It was Sunday morning in Harlem. I was heading to my subway station, passing by churches with open doors, fruit and vegetable vendors setting up their outdoor stands, and a few crabapple tree blossoms lightly covered a patch of sidewalk. I was in the early morning people out-and-about contingency, while late-nighters were going home.
Then I heard a familiar, deep voice coming from an old, beat-up white van parked on the side of the road. As I got closer to the voice, I realized it was Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech. Inside the vehicle was a kind-looking man of color. Seemed he was waiting for someone. Even though the man had his windows rolled up, I could hear clearly what I had heard many times before. I stopped and listened to the speech again. It wasn't a holiday, rather an ordinary day. The guy in the van and I listened to Dr. King's voice together. Soon, both our eyes were streaming tears. We were dreaming together. We locked eyes, wordless connection and I then headed down to catch the train.
As I stood in the crowded subway car, traveling towards my destination, I reflected that in the often-of-late, difficult times we are living in, I feel like that old, beat-up white van. But the dream living inside, the constant, never-ending, painstaking true dream for all, is what keeps me going.