I received an email the other day, forwarded to me and many others in the sender’s contact list.
This one was about veterans and Memorial Day, illustrated with poignant pictures.
The idea presented was that (military) veterans have GIVEN us our freedoms. What annoys me is not the idea of honoring those who’ve defended and protected our country, often with huge personal sacrifice. What annoys me is the wording.
I’m going to take each assertion and try to rephrase it.
It is the VETERAN, not the preacher, who has given us freedom of religion.
Rewording: it is the Veteran who has protected and defended our freedom to worship, a freedom guaranteed under Amendment I to our Constitution (the first of our Bill of Rights).
It is the VETERAN, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to assemble.
Rewording: Amendment I to our Constitution guarantees the right to assemble peacefully. The campus organizer keeps fresh our appreciation of that right. The veteran has protected and defended the Constitution.
It is the VETERAN, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.
Rewording: Amendment VI to our Constitution grants us the right to a ‘speedy and public trial.’ Our veterans have protected and defended the Constitution.
It is the VETERAN, not the politician, who has given us the right to vote.
Rewording: Our Constitution initially awarded this right only to non-slave and non-Native males. We engaged in a bloody civil war before all men were ‘allowed’ to vote (Amendments XIII, XIV and XV). Acceptance and enforcement of those amendments evolved slowly.
And, hey, I’m a woman. My foremothers fought in the political/legal arena for that right (Amendent XIX) and I thank them every time I sign my ballot.
It is the VETERAN who salutes the Flag.
Rewording: All citizens may salute the flag our veterans have protected and defended. When I place my hand over my heart, it is a salute.
It is the VETERAN who serves under the Flag.
Yes. And many others, also. So, thank you, veterans for protecting and defending the rights and responsibilities our Constitution bestows on all citizens. And we can all honor the amazing Statesmen who gave birth to our nation with their words as well as their actions.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Book Tour
I’m back from my book tour. Well, not ‘Book Tour’ with capital letters. More of a Library Donation Excursion.
On May 17th, with a four-day space in my calendar, I threw some clothes in a bag, slipped into a pair of shoes and headed to the Southern Oregon Coast. My mission? Deliver copies of my novel, Just Out of Reach, to libraries in the area.
I took Oregon Highway 38. It runs through Drain and Elkton and meanders along the Umpqua River to Reedsport. Along the way, lambs and cattle grazed on new-growth-green grass or lazed in spring sunshine. An elk herd hung out at the east end of their reservation, out of sight from the viewing area. I know the route well, yet am always enchanted.
I cruised to the Coos Bay library where Ellen accepted two of my books, promising to send one to the North Bend branch. We chatted as she looked over my information and discovered we are both UO graduates. She asked if I would be interested in doing a talk at the library sometime in the fall.
“Sure,” I said, “I’d be honored.”
I had given a presentation at the Eugene Library in January and it was well-received. I’m over the jitters about such things. And I know the subject—both book and author!
Feeling elated, I trundled on down the road to Bandon, the scene of the crime as it were. There, too, the book was accepted with enthusiasm.
Then I stopped at the bookstore in Old Town. Last fall the owner bought one copy of my book. I wondered whether it had sold. No, still on the shelf.
Disappointed, I booked a room for the night at the Bandon Inn above Old Town, the inspiration for much of my story.
Since I planned to continue south for the afternoon, I called my friend Stan who lives near Gold Beach. He was home; I would get to meet his new wife.
I hustled the thirty miles to Port Orford. In the library parking lot, I grabbed a book from the back seat and stepped around a sign pointing to bike parking. Inside, the volunteer readily agreed to pass my book to the acquisitions desk.
As I returned to my car, I nearly tripped over the bike sign. Not just bike parking, but Bike and Dog Parking!
Giggling at the image of parking spaces for dogs, I exchanged my regular glasses for sunglasses and drove off in search of a quick lunch. Not finding an obvious spot, I turned back to Ray’s Market next to the library. That’s when I realized my regular glasses were missing. Panicked, I ran over to the bike/dog sign, thinking I had dropped them there. Nope. I raced into the library. No, I hadn’t left them there either.
Frustrated—and unnerved at my forgetfulness—I marched back to my car, opened the passenger side and tossed my sweater inside. Out fell the glasses, protected by the case I’d put them in. I looked up and shook my finger at the sky. “Not funny,” I said, looking around to be sure nobody heard.
