“OK, everyone, Monday is a state holiday, and since none of our clients will be working, you can dress down. Have a good weekend!”
That was the gleeful pronouncement in 1999 from my boss as he breezed through our Chicagoland office the Friday afternoon before Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
RELATED: Evolution of Black Liberation: A New Focus on Mental Health
My first MLK Day in an office environment was looming. Just out of college with a civil engineering degree, I was all eagerness and aspirations, trying to align my career with my values, or at least not blatantly contradict them.
Until then, I hadn’t thought much about what the King holiday looked like at work. Having grown up in the 1980s, I’d felt a particular sense of Gen-X pride, ownership even. It was our generation that, in 1986, saw first-hand the ushering in of the hard-fought-for holiday honoring the foremost martyr of the Civil Rights movement.
The King Holiday song had played all weekend every year since then, projecting that sense of collective power. It felt like the entire music industry had gotten behind the making of that song.
And it was our generation that, in 1994 — thanks to the leadership of the late Rep. John Lewis — saw the transition of the holiday into a National Day of Service. It’s not just a day off but a ‘day on’ for community service, a reflection of Dr. King’s vision.
RELATED: Bringing Racial Healing to the Heart of Black Chicago
But that day in 1999, as I sat in my office, it dawned on me — did my colleagues feel that same reverence? Or was it just another day off for them?
“That couldn’t be it, right? Just go to work — like a normal day?”
“I mean, boss-man didn’t even mention the name of Dr. King?”
“Dress down?”
All weekend long, I wrestled with those thoughts. I don’t know what I was expecting from a company of some 50 people — nearly all white men — nestled in Chicago suburbia. But for sure, I wasn’t expecting the looming possibility of the invisibility of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
Should I stay home? But what good will that do? I didn’t tell them I wouldn’t be there on Monday, so if I don’t show up, that will have to be a sick day. And I was not sick.
Listening to the actual voice of Dr. King has become mandatory for me every 2nd weekend in January.
The power of his words on paper has the ability to influence, but hearing his voice, the cadence, the focus, the vibration — it always reminds me that his set of gifts were too magical to have been an accident of nature, and he used those gifts in service to humanity, to us — to me. Had it not been for the Movement for which Dr. King knowingly gave his life, where would I, the son of a loving white mother and Black father, be in the eyes of society? Would I be here in this comfortable office in suburbia with my white colleagues?
RELATED: It’s Time to Know the True History of Dr. King and Native Americans
While I can’t recall the actual words of Dr. King that may have inspired me that weekend, it somehow hit like a slap that I had to go to work. And I had to dress UP. By dressing up, I knew it couldn’t be the normal business casual of collared shirt and khakis typical of the late 90s because that would just illicit wily comments of the nature, “Hey, didn’t you get the memo?”
So, with excitement and apprehension about standing out and having to face unwanted questions, I donned my Brooks Brothers suit and tie and rehearsed my response.
“Hey Kelsey, what gives — why you all dressed up?!”
“It’s the King holiday!”
That year, and for the 15 years following, through multiple jobs, I faced my trepidation, rocked a Brooks Brothers, and steeled myself for the questions, the comments, and the looks, all that I would rather not have had. Only 45% of employers nationally give their staff the day off. So suiting up at work was perhaps my small way of trying to commiserate, if even by the tiniest fraction, with the discomfort that those on the front lines of the Civil Rights movement must have experienced.
I had the freedom to fully propel the spirit of Dr. King’s message into tangible actions.
But by 2019, I was the boss. I started my own company, Engage Civil, which provides civil engineering services to the Chicago region. As president and CEO, being seen in a suit wasn’t so unusual, and I realized that as the leader, there was no one else to look to uphold the meaning of King Holiday.
RELATED: Dr. Joy DeGruy and Reparations: Why Healing Begins With Truth
That meant my team had the day off without having to use their paid time off. And it also meant I had the freedom to fully propel the spirit of Dr. King’s message into tangible actions, urging people across Chicago to engage in community service.
I’m blessed to have a wife, Syda Segovia, who can take my simple expression of vision and bake it into a full-blown thing. This year will be the sixth year I’ve volunteered on King Day with her nonprofit, Organic Oneness, which brings people together to eliminate racism and create healthy communities in Chicago. Every year, we beautify schools and community spaces in our Bronzeville neighborhood, turning my words, “I want our company to have a day of service on King Day,” into action.
This year, we expected to host 500 people, with a waiting list of several hundred more — students, parents, and community members who are eager to connect and work collectively on community-building efforts. Unfortunately, those plans had to be postponed due to the host school system being shuttered in response to sub-zero weather
All we’ve done is tap into a spirit that exists among so many people of all racial and ethnic backgrounds and ages, who want to do more than stay at home — or go to work — on King Day.
As we step into another year of commemorating Dr. King and the sacrifices he made, let’s not only honor past achievements in civil rights but also mobilize ourselves toward ongoing efforts for a more equitable society. That’s what keeps us true to the values Dr. King championed.
Kelsey Taylor is the principal of Engage Civil. His work is distinguished by its meticulous design, reflecting his deep commitment to public service and racial justice in his Bronzeville neighborhood and throughout Chicago .