Replies

"We said our goodbyes and wished each other well, he began to walk away slowly, and then he stopped and turned to face me. “This writer, this writer has never walked on Calle Ocho, he doesn’t understand what this street means, and why it means so much to so many,” —he rubbed his foot against the asphalt and looked down—“this street has known the dreams of a million people. The dreams of a better tomorrow for their kids, of dignity for the old.” Then he surprised me by speaking in the accented English of those who learned the language late in life. “We are came here, the tired, the poor, the masses; and we wanted to breathe free. We were the refuse of somebody’s teeming shore once.” “I see that you are surprised at an old man, an old man that knows these things.” —with a sweeping motion he pointed to everything around us—“When you walk back, down this street, hold high your head, because you walk on sacred ground. When you walk on this street, you are walking down Freedom road. Be well my young friend.” I walked back to my car, soaked, tired, and hoarse. With each and every step my chest swelled, and my shoulders squared. There was pride and love of country in my step. I was walking on Freedom road."

FReegards...MUD