I was lucky to carry the Torah for the final mile (which turned out to be closer to a mile and a half). The symbolism of the finish line for the day being continually further than anticipated was not lost on me.
Below is a poem I wrote as a reflection on the day, that last mile, and the important purpose of the march.
The last mile
We began that morning
just past the State House in Columbia,
just past the Confederate Monument,
the warmth of the sun on our faces,
radiating from the asphalt.
Learning with every step,
feeling with every footfall the long
journey
made up of so many steps before us
and many to come after.
But that day, it was our turn
to march toward freedom
to pursue justice.
Justice
always just in front of us.
American flag waving
Torah at its side.
Fraternal twins, held aloft at the front,
conducting
a group gathered from distant towns and
congregations –
heeding the call,
demanding a change in the world –
Freedom and Justice
leading the way
heralding the cause.
Two by two
We march toward a world washed clean,
cleaned but not forgotten –
that world of
separation and supremacy –
toward a more perfect version.
Too many babies gone,
disappeared,
their lives cut.
Too many mothers and fathers gone.
Taken
without justice,
without cause or process
denied freedom.
Taken by fear
of difference
of pigment
of myths and falsehoods of the
generations
and of this great nation.
The fear of an age thought gone,
easy to miss
and ignore
but always present.
Along the route,
phones at the ready,
minds curious,
hands cheering,
heads nodding,
catching a moment of the long parade
of black and white,
old and young.
Walking though the suburbs,
neighborhoods change before us,
economics on full display.
Through the stopped traffic
horns of support and shouts of praise
ask questions
hear stories
cause walls to tumble.
Did you know?
No, I did not.
Did you realize?
No, I had no idea. I mean –
I didn’t not know,
I never put that together.
It’s so complicated.
How are we not discouraged?
How are we not overwhelmed?
How are we not stunned to inaction,
to stop moving
to give in to the reality
that there is more work than we few can
accomplish?
If we stop moving,
stop taking steps,
marching toward,
those behind us have nowhere to go,
no path to follow.
If we stop now,
there can be no,
will be no next step.
Each step leads to the next:
one foot in front of the other
two by two,
one behind the other
on the asphalt
baked in South Carolina sun
of late August.
But that bridge will be our last step.
Tomorrow more will come
To start at that bridge
To take up the steps
To carry, support, learn.
To walk alongside those whose feet and will
carry them the entire journey.
Begun at Selma,
today achieves 500
from the starting point,
far from the finish.
That last mile,
made up of steps like all that came
before.
That last mile
the weight of the Torah
muscles burn
bodies drip
eyes sear
lungs labor.
A flag waves in the breeze of our
progress.
The weight of Torah
awakens
souls yearn
being exults.
The sun on our backs.
We reach the point!
We keep going.
That last mile is longer.
A trick of the mind?
A trick of the traffic.
Freedom?
More steps,
just past the bridge.
Justice?
More steps,
just past the turn.
Security?
More steps,
just down the hill.
Dignity?
More steps,
just after the tree.
Equality?
More steps.
The last mile is the longest.