Stan and Lynda live on a straight stretch of coastline, their house above the highway with a clear view of the ocean. I lolled in the sun on their deck, feet stretched out while Lynda explained the circuitous path she’d followed getting to Gold Beach. I took a couple of photos of the two of them, to show to mutual friends later.
It wasn’t until I was back in Bandon walking up the steps to the motel, that I looked at my feet. Not only had I thought my glasses lost, but also, in my rush to leave Eugene that morning, I had grabbed a pair of shoes from the rack. But not a pair: One blue shoe, one brown.
“This getting old stuff is getting really old,” I muttered aloud with a snort.
“At least they were on the right feet. And my socks match,” I chortled, changing into the beach shoes I keep in the car.
I remembered a small photo album my mother carried in her purse. It had SOG with PIP printed on the front. Silly Old Grandmother with Pictures In Purse.
Guess that makes me a Silly Old Woman with UnMatched Feet! SOW with UMF. Hmm. Doesn’t sound so bad. I can always use some UMF.
The next morning, in the warmth of sun filtered through a thin veil of clouds, I made my last stop at the library in Coquille. I gave the librarian my book with the promo and review information. The librarian’s daughter, no older than seven, piped up. “I like your earrings,” she said.
“Thank you. They’re my favorites,” I replied. I pointed to the ring on my left hand. “And I had to go all the way to Spain to get this ring,” I told her. “It’s very special.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, and repeated, “I like your earrings.”
Her mother and I exchanged amused smiles, ending my Book Tour on a happy note. I stopped for ice cream at Rice Hill to celebrate.
On May 17th, with a four-day space in my calendar, I threw some clothes in a bag, slipped into a pair of shoes and headed to the Southern Oregon Coast. My mission? Deliver copies of my novel, Just Out of Reach, to libraries in the area.
I took Oregon Highway 38. It runs through Drain and Elkton and meanders along the Umpqua River to Reedsport. Along the way, lambs and cattle grazed on new-growth-green grass or lazed in spring sunshine. An elk herd hung out at the east end of their reservation, out of sight from the viewing area. I know the route well, yet am always enchanted.
I cruised to the Coos Bay library where Ellen accepted two of my books, promising to send one to the North Bend branch. We chatted as she looked over my information and discovered we are both UO graduates. She asked if I would be interested in doing a talk at the library sometime in the fall.
“Sure,” I said, “I’d be honored.”
I had given a presentation at the Eugene Library in January and it was well-received. I’m over the jitters about such things. And I know the subject—both book and author!
Feeling elated, I trundled on down the road to Bandon, the scene of the crime as it were. There, too, the book was accepted with enthusiasm.
Then I stopped at the bookstore in Old Town. Last fall the owner bought one copy of my book. I wondered whether it had sold. No, still on the shelf.
Disappointed, I booked a room for the night at the Bandon Inn above Old Town, the inspiration for much of my story.
Since I planned to continue south for the afternoon, I called my friend Stan who lives near Gold Beach. He was home; I would get to meet his new wife.
I hustled the thirty miles to Port Orford. In the library parking lot, I grabbed a book from the back seat and stepped around a sign pointing to bike parking. Inside, the volunteer readily agreed to pass my book to the acquisitions desk.
As I returned to my car, I nearly tripped over the bike sign. Not just bike parking, but Bike and Dog Parking!
Giggling at the image of parking spaces for dogs, I exchanged my regular glasses for sunglasses and drove off in search of a quick lunch. Not finding an obvious spot, I turned back to Ray’s Market next to the library. That’s when I realized my regular glasses were missing. Panicked, I ran over to the bike/dog sign, thinking I had dropped them there. Nope. I raced into the library. No, I hadn’t left them there either.
Frustrated—and unnerved at my forgetfulness—I marched back to my car, opened the passenger side and tossed my sweater inside. Out fell the glasses, protected by the case I’d put them in. I looked up and shook my finger at the sky. “Not funny,” I said, looking around to be sure nobody heard.
Stan and Lynda live on a straight stretch of coastline, their house above the highway with a clear view of the ocean. I lolled in the sun on their deck, feet stretched out while Lynda explained the circuitous path she’d followed getting to Gold Beach. I took a couple of photos of the two of them, to show to mutual friends later.
It wasn’t until I was back in Bandon walking up the steps to the motel, that I looked at my feet. Not only had I thought my glasses lost, but also, in my rush to leave Eugene that morning, I had grabbed a pair of shoes from the rack. But not a pair: One blue shoe, one brown.
