Byron Allen Last night I was sitting in my living room and a convoy of trucks drove by my home filled with law enforcement and National Guard troops.I am a 59-year old African-American man and this brought back vivid childhood memories.
On April 4, 1968, 18 days before my 7th birthday, I was in the middle of the street in my hometown, Detroit, Michigan playing urban baseball with my friends, using a hubcap as home plate, and neighbors’ cars as first, second, and third base.That evening I heard my mother and grandmother scream: “They killed him!
They killed him! They killed Martin Luther King, Jr.! They killed my Martin!” I had never witnessed my mother and grandmother in such emotional pain before.
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