By Ismael Cid-Martinez
Staff Writer, ‘10
This story of discovery started with one of those dubious, dreamful text messages delivered Monday the 19th, a bit past noon. It read, “We should take a road trip 2 Washington…lol.”
What followed were numerous hours of phone calls, e-mails, Google searches, and even more text messages. The dream seemed almost impossible. Washington D.C., as we read and saw on the news, was under exceptionally tight security with bridges and squares of miles entirely closed to cars and pedestrians. “If we do indeed drive there,” we thought, “where would we confidently leave the car?” “How would we proceed from that spot to the closed-in and locked-down epicenter of the Capital for the Inaugural address?”
Amidst clouds of uncertainty, a dim beacon of hope emerged just after midnight—Tuesday morning: we had discovered that shuttle busses would be running from points in Maryland into the Capital. Thanks to Josephine and Eman’s incredible research techniques, we confirmed that a ride on one of these shuttles could be had for only $10. As typical college students, this was the final piece of information that inspired us to embark on a journey to be part of what we believed would be the most historic inauguration moment in our lifetimes.
By 3AM Tuesday morning, the improbable journey had already commenced. The six of us—Noel, Chris, Michelle, Josephine, Eman and I—were now zooming down the turnpike in a more-than-compact car. This was our first stage in undertaking this improbable journey, our rendezvous with history. Aiming for the unknown, we sensed that this place where King had delivered his timeless “I have a Dream” speech, long before any of us were born, would become our classroom for a day—if we could just get there. On that special day, we knew that we needed to find that park surrounded by historic edifices—the Lincoln monument, the reflecting pool, and the
Washington obelisk—rather than amble into Pope, McDermott, or Dinneen. Nevertheless, with coordinates not very well defined—and Zullo mastering the helm of the two-door Honda Civic forcefully sitting the six of us—we headed south.
After numerous skillful maneuvers through what seemed like a maze of train and bus lines, our cohort of SPC students emerged from underground into the clear light of day at 11AM. The thought was electrifying. I remember Michelle saying: “We can do this; we can get there; we can be part of history.” And as if he knew we were coming, our new President kindly began his address a few minutes late.
Presence in the moment that will define our generation did not come easy however. At the last moment, we were shuffled about by security from here to there—as crowd control seemed to be anything but under control. The truth is: we needed one last miracle. As we stood on the periphery of 9th street, we heard the low whisper of a group of students alluding to an opening at 18th street. With thousands ahead of us, the dilemma was evident. “It’s going to come down to,” I remember Noel saying, “who wants it the most!”
We had already gone too far, navigating both setbacks and fortune. We believed through it all that fortune had to win out. The plan now was to undertake a rapid but compose double-time march to 18th street. Once again, we slightly missed our mark, but managed to find the desired opening just yards away from the Washington obelisk—where we formed the final line of that great sea of people, looking to be overwhelmed with inspiration and optimism. It all brought back memories of the many lessons learned in Father DeStephano’s Rhetoric class; the reach of words to man’s greatest depth—his soul and spirit.
I remember how for a fleeting second we just fixed our eyes on each other, thinking: “we are six of the near two million.” “Did everyone else travel as far for ‘just words’?” For similar to us—and our lecturer—each one of the two million listeners that day had perhaps traveled their own inconceivable journeys to that moment in history. With them we stood together on that frigid but bright winter day, not for mere pageantry, but to absorb a forgotten history lesson.
It was a lesson that could only be acquired by giving meaning to our experiences—as many of our professors ask us to do. It was one relating to the birth and challenges of the land of opportunities; it was the lesson acquired hundreds of years ago by a great General at the stained snow of Valley Forge; it was a lesson brought home to us by a new friend that day. No—it wasn’t Barack, though he spoke eloquently about these things.
Our new friend was Beatriz, an African-American senior citizen, who stood with us near Washington’s needle with a puffy winter hat that cold winter day; who with tears of joy shared with us what that moment in history meant to her. We find it difficult to forget her story about being our age at the time when our new Commander in Chief was born, about being part of the struggle for Civil Rights, about how blessed she felt to have lived a day once echoed as a Dream by the brave and eloquent Reverend, and what it meant to her to have shared it with our generation. We will never forget her final words to us that day: “Thank you for being here, for having shared this moment with me.”
I know, the whole day sounds much like a romantic tale. That’s probably how it will come out long from now when we tell our children and grandchildren about the moment when “I have a Dream” was transformed into “We have a Dream.” How ever the tale spins out, we were there together—the six of us—in history, and it all started with a silly text message.
