Unraveling, with Brooke Baldwin

Dearest Unravelers and Unravelers-to-be – 

Goodness, do I have a story to tell you today. I no longer believe in coincidences. As I wrote in one of my first newsletters, I’m always paying attention to breadcrumbs from the Universe. What do I mean by “breadcrumbs?” People, music, books, numbers, nature, animals, thoughts, opportunities, places, words… can all be breadcrumbs. These are all things that appear seemingly randomly in our lives, but the more we pay attention, the more they show up, the more we realize they’re placed on our path — and the way they’re placed there — for a reason. They surface from a place beyond us, or from within us (perhaps that’s the same thing) — or from another kind of place altogether. But they’re there. They’re there to help us find our purpose. And after my week and one very specific breadcrumb, okay, I’m listening.

My story starts at the National Civil Rights Museum at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. It’s the place where Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4, 1968, standing on the second floor balcony. His death served as a pivotal moment in American history. Today this sliver of Memphis is sacred ground. I was there this week for work, and I knew this was the one place I had to visit in my free time. I’m a white woman from the South, but, astonishingly, had never been there.

So I felt compelled to make a beeline to the Lorraine Motel, to honor Dr. King, to face our nation’s racist history and be reminded how so many Americans persevered — only to continue the fight today. What can I still learn? And so I went.

I happened to arrive at the museum at the exact same time as about a hundred high schoolers on a field trip. I looked around and saw, separately, three older women proudly wearing their matching Delta Sigma Theta sweatshirts. The Deltas invited me to jump in with them, and off we went winding through the exhibits. The museum’s story starts in 1619 with the resilience of enslaved Africans and takes visitors through the rise of Jim Crow, student sit-ins, the Montgomery bus boycott, the Freedom Riders, voting rights and so much more. The tour ends with the Lorraine Motel room #306, preserved to appear exactly as it did in 1968 where Dr. King spent his final hours. It’s a section of the tour where even the boisterous high schoolers suddenly grew quiet, in reverence and respect. We all did. Chills.

Speaking of chills, here’s my story.

I found myself in a room celebrating the Freedom Songs. They were sung to unite, inspire and mobilize activists in the fight for justice and equality. Rooted in Black spirituals, gospel, blues, and folk music, these songs became essential for protest during marches, sit-ins, church gatherings and even in jail. I imagine like you — music stirs my soul. So as I made my way into this room, I quietly sat and just listened.

In a rare moment in this crowded tour, I found myself nearly alone. To my right standing along the wall was one elderly Black woman with short white hair leaning on a cane. I couldn’t see her face but it’s what I heard that so moved me. While the songs played on the museum’s speakers, I heard another voice. Live. In the room. Hers. There this grandmother-figure was — singing. She knew every. single. word.

I sat in awe.

There I was surrounded by relics from the museum — but way more meaningful, I was in the presence of a witness, a living legend of this era in America. I wiped my eyes and grabbed my phone, snapping a photo of this moment to text to Peter back home in Los Angeles. He’d taken his son to this museum a few years ago. He told me this museum might change my life. 

Little did he know. (Or maybe he did.)

After a few minutes of me and this woman sharing space, she quietly walked on. I moved behind her for a few more minutes, way more interested in being in the presence of living history than whatever was hanging on the walls. But after a few more exhibits together, she and her cane were too fast for me. I was going too slow. That and — I didn’t live this. She did. I wondered if some of this was just too much.

Half an hour later, I reached the end of the tour with Dr. King’s motel room. I then walked out the exit door and directly into the gift shop. To my surprise, there that woman was again — the Freedom Songs woman, standing amidst the mugs and souvenir t-shirts all alone. As I looked over at her, this was the first time I got a glimpse of her face. I took a long look at her — and then away. And then it hit me. Sudden recognition. Wait, do I know this woman? Can’t be. Brooke, look again. I glanced back and away, back and away. No way. Is that? Can’t be. Before I knew it, I felt a power pushing me toward her, propelling me to talk.

“Um, excuse me, do you live in Birmingham, Alabama?” She is going to think I’m crazy. CRAZY. It can’t be. Y’all. This woman looks at me. Then she really looks at me, scrunching up her beautifully storied face. Instant recognition. “Brooke!!!”