I saw Martin Luther King, Jr. before I heard his voice. My parents had a framed photo of him. It was a head shot and he stared somberly into the camera. For years I was sure the photo was taken in our living room because the wall color in the picture matched ours (a light green).

His voice cam through a record of his speeches, Whenever my folks put that record on, silence was required. When the adults ever talked about King, silence from the young was part of the bargain. Sure I had tons of questions, but asking them were inappropriate.

Their reverence for the man makes perfect sense. They were out of high-school when King initially came on the national scene and were a young couple with an elementary age child when he was killed.

My relationship with King is not as visceral. When I began school segregation was illegal and the fruits of King’s work was something I accepted without question. About ten years ago, my mother was talking about King and she called him a prophet.

“Come on, Ma” I sad. “He was just a man.”

She looked at me trying decide which part of my face to slap. Recognizing the look, I quickly retreated. Noted his historical importance but  added we do him a disservice when he make him out to be some type of religious figure. She was slightly mollified, but not by much.

I think of that conversation every MLK day because the man is lost under the hagiography. Snippets of his speech on the March on Washington get played in an endless loop and he now is cold  marble.  Under the cast of stone though was an imperfect man who was struggling imperfectly with how to make America a more perfect union. This is no attempt to denigrate his genius or work but King, and his freedom work,  are not served by keeping him on a pedestal. We can only learn from him when we stop the hushed reverence.