“This getting old stuff is getting really old,” I muttered aloud with a snort.
“At least they were on the right feet. And my socks match,” I chortled, changing into the beach shoes I keep in the car.
I remembered a small photo album my mother carried in her purse. It had SOG with PIP printed on the front. Silly Old Grandmother with Pictures In Purse.
Guess that makes me a Silly Old Woman with UnMatched Feet! SOW with UMF. Hmm. Doesn’t sound so bad. I can always use some UMF.
The next morning, in the warmth of sun filtered through a thin veil of clouds, I made my last stop at the library in Coquille. I gave the librarian my book with the promo and review information. The librarian’s daughter, no older than seven, piped up. “I like your earrings,” she said.
“Thank you. They’re my favorites,” I replied. I pointed to the ring on my left hand. “And I had to go all the way to Spain to get this ring,” I told her. “It’s very special.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, and repeated, “I like your earrings.”
Her mother and I exchanged amused smiles, ending my Book Tour on a happy note. I stopped for ice cream at Rice Hill to celebrate.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Call Me Crazy
Many of my small everyday tasks have been modified by observing or listening to others. I think of my former sister-in-law every time I grind coffee and brush the grinder clean. I think of Nancy while cooking my oatmeal in milk rather than water. I think of Linda every morning as I do ‘the plank’ during my stretch-and-strength routine. I think of Mary Sue every time I vacuum, imagining a line of ants marching out the door. I think of the man in the laundry at a Denver apartment who showed me how to fold sheets without dragging them on the floor.
When these thoughts jump to mind, vivid and clear, I believe they send positive energy from me to each person, like The Force, only more subtle.
Call me crazy, but today, as I ironed the top sheet for my bed, I heard my friend Ruth’s laughter. Not in the room. Ruth lives across town. In the past twenty-eight years, we’ve seen each other two or three times.
Still, I can hear her tell the story again, of her puzzlement over how the housekeeper was able to iron a king-sized sheet. Then she discovered a missing sock inside a neatly pressed and folded sheet. I can hear her musical laugh at uncovering the mystery – and at herself for not guessing the process.
But today, rather than rely on The Force to deliver my thoughts, I decided to deliver them myself.
Without thinking, I tapped out the pattern of her home phone, hoping like crazy that I had the correct sequence. I did. Her husband answered. No, Ruth was at work. I told him why I’d called, expecting him to question my sanity. He didn’t. We chatted a few minutes, easy and unstrained as though we’d seen each other yesterday.
He promised to give the message to Ruth, to have her return my call.
I told him it should be her choice, whether to call back.
Because, call me crazy, but I believe the energy sparked by my memory has already rippled out, spread wide, then washed back over me.
When these thoughts jump to mind, vivid and clear, I believe they send positive energy from me to each person, like The Force, only more subtle.
Call me crazy, but today, as I ironed the top sheet for my bed, I heard my friend Ruth’s laughter. Not in the room. Ruth lives across town. In the past twenty-eight years, we’ve seen each other two or three times.
Still, I can hear her tell the story again, of her puzzlement over how the housekeeper was able to iron a king-sized sheet. Then she discovered a missing sock inside a neatly pressed and folded sheet. I can hear her musical laugh at uncovering the mystery – and at herself for not guessing the process.
But today, rather than rely on The Force to deliver my thoughts, I decided to deliver them myself.
Without thinking, I tapped out the pattern of her home phone, hoping like crazy that I had the correct sequence. I did. Her husband answered. No, Ruth was at work. I told him why I’d called, expecting him to question my sanity. He didn’t. We chatted a few minutes, easy and unstrained as though we’d seen each other yesterday.
He promised to give the message to Ruth, to have her return my call.
I told him it should be her choice, whether to call back.
Because, call me crazy, but I believe the energy sparked by my memory has already rippled out, spread wide, then washed back over me.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Lost and Found
At a writing workshop a couple weeks ago, we were asked to write about something we’d lost and what that loss had meant in our lives. I wrote about the ring.
My sister gave it to me, a unique silver ring from Mexico. I adored it, curved and sleek, snaking around my middle finger from knuckle to first joint, perfect for my thick, square hands. People admired it, sometimes taking my hand to look closer. I felt acknowledged, accepted, if only for the ring.
Then, sometime in September, 1993, I slipped it off and laid it on the kitchen counter. At least, that’s what I remember.
