In Papa’s study
a picture of Jesus hangs on the wall,
so when the sun rises in the morning
his blue eyes sparkle.
Across the room is a picture of President Kennedy.
He looks straight into the camera
with one stern eye
and the other eye trying not to smile.
Next to him is a new frame,
with five black-and-white pictures, each in its own pane:
The Reflecting Pool’s walkways teeming with
people
Signs for We Demand Equal Rights Now!
Papa with two friends, looking young and
dorky
Dr. King raising his arm above the crowd
“Did you go to the march?” I ask, peering at Dr. King,
who might have been saying “Let freedom ring!” at that moment.
“It was incredible, and it was a safer thing to do.”
His heart was in Birmingham and Selma, he adds,
but he had a wife and a little girl,
and was studying for his PhD.
“Safe is a cop-out, but I had to think of you and Mama
and my own dreams.”
So he and his friends drove from Berkeley to Washington
without stopping.
They ate food that Mama had packed,
and switched drivers every six hours.
“This is big, big country, Mimi,” he says,
like he forgot how Mama and I came to Vermont.
Then he tells me the air on that August day
felt thick with heat and determination
smelled like baby powder, Old Spice, and grit,
sounded like clapping and harmony, a
million footsteps on the same path
tasted like hot dogs and hope.
Papa opens his desk drawer and takes out a button—
March for Freedom and Jobs—
and tapes it onto the new frame. He says,
“Even now, that day reminds me
that raindrops are stronger than hammers.”