Léna Roy: Martin Luther King

Monday, January 16, 2012

MLK and My Sobriety: For Realz?

Yes Virginia, for realz.

Last Friday my status on Facebook just said: eighteen years. Those who know me personally and read this blog knew what that means: I celebrated eighteen years of continuous sobriety. I celebrated by going out to dinner with some of the women who have been on this journey with me. I don't white-knuckle it and go it alone - I need that kind of community, just as I need other kinds of community too.

We all need community, we need each other. We all have our demons and our issues; we all want to both understand and be understood. We all have our humanity in common, no matter our race, gender, sexuality or religion.

Who better to thank for this reminder than Dr. Martin Luther King?

As I take a moment to celebrate him, I am put in mind of a particular Martin Luther King Day, fourteen years ago. I was working on a dual diagnosis unit in San Francisco. In many of the psychotherapy groups I was leading that day, we discussed Dr. King's famous I Have a Dream speech.

I will never forget one gentleman in particular, who spoke about the impact Dr, King had had on his life and his future sobriety. This man was in his mid-30's, African-American, astoundingly intelligent, but his brain had been hit with severe depression and alcoholism. He wanted to stay sober because of Dr. King's words. He yearned for faith because of Dr. King's legacy.

He quoted Dr. King: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

His eyes glistening with tears, he went on to say: "Alcoholism and mental illness is another form of oppression." His voice was a slow, deep baritone. He had been taking his medication, wasn't drinking and was starting to feel better. Heads nodded, and all faces turned toward him. (Which in itself was a miracle - one of my therapeutic goals with several "clients" was eye contact in a group setting.)

He stopped, looking to me for assurance. I smiled, encouraging him. He was able to connect Dr. King's messages of non-violence, faith and dreams of equality to his own hopes for sobriety. He was able to strike a chord with his fellow group members talking about MLK's message in a way that I, as a young white girl wasn't able to.

He struck a chord with me too, and now MLK is indelibly a part of my sobriety.

Abstinence isn't for everybody, but it is for me, because I recognize that I have the dis-ease of alcoholism. It is a dis-ease of body, mind and spirit. It almost killed me.

It doesn't mean that I'm a lower form of human, that I can't handle my liquor, that one drink is too much for me because I don't know when to stop - and nor does it mean I'm a higher form of human, that I have transcended the need for spirits. (I haven't - I need an ever-evolving relationship with a Higher Power - I just don't pretend that I can heal myself or my stress with alcohol anymore.)

It means I get to be human, I get to live. And I get to share myself with you.

Thank you Dr. King: your reach is wider than you ever knew.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Thank You, Dr. King

Cover of Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."
— Martin Luther King Jr.

I'd better write this tonight while I'm bleary-eyed, before I read all of the well written and thought out blogs tomorrow, celebrating what would have been your 82nd birthday. Before reading more about the Arizona gunman and people pleading for another charismatic leader to stop the madness. Then I would certainly chicken out. But tonight, it's just you and me. I LOVE celebrating you - always have (and not just because we got a day off of school).

You were murdered the year I was born, a fact which has always frightened/fascinated me. Do we really live in a world where good people are punished? How can there be a God? Yet you were a man of deep faith, embodying this idea of radical love and have always been one of my biggest heroes. Darkness begets darkness . . . we are what we think and believe, aren't we, Dr. King?

You planted a seed of social activism that blossomed and complemented my Christian/bohemian upbringing: your crossover of Christian ideals and Ghandi-like philosophy appealed to my budding soul. You were responsible for my becoming politicized: as a teen I marched and I canvassed for no nukes, civil rights, gay rights, women's rights, the environment. I wanted to live in and believe in a world where radical love was possible. I lost my faith in my early '20's, Dr. King. I had some difficult times and some hard knocks. Then I channeled my energy into becoming a therapist, a mother, a writer, but always with the hope of being of service.

My husband and I were awed by the National Civil Rights Museum when we drove through Memphis on our cross country road trip 13 years ago. The museum was built around the Lorraine Motel where you were assassinated. We spent an entire day there, hearts in our throat. It's one thing to have knowledge of these events, and quite another to have visual and tactile context.

My faith ebbs and flows, but I love taking time to remember you, Dr. King - a man whose spiritual and civic duty were one and the same. A man who died for what he believed in.

Nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral questions of our time: the need for man to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence. Man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.

Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Stockholm, Sweden, December 11, 1964.