m-m-memory of ah-ah-ah-our bro-bro-brother M-M-Martin Luther K-King.” Overcome by emotion, unable to continue, swaying dramatically on her cane, she looked about to collapse. Several of us rushed forward, helping her to a seat on a nearby park bench.
“Well,” Tom de Witte suggested, passing me the typed speech from Maggie’s trembling fingers, “it’s your idea. Why don’t you finish the eulogy?”
So I did. “People will little remark nor long remember the words we say here today…”
Boy, we sure got that right!
“Never-the-less, this convocation celebrates our fond memories of, and the achievements of, a pillar of the black community, a man who was a symbol of all that is good and great in America.
“Thank you!”
Kind of a mixed metaphor, the Oxburg High School Marching Band then played a medley of songs from Alexander’s Ragtime Band while homecoming queen and winner of the Miss Oxburg 2001 title, blond Suzie Melnick with her tiny upturned nose, huge blue eyes, round chin and absurdly chunky body, broke a bottle of champagne against the base of the bronze statue. As if launching a ship. “I hereby declare you,” she lisped seductively, shouting to be heard over the tinny cacophony of her classmates in the band, “the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial.”
A smattering of applause.
That evening, well after dark, some boys in the local chapter of Sons of the Confederacy burned a cross on the grass verge a few feet from the statue. A county cop driving by in his cruiser stopped, got out and watched, but since there was no negative reaction from the community at large, no charges were filed.
“Junior,” “Shorty” and “Midget Martin” are the most common references to the statue. Once a month, it has fallen to my lot to hose down both statue and base and then polish them with a bucket of rags. Otherwise, it’s just part of the shopping center, our very own Martin Luther King Memorial.
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