The glossy black disc begins to circle around in a hypnotizing motion waiting patiently for the needle to drop. A moment passes, then the room is filled with the rich, soulful  tunes of Otis Redding. Momma’s shoulders begin to move to the rhythm as she stirs a pot of rice and sings to herself, “Sittin’ on the dock of the bay.” My 8-year-old sister, Elizabeth tries to copy her movements and I have to hold her in place to finish braiding her thick, black hair.
“Go get washed up for dinner,” I shoo her to the next room and rise from my seat on the worn-down leather sofa to help Momma in the kitchen. The tempting aroma of stew chicken easily fills the small apartment. I reach for the pot’s lid and Momma swats my hand.
“Where’s that brother of yours?” Momma gives her spoon a final taste and turns off the stove. “Michael! Come out here and eat!” She hollers toward his bedroom down hall.
“Aren’t we waiting for Daddy?” Elizabeth pipes in sliding into a rickety wooden dining chair at the table.
A wave of exhaustion and stress passes over my mother and she sighs. “He’ll be home soon enough, baby.” One look at her and I know why Dad’s out so late; he still hasn’t found another job.
Michael swaggers into the room donning a jean jacket and picking out his afro; ever since Malcolm X’s assassination three years ago, he’s taken it upon himself to become the poster-child for black pride. 
“You see the paper today, Michelle?” I shake my head as he plops down next to Elizabeth. “King was in D.C. the other day. Thousands of people got together to hear him. That’s gonna be me one day.” His deep brown eyes twinkle in anticipation.
“You just focus on gettin’ through high school first, boy.” Momma says sternly sliding plates out of the cupboard. Michael just smirks and nods his head.
A key rattles sharply and suddenly and my eyes dart to the door. Moments later, Daddy barrels in, his expression solemn and his eyes frantic. “Turn on the radio, Claudette. Martin’s been shot.”
His words take a long second to register in my mind. Michael’s hands are on the radio in a flash while Momma drawls out a question or two, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
The radio crackles to life. “Now this late bulletin from the WWJ radio news bureau: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. , 1964 Nobel Peace Prize winner and America’s leading exponent of non-violence in the Civil Right’s struggle was shot to death earlier tonight according to police chief....” The man’s voice seems to fade as I watch my parents’ reactions.
My mother had turned as pale as her white apron and my father stood unblinking by the door. Their eyes held the same stark emotions: disbelief, grief, pain and most of all, complete and utter fear. The world stood silent, the tunes of the record player and the engines of passing cars blocked out by the enormity of what I was hearing. “Shot in the back of his neck.....critical condition.....Memphis, Tennesse...Martin Luther King...has died.”  
The stillness is shattered when Michael drops the radio on the table in disgust. His jaw locks and something wild flashes in his eyes. “To hell with that!” He shoves a chair across the room and bangs his fist on the table. “Martin never done anything but talk! They kill a man for speaking the truth?” His question goes unanswered.
“They want violence? They’ll get violence!” His voice is strong and his stride determined as he storms out the front door.
“Michael, get back here!” Momma screams, her voice cracking with raw emotion. She seems frozen in place as Michael’s footsteps grow quieter. I rush after him but Daddy pulls me back with a worried look.
“No one else leaves this house.” He says sternly. “Claudette, close the windows and lock the door!” He heads out after Michael leaving me stunned.
“Michelle, where did Michael go?” Elizabeth’s voice seems small and innocent.
“I don’t know, sugar, I don’t know.”
Momma locks the doors and windows before pulling me and Elizabeth into her arms and whispering a prayer. Then, we wait.
Moments turn to minutes then to an hour and the hubbub of Detroit grows louder. Frantic whispers become chants and cries. Somewhere glass breaks and a car alarm blares into the night. Momma rushes Elizabeth to bed and I can’t help but race to the window. Dozens of people have gathered on the corner of 12th street and I’m struck with a wave of deja vu. I can’t tell what the crowd is yelling but everyone looks angry and crazed. Rocks fly and another car alarm goes off. A teenage boy climbs onto the hood and his voice rings loud and clear, “They want violence, we’ll give them violence!” Michael. My stomach drops.
The crowd hollers their agreement and they scatter like spiders grabbing whatever is in reach. People hurl soda bottles at store windows and take bats to the nicer cars on the street. I can feel the anger pulsing through them as they run wildly through the street recruiting friends. A bottle goes flying into a nearby window and I duck, my heart racing. I close my eyes and remember the hundreds of injuries the last riot caused, the absolute chaos.
The sickening smell of smoke wafts through the cracks on the side of the window and I raise my head. A thick gray cloud floats from a nearby building and I can hear the crackling of a fresh fire. A store screams as a gang of men barge in its broken window. My eyes search frantically for Michael and my father, but the smoke in the air grows thicker. The shouts grow louder and the smell of burning rubber permeates the air.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Flashing lights break through the smoke as police clutter the area darting from their cars and vans like piranhas in search of blood.  “Hands above your head!” Their voices are firm and aggressive. “Against the vehicle! Now!”
German shepherds begin to bark fiercely, eagerly hopping from black police vans. People are being grabbed from all directions and thrown to the floor or against hard brick walls. “You have the right to remain silent!” A voice booms and bodies are thrown into SWAT vans like rag dolls.
A bold group of men hop onto police cars and yell out for justice. They are yanked down and beaten. Police clubs come out and dogs are free to pounce. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. A familiar figure comes into view racing toward our apartment building and I exhale in relief. God, Michael, you scared me to death.
He almost reaches the gate and my pulse begins to slow. I close my eyes and breathe.  When I open them again, a scream gets caught in my throat. A police officer tackles Michael to the ground, slamming his head against the pavement. My brother tries to fight the cop off of him but that seems to make it worse. A black club comes into view and I take off down the stairs screaming Michael’s name. I’m too late.
When I reach the bottom, Michael is in handcuffs and his face is badly bruised. He’s thrown in the back of a police cruiser and my legs won’t move fast enough. The car vanishes and I feel like my heart's on fire. Someone grabs me and before I can run, my dad pulls me toward him whisking me home. I don’t realize I’m crying until he wipes my tears.
“Shhh, he’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.” My father strokes my hair and speaks as firmly as he can but I can hear the unease in his voice. He settles me on the couch and goes to check on Momma and Elizabeth.
My mind sprints in a thousand directions, from the unerasable look on my brother’s face to the family dinner left untouched in the kitchen, the radio lying mockingly on the table. Between periods of static, a voice rings through.
“What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness, but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice towards those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.”
I sit trembling listening to Bobby Kennedy’s words and pray to God for change.