By Carrie Chapter, Philadelphia Theatre Company

A few months ago in Washington D.C., the Interior Department announced the removal of the inscription on the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial, which was unveiled in 2011. Its erasure marked the end of an ongoing controversy. The inscription, “I was a drum major for justice, peace and righteousness,” was grossly paraphrased in a condescending tone according to Dr. King’s friends like poet Maya Angelou, who recalled King’s actual quotation from a 1968 sermon as “Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace. I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter.”

This misstep serves as only a recent example how Martin Luther King, Jr. is remembered, or rather, misremembered, for his service to our country and to our national identity. With time the man and the myth have merged, creating a divine leader indistinguishable from his mortal trials. After thirty arrests and over twelve years of selfless activism, how do you best honor the complex memory of one man?

In Katori Hall’s THE MOUNTAINTOP, what we are witnessing, in this interpretative interior of Dr. King, is the very real exterior of the Lorraine Motel, and what that time and place symbolizes as both sanctuary and internment in some respects, because we know he will meet his death outside of those doors the next day. In a faith-based metaphor, the re-imagining at work here is Dr. King’s Gethesmane – a moment in time and space met both with trepidation yet obligation as a leader of men, and the reflections which come with such revelation and self-examination. In this sense, though this is a theatrical work, the idea of questioning one’s fate evokes perhaps the truest and most universal facet of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s life on Earth.

Rehearsal for THE MOUNTAINTOP, Left to Right: Amirah Vann and Sekou Laidlow. Photo by Carrie Chapter.

Still, those left behind worked to honor and keep Dr. King’s memory alive in the minds of the American people. In 1979, Coretta Scott King advocated the passing of a bill to make King’s birthday a national holiday, a campaign which was met with much resistance from the House because they felt it would be too expensive. President Ronald Reagan finally signed the legislation in 1983, and it was first officially celebrated in 1986.  Yet, not all fifty states observed the holiday. Surprisingly, it took 17 years until every state celebrated Dr. King’s birthday, a day also honored in Toronto, Canada, and Hiroshima, Japan.

Dr. King’s birthday marks just one annual reminder. His name also graces nearly 700 streets, and countless public institutions, buildings, and schools. His widow established The Martin Luther King, Jr., Center for Nonviolent Social Change, Inc., now called the King Center, in 1968 in Atlanta next to Ebenezer Baptist Church. In addition to being King’s burial site, its programming focuses on community service using the ideology of nonviolence. In 1985, the King Papers Project created an accessible archive of King’s writings, histories, and other teaching materials. The Lorraine Motel is now the National Civil Rights Museum, and the National Parks Service created the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Committee, the organization responsible for his somewhat maligned “Drum Major” Memorial in D.C.

Hauntingly, Dr. King delivered his “Drum Major Instinct” sermon on February 4, 1968 – exactly two months before his death. In the speech, King referenced how he would like to remembered at his funeral. He wished to be a man who ‘‘tried to give his life serving others,” without lingering on what he achieved.

But, in a country that loves its heroes for their stories, History has defined him principally in terms of his iconic landmark events. In a way, King is the closest America has come to a canonization of a public figure. His sacrifices as a leader, devoting his life to total service and shifting the winds of change, merits a position of martyrdom. But, we often overlook the mortal load he bore as a man doing his best: having the heart of a 60-year-old when he died at the age of 39, encountering blackmail for extramarital affairs, struggling against the disgruntled FBI, being booed by a African American crowd towards the end of his campaign in the North and missing the formative years of his children. Still, our forgetfulness serves a purpose. The way in which we recall his life keep his dreams alive for each new generation. His legacy remains incomplete, but the road to the Promised Land is well trod by those who continue to believe.