If two clients were in the barbershop that Nelson thought would benefit from knowing each other, he always made sure to make an introduction, but sometimes it didn’t go smoothly.
Here in the barbershop, we often had debates and discussions about whichever current events were in the news at the time—religion, race, sports, you name it! One of the best debates that I can recall was between Reverend King and a client of mine who was a sociology professor and the head of the sociology department at the Hampton Institute [a major institution for black higher education at the time]. He had relatives living down in south Alabama whom he would visit, but he’d stop in Montgomery to get his hair cut. He was a bona fide intellectual from head to toe. One day he came into the barbershop at a time when I had just finished cutting Reverend King’s hair. Reverend King was an intellectual as well, and he had a bachelor’s of science in sociology from Morehouse, so I thought it would be nice to introduce him to the professor. The professor was already familiar with Martin because by then he was well on his way to becoming a world-renowned leader.
I don’t remember how the topic came up, but I do remember when Reverend King said to the professor, “Morality is one of the strongest forces in the American family today.”
The sociology professor from the Hampton Institute disagreed with the reverend and said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe that economics is the strongest force in the American family.” He went on to say, “When the European white men came to this country, one of the first things they did was to build some of the top universities in the New England area to educate themselves. When they got oranges in Florida, sugar cane in Louisiana, oil in Texas, grapes in California, and tobacco in Virginia, they built Wall Street to control the capital, and then they built West Point to defend it.” He said, “That is the United States of America.”
Reverend King said, “Have a good day, sir.”
I think that was one of the only times when the reverend didn’t win an intellectual discussion in the barbershop. He knew how to debate well, but he also knew how to have a conversation with the common man. King’s unique oratory skills were never intended to place himself above the people, but he used that communication skill to submerge himself in the community, where the people who mattered most to him were the common man.
I asked Nelson if King was always working on civil rights matters and he explained that King was a workaholic and travelled often, so he spent a lot of his downtime with his family. He often conducted meetings in the basement of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. The church building sometimes functioned as a headquarters where he brainstormed with others involved in the leadership of the movement and conducted the business of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC).
One of the things Nelson said he appreciated about the reverend was that money was never more important to him than the people he served. One Saturday night when Nelson was cutting his hair, King had his briefcase with him, which was filled with letters from people from all over the country. Several of the letters contained money from his supporters, donations to support his civil rights work. Some people would send him checks, but others, mainly elderly people, would send him cash. While King was sitting in his barber chair, Nelson watched as he read the letters. According to Nelson, he read each one from beginning to end, as Nelson peeked over his shoulder to see what people were writing about. “He would casually drop the money and checks down into the briefcase on the floor next to the barber chair as he read, never paying much attention to where they landed. He was more interested in what the people were saying in the letters. From my understanding, he took the time to reply to as many as he could.”
“Did King always sit in the same chair when he came to get a haircut?” I asked.
“Yes,” Nelson affirmed. “Every time he got his hair cut here, he would only sit in my chair.”
“What are some of the other memories you have of him coming here?”
“Well, there are many of them. Martin could be hilarious when he wanted to be. He had a close friend who he would meet here sometimes named Gilbert Klein, and they would always tell jokes and tease each other. I remember the time Martin told this one joke that I knew was a little out of line.”
When Gilbert Klein said to Reverend King, “Tell me a joke,” almost everybody in the barbershop turned to listen. They knew that even though the reverend was a serious guy on most days, he still had a funny side to him.
So he began telling a joke about a white man who hired this black man to chauffeur him around because both of his legs were amputated. One Sunday morning, they went to church together. The white man wanted to sit in the front of the church, so the black man pushed his wheelchair up to the front of the chapel. The black man sat outside while the service was being conducted, listening from outside, and he believed that the pastor preached a good sermon. So, when the church opened the doors for nonmembers to join, the black man walked up to the altar. The church pastor knew that he couldn’t allow the black man to join the church, because the church was all white and he didn’t want to upset any of the white members there. So, the pastor whispered in the black man’s ear, saying, “You go home and talk to Jesus and come back another time.”
A few weeks later, the black man escorted the white man back to the church service again. And again, close to the end of the church service, the pastor opened the doors of the church for nonmembers to join. The black man walked up to the altar, where the pastor was standing, and the pastor asked the black man, “What did Jesus say to you?” The black man responded, “Jesus said to tell you that you’re a no-good pastor,” and he walked out.
At eighty-four years old, Nelson still had a good sense of humor.
2: Martin
The next morning, I woke up surprisingly rested, and then I remembered that Alabama is in the Central Time Zone, which is an hour behind the East Coast. I had unwittingly gained an extra hour of sleep. As I gathered my thoughts, sunlight was peeking through the window and I could hear birds chirping outside. Eight hours of deep sleep was exactly what I had needed to refuel, and now I was ready to go. I went downstairs to the hotel restaurant to check out the complimentary continental breakfast. The smell of the freshly baked croissants was radiant. I helped myself to some, and soon I was ready to explore the city of Montgomery.
As I headed out, it hit me that before leaving Baltimore, a friend of mine familiar with Montgomery had recommended that I stop by a popular eating house on McDonough Street named the Farmers Market Café, which had been operated by the same family since 1959. My friend said that they had the best golden French toast in Alabama. I’d already eaten, but how could I not stop by for a quick taste? One bite in, I had to agree that my friend was right that they were delicious. And then it happened: One bite of their golden French toast rapidly led to my chowing down on a host of mouthwatering breakfast delicacies. I couldn’t stop; it was like trying to put the cookies back into the cookie jar. But just as the sweet pastries left my mouth watering, I found there was also a scorching fire in my belly. I couldn’t help wondering: was the café segregated in the days when it was illegal for a black person to sit down in a white-owned establishment in the South simply to have breakfast in the morning?
After leaving the Farmers Market Café, I headed into the city to play tourist for a few hours until it was time to meet up with Nelson again. I wanted to walk through Montgomery in the morning hours while everything was still quiet, to taste the soul of the city. I wanted to hear the city’s heartbeat before its streets were filled with busy locals going about their day. I wanted to listen to the cobblestone streets for evidence of their vibrant past.
Montgomery