( ThyBlackMan.com) Probably the most vivid memory of my childhood was in 1968. This was the day Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. My mother, who was one of the only Black executives at a Hospital in the city called home to give us the news. She said that Dr. King was dead and that he had be taken to the hospital where she worked (Saint Joseph Hospital) in a Colonial Bread Truck because they feared racist democrats of the day would attack the ambulance in which he was supposed to be transported in. That was the first time I witnessed a riot. I was six years old and I will tell you one thing, it is hard on a child, during the days prior to his death, having national guard stationed at the end of your block in jeeps with machine guns in the back that tell you cannot play in your own front yard after 7pm.