In case you’ve missed it, Dan Rather is having himself a bit of a moment. The veteran newsman, whose storied career was all but ended in 2006 by a reporting scandal that would barely register in today’s media maelstrom, is doing big things on social media. His Facebook page has more than a million followers, and his was one of the most measured, thoughtful, and compelling journalistic voices during the 2016 presidential campaign and in the days since the election.

Yesterday he posted about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the manner in which Dr. King is often portrayed in today’s culture. Here is an excerpt from that post:

“…I worry that this universal acclaim has deadened the radicalism of Dr. King’s message. We must remember that he was a deeply contentious person at the time of his death. The clarity of the morality of his message about racial prejudice and social justice was not welcome in many corridors of power…If he had survived the assassin’s bullet and continued on his life path, I am convinced that he would have remained a divisive figure. I fear that many who now pay homage to his legacy with florid paeans would be singing different tunes if he was still actively rallying civil disobedience toward the twin causes of racial and economic fairness for the marginal and dispossessed.”

I believe there is truth in what he said. I’ve actually believed that for some time, as it was brought to my attention more than 15 years ago. I was in my early twenties, and working at the American Jazz Museum in Kansas City, Mo. The museum is located in the Historic 18^th and Vine District, which was the heart of the African American community in deeply segregated Kansas City in the first half of the 20^th century. I was the museum’s public relations specialist. It was a hard job, for many reasons, but it was one of the most worthwhile experiences of my life.

I was, as one might expect, one of very few white people on staff. An ad rep from a local newspaper took me to lunch one day, leaned conspiratorially across the table, and asked why I thought they hired a white person to do their PR. Taken aback, I replied, “I like to think it was because I was the most qualified person who applied for the job.”

So, yes, I found myself in the racial minority for the first time in my life. Our director was a hard-ass (I doubt she will ever read this, but if she does, I don’t think she’ll object to the characterization), shrewd, intellectual, accomplished, and so very driven.

It was often a tense working environment. There was never enough money. The staff was small and overworked. The museum was young and still getting on its feet. This was somewhat lost on me at the time, but I now understand the tremendous pressure on our director as an African American woman to keep the museum in the best possible light at all times. This pressure was passed on to the staff. Our director was keenly aware of stereotypes about African Americans, and she wasn’t about to have her staff giving credence to a single one.

Colleagues who were generous of spirit, intellect and insight surrounded me. They saw me for who I was: A young, idealistic, child of the Sesame Street generation who naively believed we lived in post-racial society because it wasn’t socially acceptable to use the N-word anymore. I was raised by progressive, socially-conscious parents, but I grew up in schools that were overwhelmingly white. In those schools, I learned about Martin Luther King, Jr. I was taught that he was a great man and a hero who preached non-violent civil disobedience. I was taught the “I Have a Dream” speech. Or, rather, I was taught the pretty, poetic parts.

As we were preparing for the museum’s annual Martin Luther King Day celebration, one of my colleagues asked me if I was familiar with the whole speech. I had to admit I was not. She said Dr. King often spoke in terms of economics. He told hard truths. He said uncomfortable things. She said there was a lot more to the speech than the soaring rhetoric of the end. She was right.

We focus on the pretty, feel-good parts. The real meat is in the rest of the speech. Dr. King is rightfully remembered by history as a hero for justice, but in our remembrance, we seem to have forgotten he was a radical, an instigator, a pot-stirrer, unwilling to fall in line and wait for justice. As he said, “Freedom is never given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

At that MLK Day celebration, there was a photographer from a local African American newspaper who kept photographing the stage, blinding the performers with his flash. I approached him, an elderly African American man, and asked him to stop. It was my job. He was incensed and called me a “ten-cent cracker.” It was the first time I’d ever been on the receiving end of a racial insult. As a forty-year-old woman, I look back and I understand the dynamic. Here I was, this young white girl, telling an African American man of a certain generation what he could and could not photograph at a Martin Luther King Day program.

It hardly seems like much of an affront now, but at the time, my precious little feelings were hurt, and big tears welled up in my eyes. The museum director saw me and demanded to know what happened. As soon as the words started tumbling out of my mouth, I wished like anything I hadn’t been such a baby, because I was suddenly and acutely aware that “ten-cent cracker” was nothing compared to the insults – spoken and unspoken – she and every single one of my African American colleagues had endured throughout their lives.

The director gave the photographer a real ass-chewing. She let him know in no uncertain terms that everyone on her staff was to be treated with respect, regardless of color or anything else. In that regard, she’s surely a better person than I, because I really wish I could go back and tell my younger self to get it together, remember where I was, with whom and in whose honor I was there.

One of these days, I hope to write more about my time at the Jazz Museum. There’s so much more to talk about. But if I never write another word about it, the most important lesson I took from my time there was the inestimable value of leaving one’s comfort zone.

As much as “we” might want to believe it, we don’t live in a post-racial society. Surely the last several years have shown there is still a deep, painful divide. If we truly want real equality, it means turning a mirror on ourselves. It means setting aside the idea that everything is fine and “people” should stop making trouble. It means reading. It means listening. It does not mean expecting our black friends to provide an education on the African American experience. It took me way too long to figure out it’s not my friends’ responsibility to teach me about racial injustice. I can read. I can listen. I can “Like” Facebook pages like The Root and others. So I do. I often see things that challenge my view of the world. I resist the urge to jump in with my two cents in those forums. Open heart, open mind, closed mouth, still fingers.

My own Facebook page is a different story. I’m sure I’ve been “Unfriended” and “Hidden” because I persist in talking about politics and social issues. Some of my friends and family would be amused (and likely relieved) to know I only post a fraction of what I want to post. I understand why people get annoyed with me. I really do. I don’t like fights and confrontations, and I actually have anxiety about some of the things I post. I’m growing more comfortable with the idea of being an agitator, though, because I do believe with all my heart that complacency and saying nothing contributes to oppression and injustice.

“History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people.”
– Martin Luther King, Jr.