Madison Park

It takes a village, this author might say, to raise a kid. Especially a kid like him

- Eric Motley

I pressed my best suit and starched a white shirt. Held up each and every one of my ties, trying to decide which one looked the most professional. It was the night before my first day at my new job. Not just any job. A job at the White House. I was full of nervous energy.

When I tried to read, my mind kept wandering. I thought back to all of the experiences and the people who had helped me get to this point. College professors. Friends from graduate school. Mostly though, I thought about the people from my hometown. I thought about Madison Park.

I was raised by my grandparents— Mama and Daddy, as I called them— in Madison Park, a town founded by freed slaves on the edge of Montgomery, Alabama. In 1880, John Motley, Sr., my great-great-grandfather, joined a group of freedmen as they stood on the ground that would become Madison Park and pledged to build a community where people could thrive. Daddy built almost half of the black churches in Montgomery, including Union Chapel AME Zion Church in Madison Park.

Some kids had paper routes after school let out. I had a people route. Almost every day when I was growing up, I would go around the neighborhood and visit with each of the people who had made an investment in my life. Especially my tutors.

When I was in first grade, Mama got a letter from my teacher explaining that I was being demoted from the Rabbit reading group to the Turtle reading group. Even though she and Daddy didn’t have much formal education, Mama would have none of it. She immediately called my Aunt Shine. The next Sunday in church, Aunt Shine stood up and made a plea to the congregation.