And it vanished. Poof! Gone!
Had I really left it there? I retraced my steps, swept floors, searched cabinets and drawers. I looped through the house every day for months.
I asked at work. Had anyone seen it? Yes, they remembered it. No, not on a table or desk. On my hand. I searched for a replacement, a futile effort, since I wanted that ring, not a copy.
Eventually, I accepted that it had disappeared for good.
Years went by. Then, on a cruise from Barcelona to Dover in 2006, we stopped in Vigo, Spain. My friend and I spent the day ashore. We took a local bus tour and found a unique spot for lunch. Then we shopped. That’s when I found it. Not the same ring, but one that spoke to me, one that said, ‘this is you.’ I asked to see it, a fat band of silver woven around bits of blue and green and purple and amber.
I slipped it onto the middle finger of my left hand. Oh, bliss! A perfect fit.
I wear a ring on my right hand, too—a large diamond set at the bottom of a tear-drop shaped opening in a thick gold band. The diamond, nearly half a carat, came from my Grandmother’s engagement ring. Impressive. Pretty.
But when I hear what a pretty ring I know the comment will be directed at the Spanish ring. Just like the one my sister gave me, the one that said ‘this is you’ . . . and it’s O.K. to be noticed.
My sister gave it to me, a unique silver ring from Mexico. I adored it, curved and sleek, snaking around my middle finger from knuckle to first joint, perfect for my thick, square hands. People admired it, sometimes taking my hand to look closer. I felt acknowledged, accepted, if only for the ring.
Then, sometime in September, 1993, I slipped it off and laid it on the kitchen counter. At least, that’s what I remember.
And it vanished. Poof! Gone!
Had I really left it there? I retraced my steps, swept floors, searched cabinets and drawers. I looped through the house every day for months.
I asked at work. Had anyone seen it? Yes, they remembered it. No, not on a table or desk. On my hand. I searched for a replacement, a futile effort, since I wanted that ring, not a copy.
Eventually, I accepted that it had disappeared for good.
Years went by. Then, on a cruise from Barcelona to Dover in 2006, we stopped in Vigo, Spain. My friend and I spent the day ashore. We took a local bus tour and found a unique spot for lunch. Then we shopped. That’s when I found it. Not the same ring, but one that spoke to me, one that said, ‘this is you.’ I asked to see it, a fat band of silver woven around bits of blue and green and purple and amber.
I slipped it onto the middle finger of my left hand. Oh, bliss! A perfect fit.
I wear a ring on my right hand, too—a large diamond set at the bottom of a tear-drop shaped opening in a thick gold band. The diamond, nearly half a carat, came from my Grandmother’s engagement ring. Impressive. Pretty.
But when I hear what a pretty ring I know the comment will be directed at the Spanish ring. Just like the one my sister gave me, the one that said ‘this is you’ . . . and it’s O.K. to be noticed.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Memorial Service
He was one of the first of the Baby Boomers, born in 1946—three years and a generation behind me. The sexual revolution, the Civil Rights movement, Women’s Liberation and the Vietnam War made it so.
He left us by his own choice, under a cloud of depression and with a brain fogged by alcohol. I was angry. And I was apprehensive about attending his memorial service.
But I wanted to support the family, and so I went.
The service began on time—a good sign. But I squirmed as the minister started off on what sounded like a sermon. After only a few remarks, he stopped. The family wanted to begin the service with two songs, he said, favorites of the man we were honoring.
The first song began. After a few notes, subdued laughter trickled around the room. I didn’t recognize the tune until the vocals began. Running on Empty. I relaxed.
The second song surprised me: Sinatra’s version of Fly Me to the Moon. My eyes filled with tears at the last phrase, “in other words, I . . . love . . . you!” It was a message to all of us who had filled the room.
And the room had overflowed. I worried the service would go on and on, with everyone wanting to share a special story.
My friend’s son soon dispelled my concern. He invited two friends to speak briefly, then completed the service with a story about his dad. It seems the son had purchased a house that needed major updating. He attempted a couple improvement projects with disastrous results. Without judgment, his dad offered suggestions and pointed his son toward others who could assist.
“So, please, reach out when you can help,” the son said. “Volunteer, do service work, contribute to your favorite charity. And accept help when it’s offered. My dad would like that very much.”
The service lasted less than an hour, yet was complete. I left—no longer angry—and remembered that, as long as anyone is alive who remembers this man, his spirit lives.
