Well, I've been gone for sometime now. On returning this evening, it strikes me that my last post this winter was a memorial to a great author who had just passed. Tonight I come back to you on the eve of another author's death. Today, we lost a great treasure in Frank McCourt, author of Angela's Ashes and 'Tis. The loss of this life is a great one to the entirety of the English-speaking world as in him is epitomized the ability to rise above the storms of life, the grace to laugh in the face of adversity, and the strength to soldier on when making do is not possible and thereby the mere act of survival empowers the human race with that most precious of God-given abilities to not only create but also to, through the grace of the Creator, sustain life.

For me, this death is simply a culmination of a series of events set in  motion on June 25 with the deaths of both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. On this day my generation, gen X, for the first time experienced the death of a celebrity with whom we had grown up. In an article for the associated press, one of my generation aptly put it this way: "They were on our lunch boxes."

But as we grew up and our idols aged and tarnished, as idols do, it also became clear that these were two people who understood suffering. The ecstacy of artistry is never free of the agony of life, and this has seldom been portrayed as vividly and publicly as Farrah's video diary of her fight with cancer. Her now-grown fans watched as she agonized through the loss of her hair, her meals, and nearly everything but the dignity that she maintained to the end.

(Had to end this before I was finished, and now, days later, the muse has left. I'll try to comeback to these thoughts soon.)

The campaign of real change, the slogan "Yes we can!" the election of the first non-white president of the United States have captured the attention of the entire nation and, yes, the whole world. Hope has spread it's light across this nation, darkened by two lengthy wars and a deeply depressed economy. Barack Obama has captured the imaginations of people of all races nationwide. Hopes for true racial equality are buoyed. The desperate cries for a hand up are being placated in the wake of the promise of universal healthcare. And the question "Will he deliver?" hangs heavy over every celebration, every attack from those who did not support his campaign. This question has flooded the internet and clogged the information super-highway, accompanied by its siblings: "What now?" and "What if?" So are we really too hopeful?

I don't think so. The mere fact that we are asking these questions says to me that Americans are still hanging onto a healthy dose of skepitcism and, more important, are aware of the great amount of work that must be done to effect the promised change. 

Many who voted in this election remember vividly the events of and leading up to the spring of 1968. They recall the havoc wreaked by unpeaceful reactions to the death of a visionary. They recall the score of years it took for Americans to recognize the great contributions made to our society by Dr. King and how we nearly lost the ground he had gained by rioting in the streets, by pillaging our downtowns, by setting fire to all of the establishment on the night of his death. These memories, although they do not eliminate the possibility of repetition, will make all of us reticent to repeat history. We remember the long fight required for the day that a man of African descent could take up residence in the White House. This victory gives us hope. We are not only looking for changes to come. We have seen the change that has been made.

Having seen change renews our faith. More barriers have been broken down. We can have courage now to work toward effecting even more change. And herein lies the crux of the argument: We have hope in the change that our new president has promised to bring, but we also have placed a great deal of trust in him and in what he says. For some time now, Obama has been spurring his fellow Americans on toward effecting change of our own. The day before his inauguration, he made history by spending time doing charitable work in the innercity and calling all Americans to follow his example.

Suddenly our government has truly become one of and by the people. "For the people" will only follow naturally. So, do we have too much hope? No, I think not. This leader will lead us into times of peace and prosperity, however long the road there may be. What is most important, however, is that we follow. If we fail to do our part in making this country a better place to live, our hopes for this new presidency will certainly not come to fruition.

What do we need to do? Well, start at home. Start across the street or across town. Join a group of people with the same values as yourself but a different race. For instance, I have just been lovingly accepted as the first white member of a local liturgical dance organization.

Perhaps reach across social boundaries by doing something with someone from a lower income segment than yourself. This need not be a pity cause. You could take a single mother from your office to lunch one day or offer to babysit for a family who can't afford to pay a sitter. 

Find ways of including the disenfranchised in your own social activites. Have a Super Bowl party and invite the disabled people from a local group home to join you. Spend a weekend or two building with Habitat for Humanity.

Don't be afraid to take this mission farther. Get involved in politics on city and state levels. Promote and campaign for laws that will benefit the unemployed and the underemployed and the uninsured. Get involved in writing grants for local charities, or simply donate through the United Way. Even find a cause and start your own organization to support it.

We have a right to this hopefulness that has arisen across the nation in the wake of President Obama's election. It is our right because it is our work that has and will continue to fulfill the American dream in ways that it has never before been fulfilled.

Spread the word, because now, more than ever, "Yes we can!"

In Memphis a black man lies dead.
Not just any man, a young man.
Not just a young man, a father.
Not just the father of four children,
the father of a movement,
the leader of a people,
the hero of a nation,
a savior.

In Indianapolis, the news has not yet broken.
Robert Kennedy takes the stage amid cheers and applause.
The gravity of his form at the podium hushes the crowd.
In Memphis a black man lies dead.
Not just any man, a young man.
Not just a young man, a father.
Not just the father of four children,
the father of a movement,
the leader of a people,
the hero of a nation,
a peacemaker.

The hush falls more deeply over the crowd,
and sobs, tears of heartbreak, trace the faces
of blacks, of whites.
And then, with a burst of applause,
a call to prayer is answered.

The crowd files home.
Nothing but the setting sun
will burn in the Indianapolis sky tonight.
No shots will be fired, no angry voices heard.

Two months later
in Los Angeles, a white man lies dead.

--Marie Gail