“I guess I could use some of this time to get into pleasantries,” Belafonte begins, “to talk about the many experiences I’ve had with you not only here but in Europe and other places.” This, it’s clear as he pauses to raise his head, isn’t what he wants to do. “What do you have in store for us this summer?” Now King joins in the crowd’s nervy laughter: the summer of 1968, everyone seems to sense, is going to be a doozy. And America’s foremost activist for justice is glad to explain, by way of a capsule history of the past few years in American life, what he’s focusing on now.
King says that the passage of the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts were great victories. But they’ve done little, in the three years since the latter’s passage, to undo inequalities built over centuries. And redressing such ills will require more than confronting prejudice. “I feel,” he intones, “that we are in the midst of a most critical period in our nation. And the economic problem is probably the most serious problem confronting the Negro community, and poor people generally.” King insists that America’s inability to battle poverty at home can’t be disconnected from its waging immoral wars abroad. He has a sound bite ready: “The fact is we spend approximately five hundred thousand dollars to kill each Vietcong soldier while we spend only about fifty-three dollars a year for every person characterized as poverty stricken.” And he has a plan. He wants to use the same methods he used to advocate for civil rights for Black Americans to confront more far-reaching ills: “I think the time has come to bring to bear the nonviolent direct action movement on the economic conditions that we face all over the country.”
Now the studio audience is silent; these aren’t joking matters. But one can sense, in the crowd’s silence, something more. Liberal Americans are accustomed to looking at King with the admiring respect signaled by Paul Newman as he concentrates, from the couch, on King’s words. But backing eloquent calls for equality and fairness was one thing. Questioning capitalism is another. In the crowd’s silence, and in King’s tired look as he tries to explain why it’s necessary to do so, one can sense how beleaguered he feels. In his life’s final year, he’s trying to use the moral platform he’s built to train his admirers’ eyes on a broader and more radical movement for justice. And Harry’s next question, one can tell from his friend’s face, is unexpected.
“Do you fear for your life?”
Martin pauses, shoots Harry a look. Then collects himself. “We have lived with this a number of years now. Since we started out in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1956, I had to deal with this problem because if I moved around worrying about it, it would completely immobilize me.” He’s speaking softly, but his words echo sentiments to which he’ll soon give voice in a famous speech. “And so I’ve come to the point where I take this whole matter very philosophically. I’m more concerned about doing something for humanity, and what I consider the will of God, than about longevity. Ultimately, it isn’t so important how long you live, the important thing is how well you live.”
