On this 50th commemoration of the March on Washington, I realize that I, too, have a dream. It is deeply rooted in the American dream as well as the Black community's dream and my parents' dreams. And I'm taking this moment to reflect on my progress toward it. What have I done, what am I doing, when will I achieve it? I'm always enamored by the opening line of Langston Hughes' poem, A Dream Deferred -- "What happens to a dream deferred?" Mine is sagging like a heavy load right now.
I'm often dissident when references are made to Dr. King's historic speech because we all too often harp on the color factor and play the race card -- the very opposite of what his wishes were. I even cringe when I hear references to the "First Black President" and see t-shirts with Obama and King shaking hands. It saddens me to see the efforts of the movement misconstrued in such ways. Yet, there is a dream.
After reading an article about Asa Philip Randolph, I've found perspective. I've always wanted to honor those unknown and forgotten members of the Civil Rights movement, even those who didn't support it. We each have a role to play in life and no matter who gets the glory, we all progress. My father was one of the thousands at the original march in 1963 (years before I was born) and I smile every time I think about it. To know that he participated makes me stand taller and walk more confidently. It's also humbling to know that he wasn't mauled by dogs or ripped in parts by water hoses or beaten by spectators or lynched or missing and I'm here by divine design. What choice do I have but to shake my dream off and walk around with it on my shoulders?! It's no longer deferred, it's not dried up or festering or stinking. It's exploding!
Thank you to all who helped to make it happen!
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