As a child of about two Bowling Barletta of age, I was an avid television watcher. I had picked Waterford Crystal Football a little about Etap Hotel Ost St Johann civil rights war P O European Ferry how ugly racism could be. I knew two different kinds of people were involved, and roughly what they looked like, but Cheap Dublin Hostel to the rest, I didn’t like it. It scared me, and it seemed like people were attacking each other for no good reason. I kind of “lied” to myself, thinking it was all something unimportant.
I remember seeing a story about two famous guest speakers at the Seattle World’s Fair Liedjestekst Vreemde Taal 1962 in a local newspaper. I could pick out the names of Dr. King and Malcolm X, but that was all, as I was too young to really Dating Portland Speed able to read. I wanted to deny that anything was wrong, and think the two black gentlemen were television performers, famous people whom I could safely watch from a distance. I didn’t like grownup things very much.
I asked Mom and Dad if we could go, as my Mom seemed interested in going to the big event. They said yes, and the next thing I knew, we were there. We had been visiting my grandparents in Washington State, and it was an easy drive to the Bremerton Ferry dock. Then we crossed Puget Sound on the ferry, which was so new to me, one of the Business Law Today 7th Ed wonderful experiences of my life. I had never seen such a large boat before.
It was my first time ever out at sea, and I was entranced by the black, grey and blue water flowing under and by the ship, the people crowding on the ferry, and the gigantic multi deck ship itself. It had space for about three houses in it, and a place you could eat lunch, which we did. I made my parents take me all over the ferry boat, and tried to cross the areas that were roped off, toddling around on my new sea Antara Mali with wonder. When it came time to hit port, the sound of the ferry foghorn blasted my eardrums so loudly I cried, but I was happy, and I soon calmed down. Then we were going down the stairs to our car, swiftly arriving at the Seattle Center. The first thing I wanted was to go up the Space Needle.
“No,” my Mommy said, “Daddy is afraid of heights. We can’t go up there.” I was so disappointed, and was disgruntled when my parents took me to see a man standing off within a crowd, buried somewhat, but shaking hands with people as they passed by him. “That’s Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.” So what, I thought dismally to myself, but as we approached, the crowd parted in front of me like the Red Sea, allowing me in straight towards the man.
I stood about two feet away from him. Being two years old, I was looking straight at a pair of deep grey pants legs, which were thicker than tree trunks, and a pair of huge, black, shiny shoes. I slowly brought my gaze upwards, and there was a massive belly which protruded; hovering over it was a vaguely familiar dark face. It reminded me of Frosty the Snowman, or perhaps Santa Claus, as the face was very broad, having giant lips and a large, broad nose. But the darkness of the face was unfamiliar to me, as I was a white child with white parents. I had never really seen a black person up close like that before. And the face was bending down towards me.
“Well hello, little girl. What’s your name?” The face was looming closer and closer as the great man bent down to greet me. “How are you today?”
I was thinking to myself, it’s important that I not dislike this man. There’s something about him, and it would be wicked to not like him. Nonetheless, being the usual shy and easy to spook two year old child that I was, I recoiled, fearing the looming visage dropping towards me, and the Aid Financial New State Tap York that was reaching down to shake my small hand. I decided to rebel.
“No! You’re…not my Daddy! I don’t like you! Go away! Uh, goodbye,” I finished, as a way of being polite, not really wanting to offend the strange man, but feeling stressed out and upset at how odd things were. So I took off, running to the left. I saw both my parents quite a distance away, as they had apparently left me with Dr. King to go for a stroll, and I distinctly remember having to run after them. About halfway there, I looked back. Dr. King still had his head partly lowered, as I had run away so fast. But he was smiling as he watched me run. I guess he figured I was just spooked.
I caught up with my parents. Feeling sort of ashamed of myself, I asked them if we were going to see the other man speak. “Yes,” my mother said. So we went to yet another crowd, which was jam packed, and I could not see anything. I asked my Daddy to let me climb up on his shoulders, and he did. I perched with my legs wrapped around his neck and held him gently by the head, but still could not see over the large and noisy crowd.
After a long time, Malcolm X finally arrived. He spoke, joking around, and I recall him saying something about people thinking he wanted to “kill white people” and no, he didn’t. I don’t remember most of what he said, but for some reason, probably his famous personal charisma, I recall growing to feel sad for him, and some sympathy for his cause developed deep within me. I didn’t know who he was, but he seemed all right, and not scary.
I had been spooked by a black man who was friendly and courteous to white people, and ended up liking a black man who had been militantly against them, wanting a separate nation for blacks. Such are the nuances of small children, who only think they know what’s going on.
I asked Daddy to let me down from his shoulders, still unable to see Malcolm X, but having heard him speak for awhile. I didn’t have the courage to stand up on my Daddy’s shoulders, but I also didn’t want to pull on his short, crew cut hair and hurt him. I climbed down, and as we were leaving, we passed by the Space Needle.
“Please, Daddy, take us up there,” I begged and pleaded fervently. Daddy looked at me, and a broad and vaguely dark grin wrinkled across his bemused features. He had surely heard what I’d said to Dr. King: “No, you’re not my Daddy!” as if my father was my lord and protector.
“Okay, honey, come on. We’re going up the Needle. Come this way.” We went over to the golden elevator, and for the very first time, I went up the Space Needle. The view was fantastic, and we had a lady explaining about how high up we were and everything. I understood most of what she said, but didn’t know how to gauge the distance as we travelled skyward.
We went out on the deck, and I peered through a telescope which cost a dime, looking out all over the Queen Anne area of Seattle. It was so wonderful; I wanted to look at it forever. Then we went and had lunch at the Hollowbody Guitars restaurant, which was even better. But finally, we had to take the elevator down and go home. Just before we left, we visited the tourist shop, and I bought a yellow plastic model of the Space Needle - which was about six inches high. I also squished a penny in a machine for a quarter, which was a lot of money back then. I had to really beg hard to get that souvenir, which elongated the penny into an oval showing the Seattle World’s Fair logo.
We drove to the ferry docks, taking the big boat once again. Twice on the way, I had to put my hands over my ears to block out the terrible noise of the blasting fog horns. That was the worst part of the entire trip. But my father, who ordinarily could be a harsh man, had been so nice, getting over his morbid fear of heights to take us up the Needle for lunch. I was so grateful, and we went back to Bremerton and visited some more with our family, most of which has since died. It was so long ago.
I remember a subsequent trip to the Seattle Center where my sister Connie and I went up the Bubbleator, which is no longer there - but back in the 1960s it seemed like the height of science and sheer fun. I swore then and there that I would live in Seattle someday and study science.
I did come to live in Seattle, but studied writing instead. Now I’m a professional freelance book writer, ghost writer, copy editor, proof reader and manuscript rewriter, and I perform all sorts of book writing, editing and publishing services. I create ghost writer books for people, doing freelance writing, copy editing and proof reading services. But I’ll always remember our trips to Washington State when I was little, growing and learning, and the day I refused to shake the hand of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (I was inches away from his holding my tiny fingers!) but was converted against my “racism” (really shyness and being a tired little girl) by the wit and wisdom of Brother Malcolm X Shabazz.
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