This is the lesson I learned after moving to South Carolina: It was time for whites like me to yield the floor to those blacks I wanted to help. They didn't always need my help, after all. The Ben Chavises and Golden Frinkses of this world blazed new paths for the younger ones who came behind them.But I feel the bitter aftertaste still lingering here where the Confederate flag has flown since integration. We live with the sad legacy of having avoided change for so long - people who feel defeated and tired, whose anger has simmered down into grudging daily half-participation in our still-flawed, still-racist society; young adults who don't remember that their grandmothers and great-grandfathers were not allowed to vote and don't bother to do so themselves; and growing ranks of disenfranchised youth who channel both their anger and their ennui into gang activity.
"Blood Done Sign My Name" reminded me of a time when hope drew us to our feet, made us march, made us reach for a hand that looked different from our own. I was never so happy as Nov. 10 when I stood in line for hours to vote, a wave of young black men and women all around me. We grinned at each other foolishly during that long wait, sensing that we were about to make history. I hope some of them will go stand in line to see "Blood Done Sign My Name."
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An explosion of light
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