My father was named after my grandfather. Since I was my dad’s firstborn son, he hoped that I, too, would carry the name Martin. My mother objected.
In 1957 I arrived on the scene. Dad was rising to prominence as a civil rights leader. Amid the late 1950s civil unrest, he was expected to be a messiah, a diplomat, a punching bag for white supremacists and a political prisoner. In all circumstances, he was to rise above the fray with eloquence and dignity. My mom, Coretta, sensed that naming me after him might be a crushing burden to shoulder. She worried I might grow up to try to match or better his achievements or be hobbled by the weight of the public demands that came with his name.
After much discussion, I was named Martin Luther King III. Marty, for short. My parents hoped that diminutive would shield me somewhat from the pressure of being my father’s namesake. Martin III or Marty, no matter what I’m called, I’ve struggled to emerge from my father’s historic legacy to define my own. I was ten when he was assassinated at age thirty-nine. After he died, my mom encouraged me to be my own man. She told me I didn’t have to attend Morehouse College, or become a minister, or a civil rights leader like Dad. She only insisted on one thing: “Just be your best self,” she said. Mom gave me freedom to make my life my own.
Still, a country’s expectations followed me. Mike Wallace of 60 Minutes came to our home before Christmas in 1968 to find out how we were holding up eight months after Dad was killed. My brother and sisters (Dexter, Yolanda, Bernice) and I sat in our Sunday best next to a Christmas tree. Mom introduced me as Martin Luther King III, and then added, “We call him Marty.”
Wallace asked me: “I imagine, of course, that you bear your name with great pride, your father’s name. But are there ever any difficulties because you are Martin Luther King?” I was eleven. I told him, “Well, sometimes there are difficulties, but most of the time there aren’t any . . . but sometimes . . .” I trailed off without confiding anything.
I wish I could hug that younger version of me and assure him that one day, he would proudly grow into his father’s name.
Wallace, the hard-nosed newsman, pressed me. “What kind of things?”
“Well, sometimes people ask me my father’s name and sometimes they tease me about my name . . .” I didn’t reveal any more details to Wallace. He didn’t need to know that I’d sometimes lie about my identity. I’d tell people who asked that I didn’t know my own name just to avoid their unwelcome commentary about Dad or my imagined destiny. Wallace then asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. “I want to be a preacher like my father,” I said shyly. I knew that was what was expected of me. I envied my older sister, Yolanda, who proudly proclaimed to Wallace that she wanted to be an actress.
I wish I could hug that younger version of me and assure him that one day, he would proudly grow into his father’s name. It’s been a challenging journey to escape his shadow. My father was the most famous alumnus of Morehouse, the Atlanta college both he and my grandfather attended. Dad enrolled at fifteen and was a standout student. My grandfather, a sharecropper’s son, walked barefoot every day from Stockbridge to Atlanta, where he worked odd jobs while putting himself through high school. He was thirty-two when he worked his way through Morehouse, becoming a prominent preacher and civil rights leader. (He was heavily influenced by his father-in-law and my great-grandfather A. D. Williams, the pastor at Ebenezer Baptist Church and the founder and president of the Atlanta chapter of the NAACP in 1918.)
On my first day as a legacy student, the assembled first-year students at Morehouse were told the late Martin Luther King Jr. had been a student and the college was proud to have his son as a freshman. I slid down in my seat for fear they would single me out. Fortunately, they didn’t. I did not want to be treated differently because of who I was. I introduced myself as Marty to the other students.
Morehouse turned out many fine professionals, including doctors, lawyers, teachers, administrators, community leaders and ministers. And I think Dad would have wanted me to be a minister, just as he wanted me to carry his name. But the ministry was not my calling. I graduated with a BA in political science. At age twenty-two, I was considering the Peace Corps or law school. I believed God, in His wisdom, would show me the right path. For a time, I marched, led peaceful rallies, and went to jail for protesting South Africa’s apartheid and other injustices. I came to believe the best way to change the system was from within. In 1987, at age twenty-nine, I won a seat on the Fulton County Board of Commissioners. I would be an insider with this seat, instead of an outsider waving a sign, making societal improvements through city government. I was reelected in 1990. When I ran to be the chair of the board of commissioners in 1993, I lost and took that pretty hard. This led to a crisis of purpose and to deep reflection.
Instead of worrying I’d be saddled with the weight of his name, I’ve wondered how I can build on his legacy of love and forgiveness and creating community.
I struggled with my place in the world and my outsize family name. I think most parents want their children to do better than they did. If Dad had been a physician and owned a medical clinic, I could have built on his work by opening a chain of clinics. But my dad’s name is known throughout the world and honored with a national holiday. I can’t better that, so I’ve recalibrated my expectations of myself. Instead of worrying I’d be saddled with the weight of his name, I’ve wondered how I can build on his legacy of love and forgiveness and creating community. I hope I can be known for my own body of work. Instead of “the son of,” I hope to be known as Martin Luther King III, who happens to be the son of Martin Luther King Jr.
For five often rocky years, I led the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, a civil rights organization Dad founded. One of our goals was to redeem the soul of the nation and eradicate the triple evils of poverty, racism and violence. I’m particularly proud of our Gun Buyback Program. I’ve since focused on peace building, nonviolence and conflict resolution, traveling the world, teaching these tools to citizens and public officials. I know now that my ministry is human rights. I’ve come to feel this mission deeply in my soul. I’ve also continued to lead protests and marches. Sometimes, I still get hauled away in handcuffs, like in 2021, when Arndrea and I were both arrested for demonstrating for voters’ rights outside the White House. During the pandemic, Arndrea and I reinvigorated a dormant organization, the Drum Major Institute, with the goal of furthering Dad’s vision. I’m building on his work in my own way. This is my calling, my ministry, my mission, as I proudly carry his name.
Truth be told, I never really liked the name Marty.
This is an excerpt taken with permission from the book “What Is My Legacy?: Realizing a New Dream of Connection, Love and Fulfillment.”