He left us by his own choice, under a cloud of depression and with a brain fogged by alcohol. I was angry. And I was apprehensive about attending his memorial service.
But I wanted to support the family, and so I went.
The service began on time—a good sign. But I squirmed as the minister started off on what sounded like a sermon. After only a few remarks, he stopped. The family wanted to begin the service with two songs, he said, favorites of the man we were honoring.
The first song began. After a few notes, subdued laughter trickled around the room. I didn’t recognize the tune until the vocals began. Running on Empty. I relaxed.
The second song surprised me: Sinatra’s version of Fly Me to the Moon. My eyes filled with tears at the last phrase, “in other words, I . . . love . . . you!” It was a message to all of us who had filled the room.
And the room had overflowed. I worried the service would go on and on, with everyone wanting to share a special story.
My friend’s son soon dispelled my concern. He invited two friends to speak briefly, then completed the service with a story about his dad. It seems the son had purchased a house that needed major updating. He attempted a couple improvement projects with disastrous results. Without judgment, his dad offered suggestions and pointed his son toward others who could assist.
“So, please, reach out when you can help,” the son said. “Volunteer, do service work, contribute to your favorite charity. And accept help when it’s offered. My dad would like that very much.”
The service lasted less than an hour, yet was complete. I left—no longer angry—and remembered that, as long as anyone is alive who remembers this man, his spirit lives.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Balmy
Balmy? I snorted. The article called our recent rainless period balmy! I looked up the word. Balmy: pleasantly mild. In my view, days with highs of 40 degrees don’t qualify. Maybe the writer was a bit balmy, crazed by the rain and wind, and by trees that toppled across the state last Wednesday.
Of the folks interviewed about this hurricane-force storm, none had been in Oregon more than 15 years. They probably missed the floods of 1996 and may not have heard of the Columbus Day Storm.
I remember Friday, October 12, 1962 and the winds that ripped off barn roofs and sailed them across pastures. I was in my sophomore year at the University. My housemates and I watched the giant oak in the front yard sway and strain in the wind. The tree held, much to our relief. Later, as my date and I walked through campus, climbing over fallen trees, I snagged my nylons on some branches. Yes, we wore nylons then, held up by garter belts or girdles! I don’t think I owned a pair of blue jeans, and probably wouldn’t have worn them if I had.
But stormy weather energizes me. I inhale the fresh air deep, breathe free and chase cobwebs from my brain. In cold weather, I struggle to force myself to jog; give me a sprinkle of rain and mild temperatures and I bounce out the door. Wet? I’m drenched by my sweat anyway!
Thurday’s truly balmy winter weather—breeze from the south, thermometer creeping past 50, rain diminished to light drizzle—is the kind that inspired my poem, Light Rain.
LIGHT RAIN
Light rain whispers on the walk.
A damp quilt seeps through my window,
hugs me deeper into sleep.
Tires sizzle and swish,
wash into my dreams,
splash me awake.
I sigh, swim up through the sodden air,
slip into tights and tennies.
Drenched by essence of Oregon,
I jog into memories of
Light Rain in Portland
by the Joffrey Ballet:
supple bodies in blue and gray
leap and sway,
shimmer across the stage,
amaze, enchant
with stormy grace.
I turn my face to the sky
And shout “Bravo! Bravo!”
I’ve printed the poem with a ballet dancer shadowed behind, a reminder of the joy I get from my dances with the rain. Balmy? I guess I am.
Of the folks interviewed about this hurricane-force storm, none had been in Oregon more than 15 years. They probably missed the floods of 1996 and may not have heard of the Columbus Day Storm.
I remember Friday, October 12, 1962 and the winds that ripped off barn roofs and sailed them across pastures. I was in my sophomore year at the University. My housemates and I watched the giant oak in the front yard sway and strain in the wind. The tree held, much to our relief. Later, as my date and I walked through campus, climbing over fallen trees, I snagged my nylons on some branches. Yes, we wore nylons then, held up by garter belts or girdles! I don’t think I owned a pair of blue jeans, and probably wouldn’t have worn them if I had.
But stormy weather energizes me. I inhale the fresh air deep, breathe free and chase cobwebs from my brain. In cold weather, I struggle to force myself to jog; give me a sprinkle of rain and mild temperatures and I bounce out the door. Wet? I’m drenched by my sweat anyway!
Thurday’s truly balmy winter weather—breeze from the south, thermometer creeping past 50, rain diminished to light drizzle—is the kind that inspired my poem, Light Rain.
