Forty years

I was only twelve on that June day, and although 1968 was probably the first year that i became aware of the political world around me, (and how could you not?) still far more interested in baseball and riding my bike than politics.

But even that little boy knew, following so closely on the heels of another great life taken, that the world i was going to inhabit the rest of my life was a different one than it should have been. What we lost on June 5, 1968 was more than just one man or one voice. We lost, i think, the ability of an entire generation, perhaps more, to hope. To believe that a better world was actually within reach. To know that by our actions we could bring it into being.

No one can say what our world would be like if the assassins' bullets of 1968 had somehow missed their targets, or never been fired. But it seems to me for the first time since i was twelve, the ability to hope, to dream, and to act is seeping back into my world.

I like that.