Let it Ring

I snuggled with my boys and watched a few video clips the other day to give them a small idea of life in segregated America. Specifically, what life was like for African Americans during this time.

We saw signs that were part of everyday life - hung in businesses and on fences around town. Signs that then were as common as street signs, but today make us draw back in disgust when we see them.

Whites only.
Colored entrance.
Colored riders to the back of the bus.

Pompously sanctioned racism, keeping white people safe and separate.

From what?

We learned about the Little Rock Nine- nine brave teenagers who went to school. And were attacked by angry mobs of crazies. And were forced away from school by the National Guard. And were rebuked by the Governor.

The demeanor of these students was shocking to me. They looked so dignified and strong as they walked towards the school steps. I almost expected to see the frothing mob fall mute in shame in the face of this silent righteousness. But they were blinded by hatred. Their special status and rights were being threatened, and nothing else mattered.

This hate slammed from fire hoses into students. And attacked students with German Shepherds. And arrested peaceful protesters. And mocked and spit and screamed and beat and marginalized and de-humanized.

I couldn't help crying as I held my son on my lap and watched these few moments of history. I cried with shame and anger, but I wanted my boys to see. See what our great country was like, just a few years ago. See what hatred looks like. See what WE are capable of.

"But one hundred years later (after the Emancipation Proclamation), we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition."

Then, I began to hear new words. Words like black brothers and sisters. And white brothers and sisters. And love. And dream.

"But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred."

We saw white people and black people walking together, holding hands and signs with new messages that spoke truth to power. I cried again when we saw a father lifting his son up onto his shoulders to see the peaceful revolution.

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four 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."

When the words of Martin Luther King, Jr rang out over the sea of faces, it was almost too much to bear.

"This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, 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!"

Amen.

Will

Will is my baby. My sweet, sweet boy.

He has many nicknames, which is funny because "Will" seems like a tough name to change up. He's most often affectionately called Wilson, but also answers to Buddy, Wilsonator and occasionally Wilberforce.

He has huge serious eyes, an adorable gap-toothed smile and sparse wispy hair.

He loves to climb and explore, and had broken both an arm and a leg by his first birthday.

He cries whenever anyone leaves the house, even if it's someone he's just met. I'm not sure if it's because he is sad to see them go, or if it's because he wishes he could go with them.

He was the most beautiful and perfect newborn I've ever seen.

Around the time he turned 18 months, I realized that he had far below the average 20 words that a child of his age should be able to say. He could say around 5 words, but mostly said "daddy". I taught him sign language for "please", but left it at that; assuming more words would be coming soon. As time passed, nothing really changed.

He will be 2 next month and can say about 10 words.

He is beginning speech therapy next month, and I'm excited to see the ways it will help him. Will is such a smart boy and understands so much, and I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be to be unable to communicate. It makes me sad that I have to guess at what he wants, how he happened to get hurt, etc.

I was excited this week, because he spontainiously said "Colin"! He has never made the "K" sound before, so this was huge! He also pointed to a picture of Mary holding baby Jesus and said, "Jesus". I don't know where these words randomly come from, but it's wonderful when he can finally shape sounds into meaning.

I am thankful to be the mother of this sweet and adventurous boy. We've shared two years of fun and books and snuggles and dancing around the kitchen to Mumford and Sons...and I can't wait to hear the things he's been thinking about.

Friday

Dead babies.

20 slaughtered babies.

There's nothing I can say about that. I can't even comprehend it.

I'm ashamed to say my first response was relief. Thankfulness that it wasn't my children in those classrooms. I want to push away the horrifying story, gather my babies close and read them books, feed them pb&j sandwiches, watch them make messes, laugh at their funny childish insights, scold them, play games with them, brush their teeth and tuck them into bed.

It makes me cry to think that there is a little town where twenty families have their storybooks put away.

Twenty homes where peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are no longer on the menu.

Twenty childish bedrooms that are achingly clean.

Twenty homes where faces are twisted and tear stained and stomachs ache with grief.

Twenty moms and twenty dads wishing they had some mischief to scold. Or maybe wishing they been more patient.

Twenty games of Candy Land or even Chutes and Ladders that would now somehow be bearable.

Twenty little toothbrushes.

Twenty little empty beds.



I feel rich. And selfish. And so sad.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood;
who strives valiantly;
who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds.
who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions;
who spends himself in a worthy cause;
who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
-Theodore Roosevelt

Saturday

Nick's cousin was getting married on Saturday, an adults-only affair at the posh Weaver Ridge. (It must be The Year of Love for Nick's cousins, as THREE of them are getting married within five months; but I digress...)

We got all spiffed up, split the four kids between two babysitters and raced off to the wedding. I am hard wired to be punctual, so I could feel my heart beating a bit faster as I watched the dashboard clock and realized we'd be arriving at the wedding at approximately the same time as the wedding party began walking down the aisle.

We quickly found a parking spot, grabbed our gift from the trunk and ran across the parking lot in the rain. A large crowd of people were packed inside, waiting for the rain to stop falling...because, of course, it was an outdoor wedding.

We didn't recognize anyone, but thought maybe the people we saw were from the groom's side of the family. When we finally asked, it turned out to be a different wedding party and we were pointed down the hall to the "other wedding".

Guess what?! That wasn't our wedding, either.

We finally located the owner of WR, who took us to his office, scanned his calender and kindly pointed out that Nick's cousin was getting married NEXT Saturday.

If you only knew how Type A organized I am, you would be laughing as hysterically as Nick and I were. The owner invited us down to the bar and gave us drinks on the house for our "inconvenience", which turned this funny, crazy day into a legitimate DATE! We sat at the bar, in nice clothes, drinking free drinks. It was awesome.

Now we're all practiced up for NEXT Saturday!