I was eleven years old. The riots were still fresh. The “Poor People’s March” had failed to ignite the revolutionary redistribution of wealth. “Soul Brother” graffiti was still plastered on burnt out buildings in DC. The faint smell of tear gas could be conjured by its mere mention.

On the radio, I heard the song below. Young as I was, I was terribly moved by it. Back then, in spite of the assassinations, gassings and general repression, there was hope, not merely rhetorical, but real hope. Idealism was not just a word in the dictionary, but a core value, shared by many.

I miss those times.

 

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