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The words 'bad timing' came to be ghosts haunting our every move in birmingham. yet people who used this argument were ignorant of the background of our planning...they did not realize that it was ridiculous to speak of timing when the clock of history showed that the negro had already suffered one hundred years of delay.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

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The Words 'bad Timing' Came To Be

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The words 'bad timing' came to be ghosts haunting our every move in birmingham. yet people who used this argument were ignorant of the background of our planning...they did not realize that it was ridiculous to speak of timing when the clock of history showed that the negro had already suffered one hundred years of delay.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"the words &amp;#039;bad timing&amp;#039; came to be ghosts haunting our every move in birmingham. yet people who used this argument were ignorant of the background of our planning...they did not realize that it was ridiculous to speak of timing when the clock of history showed that the negro had already suffered one hundred years of delay."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Martin Luther King, Jr.</footer>
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More From Martin Luther King, Jr.

I maintain that i have been a negro three times--a negro baby, a negro girl and a negro woman. still, if you have received no clear cut impression of what the negro in america is like, then you are in the same place with me. there is no the negro here. our lives are so diversified, internal attitudes so varied, appearances and capabilities so different, that there is no possible classification so catholic that it will cover us all, except my people! my people!

(what are your ghosts like?) (they are on the insides of the lids of my eyes.) (this is also where my ghosts reside.) (you have ghosts?) (of course i have ghosts.) (but you are a child.) (i am not a child.) (but you have not known love.) (these are my ghosts, the spaces amid love.)

Five score years ago, a great american, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today signed the emancipation proclamation. this momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. it came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity. but one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the negro is still not free.

Negro writers, just by being black, have been on the blacklist all our lives. do you know that there are libraries in our country that will not stock a book by a negro writer, not even as a gift? there are towns where negro newspapers and magazines cannot be sold except surreptitiously. there are american magazines that have never published anything by negroes. there are film studios that have never hired a negro writer. censorship for us begins at the color line.

I am tired of hiding and i am tired of lying by omission. i suffered for years because i was scared to be out. my spirit suffered, my mental health suffered and my relationships suffered. and i'm standing here today, with all of you, on the other side of that pain.

So mo began filling the silence with words. he lured them out of the pages as if they had only been waiting for his voice, words long and short, words sharp and soft, cooing, purring words. they danced through the room, painting stained glass pictures, tickling the skin. even when meggie nodded off she could still hear them, although mo had closed the book long ago. words that explained the world to her, its dark side and its light side, words that built a wall to keep out bad dreams. and not a single bad dream came over that wall for the rest of the night.

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