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 is a small city, so it wasn’t hard to get around, and many of the monuments and historical sites I was curious about were within walking distance of the café. My first stop was the Court Square Fountain, which was in Montgomery’s historical district. According to the locals, the area around the fountain was once the location of the city’s bustling slave trade. A historic plaque standing near the fountain reads: “Slaves of all ages were auctioned, along with land and livestock, standing in line to be inspected. In the 1850s, able field hands brought $1,500; skilled artisans $3,000.” As a black man who had always been free to make my own choices—about where to live, what work to do, who to love, and everything else—it was mindboggling to know that in that very place, men, women, and children were bargained over and sold to the highest bidder, like furniture or vegetables, with no regard for their lives as human beings, simply because of the color of their skin.
After leaving the Court Square Fountain, I walked about six blocks down Dexter Avenue to Bainbridge Street, and then to the large white steps in front of the Alabama State Capitol. This imposing building is where legislators from all over Alabama have convened for more than 150 years to create laws and govern, even before the days of the American Civil War. During the war, in fact, the building served as the first capital of the Confederate States of America.
Ironically, also on Dexter Avenue—just a block from the first capital of a government dedicated to the oppression of black people through slavery—stands the Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church, where King delivered his Sunday sermons during the six years he lived in Montgomery. This was where he developed his skill in mesmerizing listeners with his words. The church, as I walked by it, looked immaculate, as if King might still be inside, lifting minds and hearts toward God and freedom. Montgomery was like one huge virtual museum filled with timeless monuments to the past.
Later that morning, I arrived at Nelson’s house on Wabash Street for my second round of Civil Rights Movement 101. As my Uber driver pulled up in front of Nelson’s two-story house, I couldn’t help but notice that he had the largest home, by far, on the block. His house towered over the others, suggesting to me that the Maldens were standouts and important figures in the community. The quiet, well-manicured neighborhood was mostly filled with single-family ranch homes that lined the streets. There was a car in every driveway, a dog in every yard, and a welcome mat on every doorstop.
“Good afternoon, my friend!” Nelson welcomed me joyfully as he opened the large, solid wooden front door of his home.
As I walked through the living room and then through the kitchen, I was stopped by the smell of freshly baked biscuits. I was reminded of the exquisite baking of my grandmother, who was originally from South Carolina. Cooking, baking, and incredible food are signatures of Southern culture. It’s the great common denominator that connects people from different walks of life.
“Are you hungry? I can throw some fish on the stove real fast.”
“I’ve been eating all morning.”
“Come on. It will be lunchtime soon, and it’ll only take a few minutes. I have some Alabama catfish here and some fresh green beans.”
There was no way I could say no to the hospitality of my host and elder. There’s something indescribable about the welcoming feeling you get in the South that only a traveler there can fully appreciate.
As I sat in Nelson’s study eating Alabama catfish smothered in garlic and golden butter, along with the best green beans I’ve ever had, he began reminiscing for me again. I already knew that Nelson wasn’t just a casual observer of the civil rights movement, but I now began to understand how deep his involvement was. I also learned more about his relationship with King. It was no simple barber–client relationship.
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Michael Martin King Jr. was born on January 15, 1929, in Atlanta, Georgia, to Baptist minister Michael King Sr. and Alberta Williams King, who was a schoolteacher. Young Michael’s father was so inspired by the German Protestant religious leader Martin Luther that he adopted the same name and became Martin Luther King Sr.; his son’s name was also changed to Martin.
Martin was destined to be a leader and fight for the rights of others. The elder King was an important voice for civil rights in Georgia and became the head of the Atlanta chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). He played a crucial role in helping to rid the state of Georgia of its oppressive Jim Crow laws, which was a priority for the NAACP. Martin Luther King Sr. was also the longtime pastor of the prominent Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, where he delivered his sermons to parishioners for decades, until his death in 1984.
Nelson knew there was something special about Martin from the first time he met the reverend. After hearing him preach at Dexter Avenue Baptist, the young barber believed that someday Rev. King would be a powerful voice in America. Over the years, they grew very fond of each other and considered
