I was a little girl when Dr. King was assassinated. I still remember how anxious and unsteady I felt as a sense of desolation from the news descended on our small family. Mom called in sick to work the next day and the only way she could find any comfort was soaking in the bathtub. We rolled our small black and white tv on its creaky stand around so that she could see it from the bathroom and my grandmother and I could gather around, too. I remember how …