–> I have to admit: I teared up –> We made our way to the Lincoln Memorial and joined the throng of tourists on the steps, looking out. Then the most amazing thing happened. An asian man bent over the inscription in the stone at our feet, opened a bottle of water, and delicately poured it out over the words. The words were “I have a dream” (see below). He proceeded to explain, in a tongue I could not understand, but which was full of care and passion, the story of the March on Washington and that day of August 28, 1963. A couple recognizable terms like “America” and “King” fluttered amid the staccato words and broad gestures of his arms. What I assumed as his family, right in front of us, nodded and acknowledged. He was intent on sharing his knowledge of this big moment in US history. I had never heard the story in that way, I had never been standing there at that spot. It was the best way I could ever hear it. I had never known how truly transcendent that notion is – that as people put down and release themselves from their _differences_, “…all people will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
