April 4, 1968

I was 12 years old and living in St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands. On the island, white residents were the minority. Those of us who lived on the island year-round accepted the fact that we were not the indigenous people. While not tourists, in many ways we did not belong to the island as completely as those whose ancestors were forcibly made a part of the land on which they slaved, weaving their history into that of the remnants of the Carib Indians who greeted Columbus.

It was enlightening for me. I was used to being served last at the local bakery and being treated, however good-naturedly, as not quite equal. At age 12, I accepted what I had and felt right at home. No one was mean, especially to a kid, and for the most part everyone on the island got along.

April 4 changed everything. When Dr. King was killed, long-simmering tensions between black and white exploded with searing intensity. After the news of his death was reported, we started getting phone calls from the local Jehovah’sWitnesses who knew us and were frightened. Dad was off island on business, so Mom and I were alone in the big house on two acres with only three dogs for protection. Granted, one of the dogs was feared island-wide, but this was a fear of violence that even Dede couldn’t handle. One of the Jehovah’s Witnesses who worked at the airport called to say she had heard rumors that there would be a massacre of all the whites on the island that night. Mom and I stayed up and jumped at every little noise.

On the other side of the island in Christiansted, Roger McKibbin, who had moved his family to St. Croix because he thought Armageddon would not be as bad there, either hadn’t heard the news or figured it did not impact him. He took his two daughters, ages 8 and 10, to The Golden Cow for ice cream. Unbeknownst to him, a very angry man was holding court in the ice cream parlor, swearing vengeance for Dr. King. He said he was going to kill the first white man he saw.

Roger walked into The Golden Cow with his daughters. As they went to the counter to order, the man drew a knife, came up behind Roger and slit his throat. Roger bled to death in front of his daughters while the rest of the customers simply watched.

That was the only murder on the island on April 4. The raw violence seemed to shock everyone into common grief and for a while the racial tension eased. But it was never the same again. Innocence had been lost. Easy camaraderie between the races became increasingly strained. Tourists were treated with suspicion instead of welcomed and the Black Panther movement began to take root, culminating in the Fountain Valley Golf Course murders in 1971, a year after we moved. For many years after that, no tourist ship would stop at St. Croix and the economy suffered accordingly. I don’t know if it’s ever really recovered.