
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. Martin Luther King, Jr.
When this day rolls around each year, even though it’s been more than a decade since I’ve taught, I remember reading to my kindergarten class from the children’s book about Martin Luther King, Jr., always on the Friday before our long weekend off to celebrate his birthday. And never, ever, not even once did I make it through his words, “I have a dream …” without choking up.
I have a lump in my throat now.
Why? I’m not quite sure why it’s so emotional for me.
But maybe because …
I didn’t understand why Mom was angry when I got my hair tangled up in the barrettes of my four-year-old black friend. It happened because we buried our heads behind the seat of the school bus and talked after the driver told us not to. Mom didn’t reprimand me for talking but took me straight home to wash my hair.
And maybe because when I moved from New York, there were only white children in my 4th grade class and on our playground. Only white children and teachers and workers in the school, well, except the janitor.
And maybe because when the district was integrated the year I started middle school, my parents gave me the option to attend a private school.
Dad and Mom grew up in a different environment and believed a different way. However, I was fortunate as a child to grow up on a military base. I didn’t know anything different from diversity; consequently, no one seemed that different.
WRite wHere I’m supposed to be – Fifty years later, I’m appreciative for that opportunity. And appreciative for one man’s dream …









