Reflecting on the idea that this is the 45th anniversary of MLK’s assassination, I felt overwhelming gratitude to all the people who risked their skulls (and any other target murderous assholes could reach), so that anybody could get an equal chance at opportunity. Today when I climbed Bascom Hill, armed with a discrimination complaint, I thought about the photos of crying mothers and dads, shattered because their children had been shot to death or beat to death or hung because they thought everyone deserved the right to vote. Climbing Bascom Hill usually struck me as tiresome, but the more I thought about those mothers — and the murderers who were acquitted or walked around as free birds for far too long — the madder I became. I remembered the picture of a young Trayon Martin. Martin was the same age as my son when the picture was snapped. Would the defense of “I was standing my ground” worked if Trayvon Martin had been the son of parents who belonged in the top 2% income bracket in the USA? Would the defense have worked if Trayvon Martin had been the son of a white, Mississippi sheriff who discovered “Perez” was the surname of his son’s murderer? Anger makes the mind ponder such questions.
At any rate, I say thank you to the civil rights activists, who were, are, and will ever be. Thank you to activists, black and white and colors for which there are no names, but then, who needs names to describe treasures? Names have a way of blinding and restricting folks anyway. Thinking about you gave me the strength and courage to climb the Hill without a degree of tiredness.