Josh Crandell is in the 9th grade at St. Louis Park High School. He has been on the swim team for eight years and recently began debate team. Because of his dad’s work, his family has traveled to Japan, Hong Kong, Western Europe, and Alaska. He likes playing guitar, going on really long bike rides, hiking, reading and of course hanging out with friends. He did door-to-door canvassing for the 2004 election, phone banking for the 2006 election, and is nervously awaiting the results of this presidential race. Josh won a Keren Or prize last year for his poem, “In The Water.”
Prose, Grades 7 - 9: Third Place
The Day Martin Luther King Died - Josh Crandell
“What time is it Clarence?” shouted Sebastian over the deafening music.
Looking down at my watch I shouted, “Go get Edward fast! I’ll find Charlotte and Annie!”
“Cool.”
I weaved my way through the dance floor until I found Charlotte and Annie. “I found Ed, we gotta go!” exclaimed Sebastian running by. Together, we all stepped out of the club to go home. The ear piercing music silenced at once.
“Okay, how do we get home? I gotta get home before my parents or they’ll kill me for going out.”
“I’ll go hail a taxi.” I called. As if on cue, a taxi pulled up in front of us.
“To Carmel,” I murmured, not looking up. I jumped into the front seat while Ed, Charlotte, and Annie climbed into the back.
“Oh my God, Ed,” I said, continuing a conversation from inside the club, “I can’t believe you actually said that to the Headmaster!”
“Well he had it coming, ya know? Plus, what’s he gonna do, expel me? My family basically founded the school!”
“What the heck is that?” I grouched, turning my head to the taxi driver. The speakers blasted the sound of Black music. I rapidly pushed the off button.
“We don’t want to hear your music!” The driver, a plump, middle aged Black man slowly turned his head toward me. He didn’t speak; he just looked at me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I growled at him. He simply turned the music back on, perhaps a bit louder.
“What the heck!” I yelled, my face igniting like fire. I slammed the dashboard with my fist. He continued to drive.
“Take a left at the next corner,” said Annabel, much sweeter than I would have said. At the next corner, our driver careened swiftly to the right.
“Left!” we shouted in unison. But our driver drove on silently, pretending not to hear our shouting. Then, abruptly, he slammed on his brakes and motioned for us to get out.
“We’re not gonna get out in the ghetto” I told him. We were in the worst part of Indianapolis. “Take us to where we wanted to go!” He motioned for us to get out again.
“It’s fine,” said Charlotte. “Let’s just go.” I stepped out of the car scowling at him, the street light briefly illuminated the cross he wore around his neck. I slammed the door.
We stood there all alone in the night. The buildings around us were crumbling like an old science project. The midnight wind whisked trash all around, emitting foul smells.
“How are we going to get home?” asked a frightened Charlotte. No taxi driver in their right mind would venture into this section of Indianapolis, I thought.
“Let’s see if we can find a bus,” I said. With that, we began walking slowly up the street, hoping to find a bus stop that would take us out of here. But, as we walked up the seemingly unending street, we didn’t see anyone but an old man crying. We walked silently for roughly forty-five minutes when Ed let out a huge groan.
“Let’s just keep walking one more block,” I persisted, sensing his frustration and feeling the same way myself. There had to be a bus stop eventually…how could there not be? We continued walking.
“What’s that?” The sound of an engine broke the night’s silence. It continued to get louder and louder until it was roaring right behind us.
We turned our heads suddenly to witness the sight of a large black limo racing past us. Curious, we followed.
Less than a block away, we practically ran into hundreds of people. It was absolutely staggering – going from the vacant streets to this crowd of people so abruptly. We looked at each other, knowing how much we stood out – we were White and they were all Black.
Right away, a young man stepped out of the limo onto the makeshift stage placed in front of the crowd. I recognized him immediately as Robert Kennedy, the presidential candidate my father called the “rich jackass.” My father had been working day and night for Richard Nixon, and we proudly displayed a Nixon sign in our yard.
“Ladies and gentleman,” began Kennedy in his thick Massachusetts accent. People clapped their hands and cheered, waved signs and chanted his name.
“I’m only going to talk to you just for a minute or so this evening because I have some really sad news for all of you.” He began in a solemn voice.
“Could you lower those signs please?” he continued.
“I have bad news for you, for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world, and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and killed tonight.”
Piercing screams rang out from the crowd. People wept, clutching their hearts as if a part of them was gone. A kid, about our age, standing right next to me began to faint.
Reflexively, I reached out and caught him just in time. “Oh my God,” He cried onto my shoulder,
“Oh my Lord!”
I didn’t know what to do. I patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said uneasily.
“Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice for his fellow human beings, and he died because of that effort,” continued Kennedy.
“In this difficult day, in this difficult time for the United States, it is perhaps well to ask what kind of a nation we are and what direction we want to move in.… We can move in that direction as a country, in great polarization – Black people amongst Black, White people amongst White, filled with hatred toward one another.” I stared at the person still in my arms, crying.
“Or we can make an effort, as Martin Luther King did, to understand and to comprehend, and to replace that violence, that stain of bloodshed that has spread across our land, with an effort to understand with compassion and love.”
I stared up at Kennedy. My family hated him and Martin Luther King too. I’m not sure why but I was even less sure why I hated them. I looked around and saw people just like me. I saw a couple comforting one another, just as I had done with my friend Izzy when her father had died. Why were they so sad? Was Martin Luther King their father? I couldn’t understand it. All he wanted was to create peace among people. Why did I not want that? I began to listen to the speech.
“But the vast majority of White people and the vast majority of Black people in this country want to live together, want to improve the quality of our life, and want justice for all human beings who abide in our land.”
I always thought of myself as a moral person, someone who cared for people. I looked around and realized that all of these people just wanted what I wanted - to live in peace. That’s all. What if I didn’t really hate them? What if I had just learned to hate them? These people, Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, spoke of equality for all. These people were…just like me.
“So I shall ask you tonight to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King, that's true, but more importantly to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love – a prayer for understanding and that compassion of which I spoke.”
“What’s your name?” I asked the newly steadied boy next to me?
“I’m Jamaal.”
“I’m Clarence.”
Without planning to, Jamaal and I talked for a long time. He spoke of the inequalities and injustices he experienced each day. He spoke of the crime and poverty that surrounded him. And he spoke of the hope Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy inspired in him. We spoke for nearly an hour, until the entire crowd had dispersed into the darkness. It was then that I realized my friends were no longer with me; they must have found a way home.
“Do you know where the nearest bus stop is?” I asked Jamaal.
“There isn’t one,” he replied, “but if you continue down the road you might be able to find a taxi.”
So, I began to walk, having no idea how I would be able to find a taxi at 4:00 in the morning. Unbelievably, when I reached the main street, a taxi stopped right in front of where I was standing. I opened the back door and got in. “To Carmel.” I said wearily.
The taxi driver turned around and nodded. It was the same Black taxi driver from before, the one who had landed us in this place to begin with! What were the odds???
He began to drive. Then, in a knowing sort of way he asked, “Mind listenin’ to some music?”
“No problem,” I said smiling.