A dream, a speech, a praisesong, a rhyme. The day after the commemoration of Martin Luther King’s birth, and almost 45 years since he dreamed, we marched. Black, white, yellow, brown, red, old, young, straight, gay, trans, on feet, some aided by canes or wheelchairs, we who had had the audacity to hope let out a collective exhale.
He who had inspired us to chose “hope over fear,” spoke to us who had gathered in his honor, his mouth–not filled with false promises but with a clear articulation of the challenges ahead. He who asked us to hope and to demand change charged us to remember that we are that hope and we are that change.
She praised the words/people/workers of the everyday. She conjured the dead who had toiled and prayed so that we might dream, hope, and live. She announced bravely that love is a/the political act.
He prayed for healing and union–to “turn to each other, not on each other.” He reminded us that though “we have come over a way that with tears has been watered,” we are not finished. We have only just begun.