Even if we have to start all over

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Here is what I remember: hundreds of people riding a train from DC to Montgomery, Alabama in the heat of a southern spring. Here is what I saw: priests and teenagers, college students and old men, professors and lawyers and dentists and ministers, pouring into the railroad car. I remember the long ride and standing along the back of the train feeling the warmth and sweet smell of flowers along the way that night. We sang songs, of course and we napped in each other’s arms and we watched as FBI agents surrounded our car and spoke on their walkie- talkies as we pulled into the station. We walked through the city to get to the organizing field where we were joined from others from all over the country. During that walk we passed stores where men and women stared, flinty eyed, their hands resting on the barrels of their guns. Dr. King went around shaking hands before we began the walk back into the capitol. By now this scene may feel like a cliché. Our bodies and our voices and our singing may feel like something so historical, so long gone and over, so unnecessary that this picture may be meaningless to many people who read this blog. Continue Reading