I'll Show You Mine If...

In June 2005 I recounted this memory from my childhood (with minor editing).

"There comes a time in a little boy's life when he begins to understand that little girls are different from little boys. Different in ways that he cannot easily see. He becomes aware that he possesses something that little girls don't have, and in turn little girls posses something the he doesn't. A little boy knows what he has, after all, he's had his whole life, but how can he discover what makes a boy a boy and a girl a girl. A child's curiosity is ever rarely satisfied by theoretical rhetoric, but rather a child needs concrete evidence. 

Growing up, I had something that most little boys don't have -a twin sister. It became apparent to me that my closest playmate was different from myself, and I wanted to know how so. Her curiosity was no less than mine. We made a deal, a pact. I would show her mine if she would show me hers. Standing by the ditch bank I dropped my pants and showed her what made a boy a boy. She giggled! And then ran off, leaving me with my pants down, without showing me what made a girl a girl. Boys will be boys, and girls will be girls, but I would not learn what exactly made them so." 

Austere

The process of packing one's life into neat little boxes stirs forgotten memories of days past. While packing books recently I came across a stack of flash cards that I used to study for the Verbal Reasoning section of the GRE. Contrary to the section title's name, the test examines very little of your verbal reasoning skills, but is rather a vocabulary test in disguise. Accordingly, I had made flash cards with the hope of increasing my working vocabulary. As I was reminiscing over the words an idea struck me as I was preparing to drop the stack of cards in the rubbish bin. I had never learned the vast majority of the words on those cards. A word a day is all it would take. If I were to bring a flash card to work each day I could greatly improve my austere vocabulary. I've made a bit of a game of it with a friend from work. Whoever is able to work the word of the day into their spiel first wins the day. Today's word was Austere -markedly simple or unadorned; stern and cold in appearance or manor. It wasn't an easy word to work in to my presentation, but I took the day. (My friend isn't competing well. Does she not realize that the contest will prove to facilitate her learning better than simply hearing the word and definition?) I try to practice the word throughout the day. Below you will find the words of the day for the past week.

Abscond (v) -to depart secretly.

Aberrant (adj) -straying from the norm.

Alacrity (n) -eager and enthusiastic willingness. 

Anomaly (n) - deviating from the normal order, form or rule.

Approbation (n) -an expression of approval or praise.

Arduous (adj) -strenuous, taxing, difficult.

Audacious (adj) -daring and fearless; contemptuous of law, religion, or decorum. 

Preface

I present to you a page out of my Journal (albeit with editing), dated January 2005. The title of the entry is Preface, being the first entry of "Book One of the Volume of My Life".

"For some reason, unknown to myself, I have a fascination with books. Particularly books with blank pages. One might thumb through such a books and gaze upon its empty pages and see nothing, think nothing, nor feel anything. I, on the other hand, will pick up a book that is void of markings, as if it were a precious treasure in my hand. I have purchased many of these beautiful books with no particular purpose to its end. Contained within the empty pages I envision a potential of what those pages might hold: My future, my thoughts, my ideas, my poetry, my life. It is my journal, my diary, my mind."

Silliness

It was shortly after Christmas five years ago. My brother's friend had just received a new camera and he needed models to test out his new toy. Steve and I willingly volunteered. As I was going through some old photos today I happened upon our silliness, and thought I would share for your enjoyment. 

How cute, a monkey.

Watch out! We have a ninja in the house.  

Ahh, the ninja's archnemesis. 

Who will win?

Oh snap, my sword is no match for the ninja's katana. 

The ninja lunges! But I will not go out without a fight. (Um, I don't know where that sign in the background came from. Well, actually I do. The corner of 21st south and 2400 east, but how it came to reside as a halo above my head, I'm not sure.)

 A mortal blow to the ninja's heart. He be dead.

"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword." -The Good Book

But wait! The ninja has been reincarnated as a desperado. 

This one's serious for revenge. 

He doesn't look so dangerous. 

