When I was nineteen, I left my small college in Indiana with a handful of friends to participate in a March on Washington for equal rights for women. I followed in the footsteps of my mother who had marched on Washington in August of 1963.

We had some downtime while we were there, and I popped into the National Archives to take a look at the Declaration of Independence. Nineteen may not be the perfect age to be reflective about the import of that document and the others which have charted the course of our country's future, but I have always been fascinated by words and the power of a carefully-crafted sentence, so I stood, captivated, and read.

All men are created equal.

When I got back to school, exhilarated by the power of assembly, I chatted briefly with my Humanities professor, a historian, and I told him how moved I was by the weekend, and how proud I was to be free to walk in protest with the power of the Declaration of Independence behind me. He was surprised. Most who marched with me came back cynical and disillusioned. Angry at our government. I understood that cynicism, and have felt it myself, especially over the last eight years. But for me, there is always an underlying thread of hope for our country and faith in what we can do.

And so my heart is full today.

I know that I didn't want this place to become a political one, and I am not interested in disseminating points of policy, but this is my place, and I am so moved to be part of this moment in history. It can't be contained.

My grandmother who was born and lived in Illinois for most of her life, died the summer that Barack Obama ran for the US Senate. Like many Americans, I had watched as he wowed the Democratic National Convention and thought, "here's one to watch." Later that autumn, my mother and I traveled back to her hometown to pack up my grandmother's apartment. We made it during Apple Festival time (!), and took a break from the emotional and arduous work of sorting through my grandmother's things to attend the Apple Festival Parade. Set up behind us was a "Barack Obama for Senate" booth, and I dropped by to grab a bumper sticker. The excitement expressed by the white women in the booth was palpabale. "He's ours," it seemed to say. They knew he'd been a big hit and now had national acclaim, but "he's ours."

He's all of ours now. I wish my grandmother had lived to see this moment. She would have been stalwart in her support and so proud to vote for him. I was proud to stand in line for an hour in the rain to cast my own vote. I did it for her. I did it for my mom who stood in a crowd on a summer day and heard Dr. King speak of "the fierce urgency of now." I did it for my dad, who once made a long trek on foot back to his college after being severely beaten and dumped by the side of the road because of his ardent editorials about the assassination of Dr. King. The power of a carefully-crafted sentence. I did it for me, for my restored faith in our country and hope for our future. I did it for Callum. He's excited too. We saw Obama speak during the primaries, and Callum's so proud. He went with us to vote and every so often this week, he'll just say, "Barak Obama." But he doesn't get it. Not really. And I'm so grateful for that. For Callum, it's like his team won. He doesn't quite realize how much bigger than all of us this moment is. He's nine, and today marks a seismic shift in our collective story. He can take it for granted that a black man can be elected president.

I'm glad he's old enough to remember this. Although his primary memory will probably, "my mom cried a lot." It's true. I've been moved to tears over and over during the past weeks. We were in the car yesterday when Talk of the Nation broadcast Dr. King's I Have a Dream speech. We pulled into the driveway and sat in the car and listened, Callum anxious to be free of the seatbelt. But we sat there and listened. And I cried. Your Ama was there for that, I reminded him. Look what we've done.

We have a snow day here today (although we're still waiting on the snow!), and I plan on staying by my tv and watching every minute.

"The fierce urgency of now." That's how I feel right now. The fierce urgency of now.