She was uncomfortable with rumors distorting her relationship with Martin Luther King Jr. But Georgia Powers realized that her life, like many, contained secrets and hidden truths. One concerned her ancestry.
Commentary by Greg Guma
Our lives are haunted by secrets — things kept from us by society, friends, even our own families. Just when we think the whole story is on the table, another revelation forces us to reconsider how we look at the world, our leaders, and ourselves.
This was brought home for me during several visits to Kentucky, where I spent time with one of that state’s most beloved civil rights leaders, Georgia Davis Powers. Invited to discuss a book she wanted to write about one of her ancestors, I learned surprising things not only about the suppressed history of a Black family, but also about the life of Martin Luther King Jr.
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| Georgia Davis Powers in 2004 |
Powers, who died in 2016, was the first African American and the first woman to be elected to Kentucky’s State Senate. That was in 1967. She served five terms over the next 20 years and was a delegate to the Democratic National Convention four times between 1968 and 2004. She was also State Chair of both Jesse Jackson for President campaigns.
By 1967, she had already participated in countless marches held for open housing in Louisville, as well as marches for sanitation workers in Memphis and St. Petersburg. Along the way, she had gotten to know King.
On April 4, 1968, he was assassinated on the balcony of a Memphis motel as he prepared to support striking Black sanitation workers there. Although James Earl Ray initially confessed to the crime (later recanting), doubts about the full circumstances persist. For example, former FBI agent Donald Wilson, who investigated the murder, later presented evidence he claimed to have found in Ray’s car — slips of paper that might support charges of a conspiracy involving federal agents. But Wilson hadn’t produced the evidence earlier, he claimed, because he didn’t trust other investigators and feared for his family’s safety.
The King family questioned the official version and was eager to see Ray get a new trial before he died of liver cancer.
In a way, it is easier to accept that King was the victim of a secret conspiracy than to face other facets of his life. As Powers put it, "He was a great man — but he was still a man."
Like Bill Clinton, whose accomplishments as president were overshadowed by the relentless investigation of alleged personal misbehavior, King was hounded by FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, who hoped to discredit the civil rights leader by exposing alleged "womanizing." For decades, many civil rights leaders dismissed such charges as mean-spirited attempts to sully King’s memory and discredit his historic achievements.
Powers certainly had no intention of doing that. On the contrary. She had worked closely with King, organizing to end discrimination in public accommodations and employment and pass open housing laws. During her first term in the Kentucky legislature, less than a month before King’s death, she spearheaded passage of a statewide open housing bill.
But her relationship with King was more than professional. As she revealed in her 1995 book, I Shared the Dream, their work together had led to a love affair that continued until the last moments of his life. Keeping that secret for almost three decades, she went public only after other civil rights leaders released inaccurate accounts of their relationship and the events surrounding King’s death.
She was particularly upset by comments in an autobiography written by Ralph Abernathy, King’s close friend and confidante. Though willing to attribute Abernathy’s misstatements to illness and a poor memory, Georgia Powers felt compelled to set the record straight. "When Dr. King’s life is researched," she wrote, "I want the part relating to me to be available in my own words. It is my own history as well, both the good and the bad."
It began with mutual admiration, she explained, and "progressed into a deepening friendship in which we shared opinions, confidences, and laughed often." She called him "M.L.," and he called her "Senator." But King was under tremendous pressure, and ultimately turned to Georgia for intimacy and emotional support. Although they sometimes discussed issues and strategies, his main unmet need was time to let his hair down and set his cares aside.
"Some people called him a prophet, and compared him with Jesus," she recalled. While she also believed that he was divinely inspired, "I knew Martin had all the imperfections, foibles, and passions of a mortal man." A meticulous person with an affection for silk suits, he enjoyed laughter and jokes, barbecued ribs and soul food, not to mention the company of attractive women. In short, "he had a good appetite for life."
King also had a strong sense that he wouldn’t get to see his visions come to pass. Tired and melancholy one night, he told her, "I’m just as normal as any other man. I want to live a long life, but I know I won’t get to."
Powers was in Memphis with King on the day he died. The previous night he had confided, "I’ve never been more physically and emotionally tired." On April 4 they waited most of the day to see if a temporary restraining order against the planned demonstration would be lifted. But King was adamant. Regardless of what the court decided, he promised, "We will march on Monday."
When Abernathy asked whether he feared what might happen, King answered slowly, "I’d rather be dead than afraid."
As the meeting broke up and the group prepared for a soul food dinner, King brushed past Georgia on his way out the door. "I’m looking forward to a quiet and peaceful evening," he said softly. "Don’t make any plans." They were the last words he ever spoke to her. Moments later he was shot.
Looking back, she regretted that her actions may have hurt others, especially King’s wife. But despite those feelings, she never regretted her decision, realizing that it wasn’t merely a tawdry affair. "When we were together," she recalled, "the rest of the world, whose problems we knew and shared, was far away. Our time together was a safe haven for both of us. There we could laugh and speak of things others might not understand. He trusted me, and I him, not to talk about it."
As the years passed, however, Georgia became increasingly uncomfortable with the rumors that distorted their relationship. She also realized that her life, like so many, contained secrets and hidden truths. One concerned her own ancestry; although she didn’t know the identity of her father’s father, she eventually learned that he was White. Another involved her great aunt, Celia Mudd, who was born into slavery in 1859 but eventually inherited the rural Kentucky farm on which she had spent all her life. As a child, Georgia often asked how it happened. For her parents and other family members, it was apparently a story better left untold.
Nevertheless, over the years she managed to uncover much of the true story. The key was a will dated March 15, 1902, in which Sam Lancaster, whose father had bought the Nelson County farm over 60 years earlier, left it to his most trusted employee — the former slave whom Georgia Powers knew as Aunt Celia. That fateful decision led to a court battle with Sam’s surviving brother, and the predictable rumors that Celia and Sam had been lovers. But a medical examination proved conclusively that this was impossible. At the age of 42, Celia Mudd was still a virgin.
Although the case went to Kentucky’s highest court, most newspapers declined to report about it. A Black woman inheriting more than 500 acres of land from a White man apparently wasn’t considered news. Neither was the fact that Celia Mudd went on to become a local philanthropist, admired by Blacks and Whites alike.
In 2003, I visited the farm on which Aunt Celia spent her life. Stepping into the old slave quarters where she was born, I reflected on how much we still don’t understand about that time, when Whites, however “humane” they tried to be, believed that Black people were no more than property. I also thought about how we too often choose to ignore or downplay the racial inequities that continue to this day. Over the next months, we co-authored a novel, Celia’s Land, based on her ancestor’s extraordinary journey. To learn more, go to Plantation Politics and other chapters of The Inheritance posted online. Until our collaboration, Celia’s story — either before or after her legal struggle — remained virtually unknown. Once she won in court, she began a second life, got married and became a role model and beloved benefactor for her community and members of her family. She paid for her sister’s children to attend Catholic school, hired relatives to work the farm, and actively encouraged the young women in her family to pursue their dreams. Although she never had children of her own, she became a mother for many. “I want my people to progress,” she explained, “and the only way they can is to have an opportunity for an education. If it means leaving the country, so be it.” She lived long enough to see many of her nieces and nephews graduate from high school.
Celia’s life, as well as Georgia’s, says much about how to handle uncomfortable truths with dignity and grace. Rather than arguing about who needs to apologize for which past wrong, whether it is slavery or a personal mistake, what we need more is the strength to face our own and society’s secrets — to openly acknowledge them, but also to reconcile and forgive.
After all, even role models are just human beings.
THE INHERITANCE by Greg Guma
