I remember the day after Martin Luther King was killed just across the Mississippi River from my home-state of Arkansas. I was 11 years old and working for a man raking leaves, and I asked him what he thought about it.
He said King got what he was asking for.
And I remember years later, when I was applying for a job in Little Rock and the man interviewing me outlined the holidays I would get — the new King holiday was one, he said, but a lot of the employees preferred to celebrate it as the Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee’s birthday instead.
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