On April 4, 1968, I was in the Navy. I was at that time only a third of the way through basic training. Upon arrival at boot camp, a month earlier, I was promptly escorted to the barber shop to have my head shaved. There, I stood in a long line of young men with every hair style you could imagine, including the classic unkept hippy-do, and full-on Afro with imbedded pick-comb.
This mass fleecing was the first of many steps in our basic training that was designed to strip away individualism and minimize personal identity. We no longer belonged to ourselves. We were now property of the U.S. Navy. But no amount of head shaving, common dress or cohabitation could ever remove all our differences.
The 1960s were turbulent times. The entire country was engaged in a decade-long awakening. There were riots, demonstrations, and great marches. The “Great Society” legislation of 1964 still had not taken firm root in much of the nation, and Martin Luther King Jr., like Moses, was peacefully leading his people to the “Promised Land” in the face of strong opposition. Race sorely divided the nation in 1968, and even though there were no visible hostilities in recruit company 168, there were still clear divisions. White and Hispanic recruits kept to their cliques, and Black recruits kept to theirs.
I was made a squad leader in boot camp. I was given this responsibility because I was tall, not because of any meritorious action. Having a tall squad leader made it easier for the shorter men in the squad to line up on the leader when marching. So, it was all about show.
Nevertheless, as a squad leader, I became responsible for all those in my squad. I was held accountable by the company commander for the performance of all in my squad. If one of them failed inspection I would be given extra duty along with them. So, it was in my best interest to make sure my men passed inspection. This meant that I not only had to prep my own bunk, locker, laundry and dress for daily inspection, I also had to pre-inspect everybody else’s bed, locker, laundry and dress. Making that duty particularly challenging was one recruit for whom I had to intervene every day. His name was George Cathy. He was a Black man from South Carolina.
Looking back, I suspect George may have had some level of learning disability. I say this because no matter how many times I showed him how to prep for inspection, there was always something he failed to do correctly. On occasion, my frustration would manifest itself in harsh words. When it did, George would repeatedly apologize, his own frustration with himself apparent. Consequently, I could never stay mad at him. His apologies were sincere and when he repeatedly said, “Thank you,” I knew he meant it.
Over time, my daily interactions with George did something shaved heads and a common uniform could never do. It forced me to engage with someone I probably would not have spent time with had circumstance not required it. As a result, I got to know George on more than a superficial level. And even though he was an exasperating “screw-up,” I liked him. He had an infectious smile, a kind and generous spirit, and a rare childlike humility. Like the apostle Nathanael, whom Jesus described as “a man in whom there is no guile,” George was always transparent and genuine.
Growing up in the San Fernando Valley, there were no Black people in my neighborhood. There were no Black people in my elementary or junior high, and only one Black person in my high school. Consequently, my opinions of Black people were primarily shaped by bigoted family members and friends, or the nightly news coverage of the violence in Birmingham, Watts, Chicago, Detroit, and elsewhere across the United States. None of this input was positive.
As a result, when it was announced over the barracks loudspeaker that Martin Luther King had been shot, my first thought was (to my shame), “One more troublemaker gone.” It literally had no greater impact on me than that. Just another casualty of the race wars.
Then I noticed the reaction of the Black men in my company. There were audible moans, words muttered in anger, and many tears. They didn’t look with anger at the rest of us nor point accusing fingers. They simply withdrew to themselves. The look on their faces communicated inconsolable heartbreak and an utter loss of hope. My attention then went to George, who sat by himself on his bunk, his face buried in his hands, sobbing.
I walked up to him. “Are you OK, George?” He lifted his eyes to look at me, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Pointing to the other Black men, he said, “They say he’s dead! He ain’t dead; the radio says he was mortally wounded.” His eyes pleaded for assurance.
I simply said, “That means he’s dead, George.” I’ll never forget the look of dismay on his face as I dashed his last hope. Raising his hands to his face once again, he wept bitterly.
The next day was business as usual; inspections, marching, calisthenics, classes, etc. But there was a noticeable difference in the Black recruits. They had been dealt a devastating blow that none of the rest of us could relate to. We couldn’t begin to understand what George and the others were going through at the time. But what I can say is that the murder of Martin Luther King, and my acquaintance with George Cathy, marked the beginning of my own awakening.
Over the years I have many times reflected on that day, remembering George Cathy and mourning the senseless loss of a great man. Today, I consider Martin Luther King to have been one of, if not the greatest American of the 20th century. He was a man of extraordinary courage and vision, and had he been allowed to realize his “dream,” we would all be the better for it.
So, as I reflect once again, I can’t help but think that had I known on April 4, 1968, what I know today, that I would have sat down beside George Cathy, and I too would have wept.
Richard Harding is a Santa Clarita resident.
