In the Midst of Greatness

         We knew the risk.

         For six exhaustive months, I studied these two men in their various environments and came away with the realization that a meeting between the two – no, a serious conversation between them was needed.

         I knew it was a lofty dream, and we were nothing more than a congregation of college idealists. However, we were making waves via our underground radio programs and we felt using television was another great medium to get our messages across.

         And then it happened; a moment – all too brief – but enough to get us excited at the possibilities. It was on March 26th, 1964, where in the U.S. Capitol, the ravenous media feasted on their chance meeting at the signing of the Civil Rights Act.

         Our motivation reached its peak. We typed desperate letters, praying our words would eventually reach them. We would guarantee their safety for we knew how dangerous it could be if they ever agreed to this.

__

         On that December morning, we arrived to the studio bundled up and shivering as the central heating had gone kaput the night before, and it was while I argued with Brad over why it hadn’t been fixed did we all receive the shock of our lives.

         “Is this the Buckley Studio?” came the quiet query from the familiar lanky man with the glasses and the goatee. “I hope I followed the directions correctly…”

         So unassuming, so unexpected, we all gaped at Mr. X in awe before I forced my feet to move.

         “You have definitely come to the right place, sir. Thank you so much, but please forgive us, the studio is not quite ready yet…”

         He chuckled amiably and took off his hat. “Please do not go out of your way for me. I’ll be glad to wait.”

         He was offered a cup of tea as we bustled around like frantic bees to prepare the set. It would be nothing more than three plastic, but comfortable chairs, around a circular wooden table. The backdrop were simply dark curtains to give a more intimate setting (and to keep our location anonymous of course). I would be in the middle, with both men (I hoped) on opposite sides. It was to be a conversation, after all, not a confrontation.

         Two hours later, we were all so engrossed with Mr. X’s discussions on his plans for the Muslim community, we almost missed the appearance of two well-dressed men in suits soon followed by the oh-so-familiar figure of Mr. King Jr. who gave a warm smile and greeted us with apologies for being late.

         “Truth be told,” Mr. King admitted as he and Malcolm shook hands. “He’s the one who talked me into coming here.”

         “I don’t think I had to do much convincing,” Malcolm replied with a laugh. “Shall we begin?”

         A long year in the making, I was now in the midst of greatness. The spotlight was on, the cameras rolling, and as both men settled into their seats, it was time to get down to business.

         For the most part, the conversation was tempered as both agreed that the Civil Rights Act was a first step to progress, yet it was clear that past behaviours still simmered beneath the surface.

         “If you are referring to my time with the Nation of Islam, I hope you recall that I did leave them due to a difference in philosophy,” Malcolm argued at King’s accusation of using violent means to get his messages across. “You forget all the injustices and brutality we face-”

         “Never have I forgotten that, Malcolm-”

         “No, no, I feel you have forgotten in a way, my friend. You preach for non-violence and yet we continue to see a disproportionate attack on the black community and minorities every single day. Do you suggest they continue to just lie down and take it without defending themselves?”

         “I hear you, and I understand where you are coming from, Malcolm. I, too, have been a recipient of such aggression. So, yes, a part of me does wish we could all run around with guns and shoot up anyone who treats us like animals, but at the same time, we must also continue to pursue peaceful means of-”

         Malcolm gave a wry smile. “It’s why you are seen as a saint and me the devil.”

         “Now, Malcolm-”

         “It’s the truth, isn’t it? Because of my past association with the Nation, and my fiery speeches about segregation and defending ourselves by any means necessary, I am painted as one who wants only violence and the death of all white people when it’s nothing of the sort. You, on the other hand, are praised for your march in Washington and your grand dreams about a world where colour will no longer be considered an issue. I, too, have those dreams, Martin, but I am also a realist, and I know that those dreams are going to take a long time coming…if ever. How pessimistic of me, huh?”

         Martin’s smile was one of understanding, though the sadness within his eyes matched the ones behind the horn-rimmed glasses across him.

         “Then allow me to be the optimist for the both of us,” Martin replied quietly. “I am not naïve to think I will live a long and peaceful life. We both know every morning we wake up; we are moments away from the bullet. So, allow me…us…to continue believing in that single word called hope, for our children at least. They deserve that much.”

         I watched, with a lump in my throat, as both men reached out to shake hands again, unaware it would be the last time they would ever do so.

         The episode never aired.

         Our studio was raided by them a week later and everything was seized…except for the photograph, taken with the two men, that I have kept hidden until this day.

         It is the only proof that such an historical meeting had ever taken place despite History’s desperate need for its erasure.




---------------------

They Only Met Once  



---------------------

Word Count: 1000
Prompt: Write a poem or story in which you’re a talk show host. Pick two guests. Why did you choose them? Are they people who get along, or people with vastly different viewpoints? Write about the episode.
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"