The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

My daughter and I joined the throng of marchers at Franklin High School in Seattle today for the annual Martin Luther King Day march and rally. The temperature settled a little above freezing, so we bundled up and walked amid the sea of easy-going, happy spirits.

Picture a face representing nearly every national-origin, racial, gender, age, economic, and ethnic make-up in Seattle, and you would have our group. Some bore signs denouncing the war; others signs calling for Peace. We read signs for immigration reform, socialism, organized labor, women's rights, presidential candidates, civic and social groups, an end to racism/poverty/ injustice, for freeing prisoners and fewer prisons. We heard chants of "Si, se puede", "What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!", and the singing of freedom march songs. We heard three men discuss being pass around the California penal system. We heard a young white man trying to get the interest of three young African-American women who were not interested. We saw all sorts of families. We were helped by the afore-mentioned group of three young African-American women when my daughter stumbled getting off my shoulders to walk a bit. We got to say "thanks" and joke around a little. We heard a middle-aged African American woman lecture several young African-American men to get involved, to continue the fight. We heard a man named Muhammed give the invocation at the start of the march.

As we walked and listened and talked with others, I had the chance to tell my daughter why we march. I got to tell her about the marches of my childhood. I got to tell her how far we've come and that we still have work to do to get farther along. She asked me why some white people a long time ago wouldn't let black people do some things. I answered. From time to time I noticed others listening to us as we listened to them. I heard her express exasperation at the ignorance and nonsense of anyone ever thinking they were better than another because of anything, especially something they couldn't control like skin color, something they were given as a gift of creation. I heard my own voice from when I was a child expressing that same exasperation to my mother when I realized that my black friend couldn't have certain things because some white people, the same color as I, had said "no."

Unlike myself as a child, though, I heard my daughter try to understand where she and her parents fit into the scheme of things: a white mother, a brown Hispanic father, and their child. What am I, Mama? What did she feel hearing that her mother was part of the race that had (and still does) hurt so many? What did she feel knowing she comes from this race, too, and from one of those that has been and still is hurt by the majority in this country? I have told her about what our family has done right and wrong, and I have told her that we all have a choice how we will act.

She asked when we will stop marching as a people, and I told her, "when we all treat each other truly as we want to be treated." She asked what we would do then, and I said, "we will live in peace, and everyone will share everything, and some of the things we think we cannot change or overcome now will be a distant memory of accomplishments." And then I told her, "on that day, sweetie, God will be all in all."

We held out for most of the march, but Little Bear got weary and hungry near the end, so we took a short cut to the rally point and then headed off for lunch.