You must, it is to be hoped, be as curious as I am concerning the execution of this book project.
I know how to do it, technically.
It is a matter of research, and journeys. And, with you, or without you, I will do it anyway.
I begin in September, when I go on the road. “The road” means my return to the South. It means, briefly, for example, seeing Myrlie Evers, and the children— those children, who are children no longer. It means going back to Atlanta, to Selma, to Birmingham. It means seeing Coretta Scott King, and Martin’s children.
I know that Martin’s daughter, whose name I don’t remember, and Malcolm’s oldest daughter, whose name is Attallah, are both in the theater, and apparently, are friends.
It means seeing Betty Shabazz, Malcolm’s widow, and the five younger children. It means exposing myself as one of the witnesses to the lives and deaths of their famous fathers. And it means much, much more than that—a cloud of witnesses, as old St. Paul once put it.
