I slept deeply last night, though not soundly. I tossed and turned in hope of resolution, which never came. I dreamed mysterious dreams, although they were not troubling. They were rife with images, and I kept seeing the bent seagrass and hearing the ocean in my ears. I felt the sand under my feet and the soft mist of spray across my face.
After a while, the murmuring of the sea became a more distinct roar, and I struggled from the embrace of my bed to investigate the matter. My hair was hopelessly tangled and damp, my eyes searing. But outside, something amazing was happening.
A veritable invasion had descended upon the city of Fort Bragg. What at first appeared to be a small trickle was actually a deluge of Latinos, marching, singing, and holding signs. Passing cars honked, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile spread across my face.
Were it not for these protestors, I would have been late for work, I’m sure, because they appeared outside my house around half an hour before I was expected at work, and I would have slept long past that time. For a moment, I felt angry that these people had interrupted my silent, sleeping contemplation, my only escape from reality at the moment.
But this protest also made me feel something else, other than my own personal misery. It made me feel proud that these individuals walked out of school to make a point about something they believed in. It reminded me that yes, things must go on, but also that we can change them, that we have an obligation to effect change. It reached out to me and said you, too, are alive, and should not sink into the abyss too far. We will be waiting for you when you surface. Until then, be strong.
I feel now that I have an obligation to be uncompromising about what is right and what is wrong, because it is his legacy to me. And I think that the way in which this country treats immigrants is wrong, and, damnit, I am going to take a stance against it, because I know that’s what he would have done in the same situation.