Upon walking up the concrete steps and into the pallid, bare catholic cathedral, I came into the situation of seeing a large, rather obese man giving some kind of generic "we-still-have-a-long-way-to-go" type of speech, which then led into a song that I did not want to sing, as I was too concerned with getting my jacket off so I could cool off; hoping to impede the uncomfortable sweat from dripping down my shoulder blades and into the small of back. I sat down at the conclusion of the tune, and again broke into my usual scanning of the people, places situations around me. In front of me about three rows sat five people with mental and physical handicaps. They were brought to the ceremony probably by a local worker at one of the homes. The knew not the significance, nor the importance of the situation; I could tell it from their jerky head movements and roving eyes that seemed to be peering off into the ceiling into a state of serene inattentiveness. Behind me sat a white woman, bouncing a small toddler on her lap. She sang the chorus of the hymn loudly, and wore a perpetual smile upon her face as if she was genuinely happy all of the time. I assumed that she probably came from a well-to-do liberal family, and was educated and well-articulated in speaking of issues of poverty and 'social justice'. She sat like a bird, proud and beautiful and sure of her ability to sing and flutter about above the reality. I liked her, though, I have to admit. Across the aisle, my eyes came upon two elderly men and a group of black Americans, congregated towards the front. They were all trimly and nicely dressed, and the women had sparkling gold glasses frames that looked as if they were polished. They broke out into emotional exultation's along the lines of 'Yeah!' "Bring it home!" "That's RIGHT!" Aside from the fact that I began to notice the milk and oil split in the arrangement of where we sat--black in front, white in back--I was more shocked at the amount of empty seats that took up large swaths of space within the sanctuary. In front of me there was a formidable ocean of chair backs that gave me a great sight-line all the way to the pulpit, even though I had positioned myself in the second row from the back of the room. I found myself feeling ashamed for the speaker when she made reference to the 'turn-out' as if it was an impressive sight, seeing all those chairs, each representing the indifference of a person who probably had something better to do or work on their hands. It's too bad, too, because she spoke about remembering our history and knowing where we want to go as a people, yet the more common collective act of forgetting our own past left the most indelible mark on me. After all, most of us don't even get the morning off on this 'National' holiday; I guess it's not important enough to take time to reflect. After all, time is money and Dr. King is dead.
At the conclusion of our march that spanned about a mile in distance, the crowd of around 200 people began to make their way into the center doors in hopes of snatching a seat, seeing a friend and, most importantly, grabbing a donut while supplies lasted. People were generally in a polite mood, on this day of all days to be civil and non-violent to each other. That was, until of course, they opened a second entrance to alleviate the lines, which perpetuated a shameless stampede of peace marchers who were pushing shoving and cutting to get into the gymnasium. I was quietly behind a woman who was sitting in a wheelchair, who had the great misfortune of not being tall enough to be 'seen' by those impatient miscreants who thought more about glazed sugar than about the fact that the second entrance had been opened to let HER through in the first place. After watching wave after wave of ignorant person go around her, I finally had had enough and thrust my arm into the chest of a young black boy about the age of 14. I informed him that he would NOT take one step further into the gymnasium until the helpless, nearly-forgotten woman in the wheelchair was able to go in. He looked at me with a stupor full of youthful arrogance at the fact that someone had actually told him no to move. Under his breath he mumbled, "Well, just move her out of the way." Ignoring this offensive statement, I implored the usher to let the women take her leave into the gymnasium above the rush and echo of people. And, as I crossed through the two heavy steel doors, I heard the young boy and a women who looked to be about 25 say, "fuck them." I guess justice and the fight for civil rights is only afforded to those who lived forty years ago, and only comes to those who can physically STAND UP and show it up front. I guess we really do have, to quote today's most choicest of phrases, "a long way to go."
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