 But maybe...

he's a little crazy. And crazy is dangerous. 

 He's about to make an attempt on the sultan. Security, cease him!

The King of rock n' roll lives. 

And he sure knows how to jam. 

Yep, I was born in the days of the 80's big hair bands.  

The difference is I make this look good. 

It's not a matter of reaching the end, but in feeling the music throughout. 

Convictions

Harry Potter 7 pt. 2 was finally released to Red Box this week. Admittedly, I've never liked the movies for how much they are lacking from the books, or for the elements that change between the pages of the novel and the projection on the big screen, yet there was a line in the movie today that I don't believe was penned in the book, but I quite liked it. Remus Lupin in the final battle says, "It is the quality of ones convictions that determines success, not the number of followers."

Detour

On my travels home today I took a detour to a rural community housing one of the State's prisons. It almost seems odd that they would build a prison in the middle of nowhere, but I guess no one wants a prison in their back yard. Yet the distance does make it difficult for those who are housed far away from loved ones. Visits are rare and the inmates find themselves starved for the sight and sound of family.

His grin was only as his could be, uniquely his with indescribable elements that are difficult not to return. It was wide at the sight of his brothers. We have never been close, yet we are family, and blood means something. Despite having many moments where neither knew quite what to talk about, the two hour limit passed quickly. At the guard's call for the visit's end, suddenly there is so much more to be said that hasn't been spoken. Yet it isn't words that he longs to convey, but emotion, and it is emotion that he longs to hold onto as bars and then space slip between him and the love of family. He doesn't realize it, but I understand exactly how he feels, despite the differences in our own personal prisons. I should be better than I am at writing, but I let months and months pass between letters. Would I fare as well as he has if I were in his shoes? I  think not. I'm contemplating visiting on Christmas day, which is also his birthday. Previous to today I was thinking of spending the day with the children at the hospital. Last Christmas was one of the most depressing days of my life (such thoughts that day...) that I thought I might find a way to distract myself this year. Turns out that Christmas lies on a Sunday, my official volunteer day, but now I question who is in more need. The unfortunate children who are spending their Christmas at the hospital, or my brother who will be wroth with depression for the absence of a wife who does not love him and the children he never sees? It isn't a day to spend for my pleasure, but maybe I can ease the pain of another.

Colours of Spring

"Colours of Spring" gives representation of the vibrancy and life of Spring, as the world comes out of the long and dreary of Winter. Accordingly, you will find this piece to liven up the room with the bright and richly textured flowers popping out from the surface of the painting. I chose the dimensions of the painting with the idea that it would best be showcased above the archway leading into a room, inviting guest to feel enlivened by what lies beyond. It began as simple painting that I intended on completing in a single session working wet-in-wet, or alla prima. I wanted a bright painting with spontaneous brush strokes. I painted a rainbow of colours, from deep alizarin crimson to the jewel like French ultramarine. After combining primaries to make secondaries I placed dabs of titanium white paint directly from the tube on to the canvas. I then proceeded to spread the white paint into spring flowers, creating a tint of the colour below. The idea was that the background colour represented fields of flowers that blended together on the horizon creating a single mass of colour, while the flowers in the foreground were close enough to distinguish.

Original composition.  

The unfortunate nature of oil paint is that it leaves your painting vulnerable to the environment for an extended period of time while the paint dries. As a result of my negligence to protect the painting during this critical time a thick layer of dust was cemented into the wet paint from the air conditioning vent above. I was rather dissatisfied with the results so I sanded the painting and began afresh. Yet, I could not simply repaint it as I had before because I had used thick paint, resulting in obvious brush marks that would not match between the old and new. To solve this problem I decided to magnify the textural difference between the flowers and the background by using a palate knife to paint over the flowers. To create variety in the flower's colouration I painted the flowers in two steps. I first painted a dark colour creating the flower's outline, and then I painted a lighter colour above, allowing the two to mix as I spread the paint with the palate knife.

Flowers layers.

