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| "The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort or convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." -- MLK, Jr. |
It was so moving to watch President Barack Obama being sworn in for a second term. Like watching history happening in real time. And on this day -- a day where our nation honors the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr. It couldn't have been a happier coincidence.
Moments like these remind me how thankful I am for this country. How proud I am to be an American. My father and mother looked West and saw a land of limitless opportunities. They left behind families, childhood friends, college degrees and familiarity and adopted a new way -- life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. They left Korea with empty pockets but built a beautiful life here in the US.
My brother and I stood on their shoulders and now we each have our own children, who will stand on ours.
This part of President Obama's inaugural speech spoke to me:
That is our
generation's task — to make these words, these rights, these values — of Life,
and Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness — real for every American. Being true
to our founding documents does not require us to agree on every contour of
life; it does not mean we will all define liberty in exactly the same way, or
follow the same precise path to happiness. Progress does not compel us to
settle centuries-long debates about the role of government for all time — but
it does require us to act in our time.
Progress requires us to "act in our time." I love that. This is our call as citizens of this wonderful experiment called democracy.
One Day
Inaugural Poem by Richard Blanco
One sun rose on
us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking
over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading
a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the
over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading
a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the
Rockies.
One
light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent
gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your
face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: pencil-
yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands:
apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our
praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper— bricks or milk,
teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables,
read ledgers, or save lives— to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: pencil-
yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands:
apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our
praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper— bricks or milk,
teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables,
read ledgers, or save lives— to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries
as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could
write this poem.
All of us as
vital as the one light we move through,
the same
light on blackboards
with lessons for the day:
equations to
solve, history to question, or atoms imagined, the "I have a dream"
we keep dreaming, or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that
won't explain the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light breathing color
into stained glass windows, life into the faces of bronze statues,
warmth onto the steps of our museums and park benches as
mothers watch children slide into the day.
solve, history to question, or atoms imagined, the "I have a dream"
we keep dreaming, or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that
won't explain the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light breathing color
into stained glass windows, life into the faces of bronze statues,
warmth onto the steps of our museums and park benches as
mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our
ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn,
every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands, hands gleaning
coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us
warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane so my brother and I
could have books and shoes.
every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands, hands gleaning
coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us
warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane so my brother and I
could have books and shoes.
The dust of
farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one
wind—our breath. Breathe.
Hear it
through the day's gorgeous
din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song
din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song
bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky
playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers
across café tables, Hear:
the doors we open
for each other all days
saying: hello, shalom, buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
saying: hello, shalom, buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother
taught me—in every language
spoken into
one wind carrying our lives
without
prejudice, as these words break
from my lips.
One sky: since
the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty,
and the
Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea.
Thank the work of our
hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing
one more report
for the
boss on time, stitching another wound
or
uniform, the first brush
stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the
Freedom Tower
jutting into a
sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward
which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work:
some days
guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving
thanks for a love
that
loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or
forgiving a father
who couldn't give what
you wanted.
We head home:
through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the
plum blush of dusk,
but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky.
And always one moon
like
a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and
every window, of one
country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new
constellation
waiting for us
to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.
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| Following the inauguration, President Obama takes one last look at the crowd, an estimated 800,000 people, before heading into the Capitol. |
