I have two stories I would like to share with you.  One, I would call bad news.  And the other, perhaps good, if I could be permitted to make such value judgments.  I will try to make this short.  But those who know my history will forgive me rambling a bit, I trust.

I would not have written the first story, I think, had it not been for the discovery of the second.  But I came across the second story, just five minutes ago, laying on my kitchen floor.  It is handwritten in neon-yellow highlighter on plain white typing paper.  Its words are laid out in the landscape style.  And while it is poorly edited, it makes up for this defect by being brief and genuine (I presume).  And this second story, it allows me now, to overcome my guilt, and record the first story.
Neither story is fiction.  What I say is true, as best I can report as a student of reality.

Story No. 1

A few weeks ago, I was a disillusioned voter.  I am very tired of party politics.  I believe both parties to be agents for continuing a status quo that enriches the elite, and keeps the rabble stable enough so that things can continue as they are.

I do not want to mislead you.  I am still of that mind.  The idealist that lived in my heart for thirty plus years was wounded with this war, and died completely on the operating table, as I struggled against the indifference of American public opinion about the war.  Until we can learn to look at the children of the world as we look at our own children, we are hopeless.  And I’ve come to believe we are hopeless for an age.

But a few weeks ago, as I listened to Mr. Obama give his Iowa victory speech, I was moved.  I believed again.  At least for a moment.  That history will wash away this stain.  That my country will continue to move on to proud new moments.  I saw a leader that night.  Not a black man.  But a man who could restore hope to Americans.  I thought we were witnessing the emergence of a new community.  The beginning of the fruition of the dream of Dr. King.  Men and women not judged by their color, but by the content of their soul.  It was a wonderful moment for me.  To remember the feeling of hope.  I thank Mr. Obama for letting me feel that again.  It extended as far allowing me to vote in a primary.

Then came New Hampshire, and the questions of race and secret ballots.  And I was wary.  But I had faith that America was ready.  Like I was ready.  Surely there were some hicks who could not see beyond race.  But as a nation.  We are ready, I reasoned.

This weekend, however, I was with old friends for a reunion of sorts.  Let me set the stage.  A small house.  A working class neighborhood.  Lower to middle class.  A small manufacturing town.  A Democratic stronghold until Reagan.  And fully returning to a Democratic stronghold after Reagan.  Perhaps ten of us.  Most of us are nearing mid-life now, if not already past it.  The sample of people, mostly men, mostly high-school graduates.  All white.  A few women.  Most all with a few beers in them.

The conversation turned to politics.  And I spoke of the hope I felt from Mr. Obama’s speech.  It took approximately fifteen seconds after I finished speaking, for me to realize that Mr. Obama is not likely to be a successful candidate in the national election.  I hope it is untrue.  But from these core-Democratic voters, I heard the verdict.  White America — at least the one I grew up with — much to my surprise, is not ready for a black candidate, I was told.  There was no way, I was told.  I am ashamed of the words I heard.  I will not write them here.  And I dearly hope that I am wrong.  That this sample — a sample of my friends — was not representative.  I dearly hope that Mr. Obama will go on to win.  To help us end this divide.  I have hope.  But the reality was wounding.

Story No. 2

Editor’s note:  I translate this verbatim (with the exception of excising a name), as it was written by my seven year-old daughter.  It was not an assignment.  I believe it was prompted by what she has learned in school, and perhaps by a recent TV documentary about Dr. King, and perhaps by her overhearing some of the political conversation described in story number one above.  I made no efforts to edit it for content.

I think Marten Luther king Jr. was right!  The guy who killed Martne he – should’et killed Marten.  My dream is that know one smokes and no guns!  The guy who shot Marten got put in jail and died.  No food or water and it smelled!  If we did’et have Marten – I would’et have my friend Asha [last name omitted.]

Editor’s closing note:  There was much smoking at the political discussion I mentioned in Story Number One above.

Change happens around us, even when we are not looking.  My wife took my daughters to the polling booths on primary day.  One day this country will be in their hands.  And then to their children.  And we will have leaders of all races and sexes and sexual orientations.  Because men and women of vision sometimes speak.  And their words are recorded by the human heart.  And by modern technology.  And time keeps rolling along.  Until the truth, in the end, the truth.

Happy MLK day my friends.