At this point my simple flower painting had become much more complex, and what was suppose to have  been completed in a single painting session was taking multiple painting session, with over 100 hours invested into the final piece. 

Spring flowers: Poppies, daises, daffodils, grape vine, pansies, crocus.

As the painting progressed over months I began to develop new ideas to incorporate into the piece. The painting represented the vibrancy and life of Spring, yet how could I represent the life of Spring without including the diversity of life that the world contains. Thus I chose to accent each panel with a complementary colour of life. In the end, I arrived at a much more dynamic painting.

"Colours of Spring" 2011
Oil on Canvas 12x48"

Close up of poppies and daisies. 

Close up of praying mantis. 

Close up of dragonfly.

Close up of daffodil and grape vine.

Close up of butterfly.

Close up of lady bug.

Close up of pansies and crocus.

Close up of butter fly.

Close up of bumble bee. 

(Did you notice the ants crawling around the painting?)

Oil Colours:
Alizarin Crimson, Cadmium Red Medium, Cadmium Orange, Cadmium Lemon, Cadmium Yellow, Cadmium Yellow Pale, Indian Yellow, Sap Green, French Ultramarine Blue, Prussian Blue, Dioxazine (Windsor Violet), Burn Sienna, Burnt Umber, Ivory Black, Titanium White, Iridescent White.

Colours

The way our lives are illuminated can drastically change the colours through which we see. In the shadows of dreary winter life is far more cold and blue than the bright warmth of a summer morning. The same life under a different light and season is not truly the same life at all. Our intellect has the ability to imagine what it will, rather than what is. As we consume with all of our senses the euphoric nectar and splendor of the lilly we cannot but help to visualize the purity of the Madonna in its white petals, yet those petals in a different light are not white but a dingy grey. Colour is a property of light, and as such the colours of the world are constantly changing with the changing of the seasons and the passing of the day. What we truly see, therefore, may not be what is perceived, rather it is relative to the illumination by which it receives. The colours that I see are not the same colours that you behold, for I see them through a different light and life than can be illuminated through your eyes. My colours are unique, as are yours, but they are ever changing...

Roasted Butternut Squash and Yam Soup

Roasted Butternut Squash and Yam Soup.

Oh how I love the Fall. The leaves turn from green to gold, the air becomes crisp, and the fruits of the harvest laden the table with the prosperity of the season. No other soup speaks of Fall as does butternut squash soup.

Here we have oven roasted butternut squash, sweet potatoes, and garlic tossed lightly in olive oil and sprinkled with thyme, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt (I use equal parts squash to sweet potatoes). The roast is then pureed with vegetable stock, and brought to a simmer with a touch of sherry and heavy cream. The soup is garnished with sweet potato chips, fresh thyme, and nutmeg, yielding a rich and creamy golden soup reminiscent of all that Fall contains.

VIPs

Today was somewhat of an important day, but not for me. My boss, whom I have worked with for the past eight years, whom has become a good friend, is in a position to receive an advancement in the company. As part of the interview process her boss along with other VIPs, including the president and vice president of a multi-billion dollar company,  made a visit to the restaurant today. A month ago I was asked if I would be willing to take care of them during their visit, with the admonishment that her job and future would be in my hands. Surprisingly I wasn't terribly nervous for today's events (I have enough stress these days in concerning myself with my own interviews and future). The adrenaline did finally kick in at the onset of my presentation, but quickly wore off as I began my work. My job was to make her look good, and how did I do? Well, the answer to that question I don't entirely know, but I was told by multiple people that the president stated that my presentation was the best he has ever heard, and I do not doubt the service was likewise.

