Barber Shop talk has been lore around my family's household for as long as I can remember. I'd often listen to my Granddad recant to my Grams, everything he'd heard, while sitting around my Grams kitchen table eating lunch. After which, my Granddad always took a nap and Grams picked up the telephone. Whereas if she couldn't reach the intended listener, [usually Minnie Lee, Mary or Dee], she'd be off to the coffee shop, to share what she had learned.

Have you ever been to a barber shop where men wears those white barber jackets and the words "Lordy, lordy have mercy" can be heard for miles? Shucks then. You've been missing out! At my Granddad's shop, information was a mile high pile. Getting to the truth was a whole different matter. I believe I received my best education, thus far at my Granddad's shop. It is from within those walls that I learned of Rosa Parks, Jackie Robinson, Moses Walker, Carl Lewis, Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesse Jackson and a whole lot of others. I'd sit there waiting for somebody to pick me up, and listen to Martin Luther King's "I had Dream" speech over and over. Of course my memorized version was a whole lot different, than the one I was taught in my Minors class.

"Lord almighty, we'd free at last.", caused Mr. Glen to chuckle as he shook his head between his knees from quoting his version of the phrase. "Lord Almighty", hm.... Mr. Glen has been dead for quite sometime now. Died in the early 1990's. Colon cancer took his last breath. Now if you've never been to black man's barber shop, don't try going to a black man's funeral first.

I learned about sex, women and the difference between them and momma's. My Granddad's friends would share local gossip between themselves. Like they were school girls talking about another girl's clothes. If it wasn't dice or politics reigning supreme, the endless chatter would be about the police. In or about the third grade, I learned what a Nigga Joe was and realized it was more of an affectionate term to call a dim-witted, dirt poor, black man. Nigga Joe was a respectable member of the community. He was the one who changed out light bulbs for the all the local widows, moved lawn and did handyman's work around town. He too has since passed. Like the rest of us, someone was groomed and ready to take his place.

I flew home for Obama's acceptance speech. My Granddad's old shop was bristling with life and in an uproar, before the pending excitement came. I think, more than half the blacks of Chicago, were in my dad's handed down barber shop. My Granddad would have cherish the laughter, hands a clapping amongst the many thousand of shed tears. But, make no matter, we video taped it for him and gave it to him the next day. We figured he'd like to watch it, whilst he ate one of his every night supper favorites, a T.V. dinner.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

I Have A Dream

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves, who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is 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 languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so we have come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

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 must ever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecutions and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends. And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

____________________________________________________

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 the table of brotherhood.

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

I have a dream that my four little 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. I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right down in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I will go back to the South with. 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. And this will be the day, this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with 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.

• And 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 snow-capped 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 GODAlmighty, we are free at last."

http://www.freemaninstitute.com/Dream.htm

I grew up in a relativity small, white suburb outside the hustle and bustle of a large, modern day, American city. My existence, was much like that of a kid, raised in small town America. The only difference was we had traffic.

Main street ran down the heart of my town/city. The street is littered with shops, pizza parlors, and my Grams' favorite coffee shop. Oh this isn't all downtown has to offer. We have a small pedestrian park, couple of bars and a Pool hall.

When my Grams and Granddad were younger, they'd spend their Friday nights dancing at that very same Pool hall now old, tattered and in need of repairs. I've seen pictures of them, Grams and Granddad, when they were younger. My Grams with her kerchief over her head and my Granddad in a crisp, pinstriped suit. They looked amazing, their friends looked amazing and the pool hall must have been brand new, because even it looked amazing. Black and white prints are like that. They allow you to drift off slowly, imagining yourself standing right there, next to them. One time, when I was younger, I asked Grams about the Pool hall, because I didn't no anything about it back then. Grams said it was the nickel beer that got them all started there in the first place. Nickel beer. I imagine if it wasn't for my Granddad's family reputation, Grams and him wouldn't have stood a prayer getting served back then. My Grams is a beautiful, fair complected, teeny tiny woman. She's white as snow or whiter yet. But, my hometown never minded that. After all she's a Jew.

I come from a great American family, well diversified in tradition, spirit and culture. Lets see if I can break it down for you folks. My Grams a German Jew, my Granddad a black, Southern Christian preacher's son. My momma's mom was mixed [though we don't know nothing about them]. Even in America's North side, blacks and whites just didn't mix back then. Especially in affairs of the heart or one night stands. My momma's dad [Pee-pa] was a strong, vibrant black man from a family of seventeen.  He worked the railroad most his life.