Perhaps, this should be a profound statement on Martin Luther King, but it isn't.
It is about how a conversation can leave one wondering if the air we are breathing is contaminated with some sort of element that prohibits the ability to carry on a conversation.
Saturday morning, I stepped out of my apartment and found preparations for some event in the common area near the elevator.
Two eight foot tables were covered with red and blue tableclothes. Streamers were hung on the walls.
As I waited for the elevator a neighbor came out of her apartment.
"What's this for?", I asked.
"It's for that guy.", she replied, pointing to a neighbor's door.
"He is having a party?", I asked.
"No, its for the guy who got shot.". We only have two men on our floor. If one of them had been shot, I'm sure I would have heard about it.
"Who got shot?"
"That guy, you know. They are celebrating it tomorrow.", she mumbled.
"Martin Luther King?", I asked.
"Yep, the guy who got shot.".
At that point, the elevator door opened and I quickly escaped.
As I rode down the elevator, I couldn't help but wonder who would be celebrating the fact that Martin Luther King was murdered. There is no one, that I know, who would be callous.
So, as I counted off the people living on my floor, I determined that the lovely black lady at the end of the hall was commorating MLK day and our misinformed neighbor just got her wires crossed.
Fast forward to Sunday morning.
I left the apartment loaded down with the food for the NFL Playoff party. At my feet and all over the common area floor were balloons; the tables were set and final preparations for the event were underway.
My neighbor couldn't be more far off on her explanation.
Our neighbor, at the end of the hall,
WAS planning a celebration. It had nothing to do with Martin Luther King, it was to celebrate her grandson's fifth birthday.
I did go back to my apartment, later in the afternoon, to pick up a few things I forgot. I walked out of the elevator and into a wonderful family celebration.