Black Box

The days are beginning to cool. Although it is still hot the sign that fall is on the way is immiscible. Soon the leaves will begin to change from green to gold, the nights will become crisp, and frost will kiss the last remnants of the harvest. And then winter will come. I stand at the threshold of a new season of life, yet the life before me is a black box, without definition or form. As a child growing up, I knew what I was to become, who I was to be. My life had a direction, and I lived without doubt or fear of what my life might hold. Now, as a man, I live in a world of unknowns. The daunting darkness before me holds more questions than answers. As I travel from place to place, trying to find my future, I imagine how the scene will turn the course of my life. So many dreams I have lost, so many I morn. I fight this last fight, hoping that I might, for once, be victorious. Yet if granted this one dream, I would gladly trade it and all of the other dreams I have ever dreamed for the one dream that I cannot have...

Inspiratious

I need to be up fairly early this morning. It's my day to volunteer at clinic. But how could I resist a perfect night for writing. The air is slightly crisp, with each breath like drinking from a high mountain stream. The sky dappled with luminescent clouds drifting in the bright evanescent moonlight, with stars sparking between, yields inspiratious thought that cannot be denied. It's a shame that I am not writing poetry tonight, for I am bound to a cause. I am in the thick of writing essays for supplemental medical school applications, and I have time for little else. If only every day I sat to write could be as perfect as it is now, with the very elements vitalizing my whole being. But alas, my macbook's battery is not so empowered, and I must sleep before the sky turns to grey.

Carousel

It's not often that I take time away from the obligations of a busy life to visit my family in Dixie. I visit maybe once a year, sometimes not even that often. The time was ripe for a trip south. At these interviews I would love to spend time behind the camera, capturing and bottling memories to be reviewed in a day when family is far away, yet I find the camera to be a distraction from making memorable moments. As a result I typically leave the camera work to others. I rather record memorable moments in my heart than spend the few days that I have half hearted. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to give my artistic side expression. I find myself in conflict, wanting to dedicate time to my photography, and what better subjects do I have than those I love, yet I don't want to distract from making memories. This trip I took no shots but those in my heart. The drive to the camp site through Kolob was stunning, passing through fields of pink wild flowers among the quakies and pines of the forest. The beauty of the scene was only rivaled by the onward drive to Dixie, with its beautiful red sandstone cliffs dotted with lush vegetation. Nature in all her majesty was yet no match to the beauty captured in the joy of the children playing, be that upon the ripples of the lake, or in the streams of the park. 

My niece Sadie and I riding horses. 

Sadie and I playing in the sandstone river at the park.

Gateway

For all the bad things that I teach my nieces and nephews I'm sometimes surprised by the complete trust my twin gives me with her children. (I once had my niece memorize the fundamental truth regarding the nature of the milk carton by repeating, "It's a man's right to drink from the milk carton.") But then again, how can my sister not trust me, I love them as if they were my own children, and they are the closest thing that I will ever have to having children of my own.

A few weeks back the two bachelors of the family were given the privilege of tending the little ones. I wish I would have thought of this idea years ago, when there was a bit of Chaos in my life, but I thought the kids might enjoy the fountain at the Gateway.

Blake and Spencer waiting for the show to begin.

Boys will be boys.

I don't know what was going through his head, but it really did look like he was dancing out there.

Cha cha cha.

 And for the finally.

The innocence and joy of childhood: What a beautiful thing.

The fountain in its majesty (and by that I am referring the the grander of the children's joy). 

Of course uncle Gary had to buy them strawberry cheese cake ice-cream.

Uncle Steve is trying to teach Sadie the fine principal of sharing.

He was denied. 

Three Summer Days

I've been so busy lately, it's actually been some time since I've painted or written any poetry. I last wrote in December, penning "Heart String". Some months ago I had the inspiration to write, but not the time, and now months later I wonder if I still have the inspiration to write that poem, or if it is forever lost. I still have the emotions ingrained in my heart, but I don't know if I have the words for it anymore. I haven't had much time for reading either. I've read very little of Keats in the past six months, though ironically I picked up his book of poetry a few days ago and began reading again. (I'm still working on getting through "Endymion".) His words are often definitions of my life, of my being. “I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” One day I will paint those three summer days.