LIGHT RAIN
Light rain whispers on the walk.
A damp quilt seeps through my window,
hugs me deeper into sleep.
Tires sizzle and swish,
wash into my dreams,
splash me awake.
I sigh, swim up through the sodden air,
slip into tights and tennies.
Drenched by essence of Oregon,
I jog into memories of
Light Rain in Portland
by the Joffrey Ballet:
supple bodies in blue and gray
leap and sway,
shimmer across the stage,
amaze, enchant
with stormy grace.
I turn my face to the sky
And shout “Bravo! Bravo!”
I’ve printed the poem with a ballet dancer shadowed behind, a reminder of the joy I get from my dances with the rain. Balmy? I guess I am.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Not My Kind of Holiday
Monday, January 16, 2012. MLK Day. I was talking with a friend outside the mailroom of the manufactured home park where I live.
A man drove up, climbed out of his SUV and trudged, head down, toward the mailroom door.
“No mail today,” my friend and I said in unison.
“Oh?” He turned toward us.
“It’s a holiday,” I chirped.
He scowled, and turned back to his car. “Not my kind of holiday,” he muttered as he got behind the wheel.
I’ve learned to let that kind of comment pass. I don’t really want to know what he meant. Instead, I counted all the reasons Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday is my kind of holiday.
King could never have been elected to the US Presidency when he was alive. But his accomplishments exceed those of most presidents. FDR may be the exception, but he had more than twelve years in office. And for FDR, with the depression and WWII, the country was united in a way it hasn’t been since.
Many believe King’s Freedom Marches divided us. I believe they opened the door to unite us in a special way. Not black with black and white with white, but black with white and all colors in between.
As articles in the paper noted, King was a fierce critic of America—and it’s most ardent believer. He sought economic justice for all, not just for blacks. He opposed the war in Vietnam not only because of the disproportionate number of blacks drafted to fight it, but also because wars “draw men and skills and money like some demonic destructive suction tube.”
Ah. Wasn’t he eloquent? And human. He smoked, but didn’t we all, back then? He drank and swore. He did all the things a man can do.
And his words moved millions. He led millions in simple-but-not-easy acts of non-violence.
Tears trickle down my cheeks when I watch films of the marches, listen to recordings of his speeches. I remember. I watched as they marched. I listened as he spoke. I cringed at the violence used against them.
My heart spills over with gratitude that the world is a better place because of him. And I sigh, knowing how far we have yet to go.
So what could I say to the man who grumbled about the holiday?
“Peace, brother.”
Because, as Dr. King said, “True peace is not merely the absence of tension, but it is the presence of justice and brotherhood.”
A man drove up, climbed out of his SUV and trudged, head down, toward the mailroom door.
“No mail today,” my friend and I said in unison.
“Oh?” He turned toward us.
“It’s a holiday,” I chirped.
He scowled, and turned back to his car. “Not my kind of holiday,” he muttered as he got behind the wheel.
I’ve learned to let that kind of comment pass. I don’t really want to know what he meant. Instead, I counted all the reasons Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday is my kind of holiday.
King could never have been elected to the US Presidency when he was alive. But his accomplishments exceed those of most presidents. FDR may be the exception, but he had more than twelve years in office. And for FDR, with the depression and WWII, the country was united in a way it hasn’t been since.
Many believe King’s Freedom Marches divided us. I believe they opened the door to unite us in a special way. Not black with black and white with white, but black with white and all colors in between.
As articles in the paper noted, King was a fierce critic of America—and it’s most ardent believer. He sought economic justice for all, not just for blacks. He opposed the war in Vietnam not only because of the disproportionate number of blacks drafted to fight it, but also because wars “draw men and skills and money like some demonic destructive suction tube.”
Ah. Wasn’t he eloquent? And human. He smoked, but didn’t we all, back then? He drank and swore. He did all the things a man can do.
And his words moved millions. He led millions in simple-but-not-easy acts of non-violence.
Tears trickle down my cheeks when I watch films of the marches, listen to recordings of his speeches. I remember. I watched as they marched. I listened as he spoke. I cringed at the violence used against them.
My heart spills over with gratitude that the world is a better place because of him. And I sigh, knowing how far we have yet to go.
So what could I say to the man who grumbled about the holiday?
“Peace, brother.”
Because, as Dr. King said, “True peace is not merely the absence of tension, but it is the presence of justice and brotherhood.”
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