I usually walk from the University of Illinois, campus to Union Station at the end of my workday. But, that day it was raining. So, I hailed a cab. The cab driver was not in a mood to talk so I had time to relax and look around at the traffic. To my right was a recent model Mercedes sedan. I watched it for a moment and then pivoted to peer to the left. An old Toyota Corolla with the rear view mirror attached with duct tape was neck-in-neck slowed on the road with the cab and the Mercedes.
This image struck me; three impressively different cars depicting, perhaps, personal preferences and different opportunities of individuals, despite the differences, were driving on the same road.
So, this piece is about civil rights. Everyone who gets ill deserves the same road to drive on, but presently, some get better, or different roads than others. The “road” in the potentially obscure metaphor is the road that allows every individual the equal and omnipresent rights to information that will allow them to make an informed decision.
When my father died 3 years ago, my comments at his funeral noted that the greatest aspiration any of us can have is to make a difference in the world. My father’s life made a difference.
Nearly every morning lately, as I make my daily dart to the metro station two blocks away, I pass a familiar face. She is one of about a dozen women who toil in the local nail salon. She does not live in my neighborhood, yet I see her early most mornings hiking up our hill, long before the salon opens.