Photogenic

I believe some people are just born photogenic. I'm not one of those people. It's not necessarily that I hate every photo of myself, but I rarely like photos that I try to produce an authentic smile in. I generally don't even try to smile anymore, but this photo is for medical school secondary application, so I figured I better try. The photo below was the result of over 200 shots. I'm not entirely satisfied with this one but it will have to suffice.

Gary James July 2011

Summer Read

July is reading month at Primary Children's, so I decided that I would organized a Story Hour each weekend. I began my summer reading with my favorite, Green Eggs and Ham. My young audience loved it. We then moved on to The Cat in the Hat and and an hour later we finished off with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. It looks like it's going to be an indelible summer.

Keats

In reading John Keats I one day came across this quote from his love letters to Fanny Brawne,  "I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death.  O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute."  The quote puzzled me.  That he brooded over his Love was easy enough to understand, but that he brooded over the hour of his death and looked forward to it with fondness, that was thought provoking.  I believe that I understand Keats now.  Keats did not live a life of ease and pleasure.  He saw much sorrow, and lived with more.  To be separated from his Love, both in distance and circumstance of life, was his greatest hell.  He was tormented from day to day, yea, even breath to breath, and though he may temporarily take pleasure in a fine cup of tea or a beautiful sunset, he was yet tormented in those pleasures, in that he took them alone, without his Love.  For Keats, the hour of his death was also the hour of his soul's delivery from torment and hell.  Yes, I do understand Keats...

In Passing

People have oft asked me how it is that I can work with sick children.  In disbelief they deny that they could ever do such themselves, stating that it takes a special kind of person to cope with the stress of nursing an ill child back to health.  The fact of the matter is children rarely let anything hold them back from playing with their whole capacity.  This attribute often disguises just how sick they may be, making it easy to forget that the child is even sick at all.

Today in passing a nurse who recognized me stopped me to inform me that one of my patients passed away recently.  This particular patient was the little girl that I've been giving oil painting lessons to.  I've worked with her for the past seven years.  She was one of my favorites.  I now know how it feels to loose a patient...

Barbaric

In response to an 'article' that I read yesternight, I'd like to relate a passage from my journal, titled "Running Off Without Your Head" from February 2005 (Yes, I title my journal entries).

"Our Society today has become quite accustom to the modern conveniences that has been yielded to us from the generations of toil before us.  For this reason I enjoy going to the mountains and slaying my own food, cleaning it, and cooking it over the open fire.  It reminds me of who we are and where we come from as a species, and truly what we have now.  (Though I'm sure my children will question how I grew up with such primitive technology).  It may seem barbaric to those who have never killed and prepared meat, but let them enjoy their fine plate of veal or their filet mignon at their fancy restaurant.  Let them enjoy their prepackaged meat, their processed food from the market.  Let them enjoy the convinces of society with little thought of where and how those convinces are brought to pass.  We go to the market, we buy cooked food and all that we must do is consume it.  Our common man has forgotten how to obtain and prepare food in its most basic form, and he is quickly forgetting how to even cook it, for all has been done for him.  I may be seen as the barbarian when I am hunting, but as I look down the sights of that rifle or bow, I give thanks to God, for his providence in my life.  And before I release that arrow or pull that trigger I view that animal in its glory and I give respect to it.  It is hallowed in my mind.  I was taught this when I was young, by whom I know not.  Now let me ask how many, who call me barbaric, look upon their plate in the walls of their fine dinning restaurant and reverence the animal that yields its life that they may eat.  Now who is the barbarian?  

Upon the farm there are acts that accomplished that many see as wild and barbaric.  I have memories of dad slaughtering chickens, that could be disturbing to the modern man.  What is done?  The chicken is caught (by no means an easy task), its head is placed across a log, and the ax falls.  Thereafter the nerves in the chicken continue to fire, and it runs around briefly without a head, and then falls to the ground.  Then the feathers will be plucked, it will be cleaned, then butchered, seasoned, and sold.  To live by the land, whether that be planting and harvesting, or raising and slaughtering, commands a respect to that land that all farmers posses.  They understand that they  are at the mercy of the land.  It is not barbaric to live and joy in life, but it is barbaric to live and joy in life without the understanding, respect, and thanks to God and the land for the life we have been given."  

