I thought back to the day of the rally: the sound of Smitty’s voice in the barbershop; the rows of black and white faces in the school auditorium, there because of the factory’s desolation and Marty’s own sense of betrayal the cardinal, a small, pale, unassuming man in a black robe and glasses, smiling on stage as Will swallowed him up in a big bear hug; Will, so certain that the two men understood each other. Each image carried its own lesson, each was subject to differing interpretations. For there were many churches, many faiths. There were times, perhaps, when those faiths seemed to converge-the crowd in front in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the Freedom Finders at the lunch counter. But such moments were partial, fragmentary. With our eyes closed, we uttered the same words, but in our hearts we each prayed to our own masters; we each remained locked in our own memories; we all clung to our own foolish magic. -P.163, September 16, 2021
