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Editor's Note: Today, January 18th, we salute the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. — author, activist, and civil rights leader. This essay, which originally appeared in our April 2017 issue, revealed a little-known personal connection to the events of April 4, 1968, and the building that was later transformed into the National Civil Rights Museum.
Female colored, 21, Residence, 160 Walker, Apt. 2, phone, 947-3787. Her statement reflects that she is employed at the Loraine (sic) Hotel as a waitress and cook, that she was at the motel when Dr. King was shot, and she heard the shot, but did not see it. She thought a tire blew out. Her statement is brief, and in the statement she tells of a girl named Lois telling her nobody killed him but a policeman.
In the Homicide Bureau’s Criminal Investigation Report, filed by the Memphis Police Department in July 1968, the young woman described above was simply Witness #43, a hotel worker on the premises of the Lorraine Motel on the afternoon of April 4, 1968. To me, however, Witness #43 was someone special. Witness #43 was my older sister, Mary Ellen.
Most families have things they don’t talk much about, incidents rarely spoken about, or stories that remain invisible for generations. Each year in April, I am reminded of how one of the greatest tragedies of modern times personally touched a member of my family. Yet for many years, it was a subject we never discussed. Only recently have Mary and I begun to talk about that difficult day, and even now, there is reluctance to do so on her part. This is the first time I have ever written about it.
Mary Ellen was one of six employees on duty at the Lorraine Motel when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. “It was not a big place,” she explains, “so we didn’t need a lot of employees.”
April 4th began like most workdays for Mary Ellen and her colleagues, when she arrived at her maid’s job at the Lorraine. In a matter of hours, however, she would be an unwitting and ultimately silent witness to history.
At the moment of the assassination Mary Ellen had just finished answering phones and had moved to the restaurant. During one of our casual conversations she told me that “that’s my cleaning cart next to his room,” referring to the balcony in the well-known photo of Dr. King’s body, and his colleagues pointing in the direction of where the shot had been fired.
Across the river in West Memphis, the day started out ordinary for me as well. I was in my first year at the predominantly white West Memphis Junior High School, and I changed eighth-grade classes throughout the day.
The evening of the murder remains something of a blur, but what happened at school the next day is etched in my memory. Three white boys whom I didn’t know — cheerful, playful, and enthusiastic — passed me on the sidewalk, laughing, shouting and repeating in close proximity: “They killed that nigger!” In that moment, I remember being stunned, frightened, sad, hurt, and angry, not just over their taunting, but also being tired of dealing with a well of emotions that I had been experiencing much of my life. I had just turned 14.
I was vaguely aware that my sister worked at the Lorraine, but it was no big deal. After Dr. King’s assassination, I remember the family looking at a photo of Mary Ellen and a co-worker crying hysterically; that picture later appeared in Jet, Ebony, and the local West Memphis newspaper, and perhaps elsewhere.
My sister frequently speaks fondly of Olivia, who was on duty with her that day. Mary Ellen can’t remember Olivia’s last name; I’ve since located statements by Olivia Hayes (Witness #42), but have no idea of her whereabouts. It’s an irony of history that both Mary Ellen and Olivia were so close, yet so removed, from one of history’s most painful tragedies, and along the way became silent and invisible to each other as well. Maybe they will connect through this essay, and perhaps there will be better closure for both of them.
My sister worked three years at the Lorraine. The handful of employees rotated through housekeeping services, working the switchboard, acting as concierge, and working as a short-order cook at the motel’s restaurant. At the moment of the assassination Mary Ellen had just finished answering phones and had moved to the restaurant; Olivia was at the switchboard. During one of our casual conversations she told me that “that’s my cleaning cart next to his room,” referring to the balcony in the well-known photo of Dr. King’s body, and his colleagues pointing in the direction of where the shot had been fired.
The late Walter and Loree Catherine Bailey were the owners of the Lorraine Motel at the time. Several employees chose to stay at the hotel for three days after the shooting. I asked Mary Ellen if it was for the police investigation. “No, Mrs. Bailey told us to stay there because of the curfew and the rioting,” she recalled. “And Olivia and I knew how to run the switchboard.”
In that iconic black-and-white photo of Dr. King’s entourage pointing from the balcony, Mary Ellen is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a co-worker and the Baileys, with her arms crossed in a distinctly familiar posture of fear and worry — a posture which I have seen on several occasions.
Mary Ellen Norwood Ford in 2017.
When I asked Mary Ellen what she was thinking, she replied: “About how this could have happened. We were just looking up toward the balcony, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Bailey. I had just walked out of the kitchen right behind me; we didn’t know where the shot came from. There were a lot of people staying at the hotel and outside.”
Mary Ellen already had moved across the river from West Memphis, a year or two before the assassination. She had two children, and was living at Walker and Third, not far from Gaston Park. On Fridays, I would take the bus across the river from West Memphis, and spend the weekend babysitting for my sister. The bus would rumble across the old bridge and drop me off at Crump and Third, and I’d walk to my sister’s house. The fare was 25 cents.
Mary Ellen moved to Lansing, Michigan, not long after April 4th, 1968, where she lives to this day. She got a job as a school bus driver, had two more children, and three years ago, married her second husband. She is now happily retired in Lansing. Not surprisingly, she’s a diehard Michigan State fan, and rarely misses a Spartan football or basketball game.
Over the years, our conversations about her time at the Lorraine have been few and far between. “It was just something that happened,” she has told me, many times. She tells me that over her long employment in Lansing, there are only two coworkers who know about her experience.
I’ve asked Mary Ellen why she talks so little about her time at the Lorraine, and with familiar nervous laughter, her reply is straightforward: “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want people to think I was lying. I would sometimes show them the picture. To me, it’s just something that happened. After they shot Dr. King, they didn’t care about us.”
Perhaps there are others like Mary Ellen who spent such intimate moments at the Lorraine and also share similar thoughts. I brought this up in a conversation with Raka Nandi, collections manager and registrar at the National Civil Rights Museum.
“There is something both shocking and authentic about revealing why Mary Ellen is reluctant to talk about this experience,” says Nandi. “Many people want to insert their story into the lives of historical figures or celebrities, and Dr. King’s case is no exception.
“Mary Ellen did not want to cheapen her memory of this moment by being perceived in this way. But it clearly was one of the pivotal moments of her life.”
Henry Nelson's long radio career began in 1973 at WLYX, located on the campus of Southwestern at Memphis (now Rhodes College). Early in his career he was an on-air personality for WMC's FM-100, and in 1979 he was part of the start-up team for WHRK-97. He later served as community outreach and projects specialist with the City of Memphis Libraries Division. and was executive director of the Carpenter Art Garden in Binghamptom.