What is more barbaric?  To kill and butcher an animal with reverence, or to buy and cook prepackaged meat with little regard that that was once a life?

Disney

As a child I had full rights to watch a Disney movie repetitively, non-stop, night and day, to the insanity of my mother (though I don't think that I ever was such a child, I rather played outside).  Now, as an adult, it would appear that the liberty to enjoy a good animated movie is no longer mine.  The ticket to Pixar's latest blockbuster hit really belongs to the children, and my ticket in is the child.  Can I reasonably view Cinderella with out my little Gracie, or can I lounge around on a Sunday afternoon watching Car's without my little James?  Yet I have no ticket, I have no child.  Those adults who are wise are able to enjoy their second childhood as fully as their first, as they discover the world with their children.  Sometime when I walk the halls of the children's hospital, overhearing the latest children's movies, I'm tempted to secretly return to my childhood, and rent Disney's latest and watch it all by myself.

Pain Perdu

Pain Perdu with an Amaretto Crème Anglaise Sauce. 

Pain Perdu is really just French toast, but as with most French food, it's pretty fancy eating.  The French themselves consider the dish a dessert, though I've chosen to host it as dinner tonight.  (Pain Perdu translates to "lost bread", which was a dish created to reclaim stale bread.)  

The dish is prepared by taking stale bread that has been sliced on a bias and dipping it in a wash of egg, heavy cream, vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon.  The bread is lightly fried, buttered, and dusted with confectioner sugar.  The dish is then topped with fresh berries and drizzled with amaretto crème Anglaise (English cream), consisting of egg yolks, sugar, heavy cream, vanilla bean, and amaretto (optional).  The dish is finished off with a sprinkle of confectioner sugar and served with a side of vanilla bean ice cream.  

Etiquette

Why should I become so frustrated with the apparent lack of etiquette in our society today.  After all, is it not the societal norms that determine what is couth and what is not?  Is it that society has become uncultured, or rather that the culture has changed?  I cling to the mannerisms of a past generation while living amongst a brash people, trying not to let the lack of pleasantries dishearten me, yet it does.  If I had children I would teach them manners beyond the simple sayings of please and thank you, which seems to be the extent of etiquette taught in the homes of today, thought even these small tokens are a feat to instill into the children of today.  Dinning etiquette is all but lost, dancing etiquette has passed into the void, and even the most basic etiquette of conversation is beyond us.  I fear that with the passing of the generations that such things will soon become extinct.

Forest of Healing

"Forest of Healing" 2011
Oil on Canvas 18x24"

Disease and ailments of the heart are ever upon us, striving to take the vitality that gives us life.  When all has been taken, and we are weak with nothing left, it is the passions of the heart that keeps us going.

There is a little girl with a chronic health condition who often frequents Primary Children's and art is the passion that keeps her going during her long visits to the hospital.  Recently I offered to give her oil painting lessons, and the above composition was painted with her.  For these reason I titled the pieces "Forest of Healing".  The piece will be given to my sister as a thank you for her contribution to Primary Children's play therapy programs.

Addendum:
The little girl that I referred to in the above passage passed away this Memorial Day due to complications of cystic fibrosis.  She passed at 12 years of age, the past 7 of which I have been privileged to share with her.  

Spring

Every culture has a different definition of when the beginning and end of the season is.  Our current system is based off of the solar calendar, namely that each equinox or solicit is the first day of their respective season.  I do not believe that this is the best definition for the seasons.  Why should the longest day of the year be the first day of summer, when every day after that approaches fall and winter, and every day before it approaches summer.  According to my logic, each equinox and solicit should be the midpoint of that season, rather than the beginning.  Thus the summer solicit, the longest day of the year, would be the midpoint of summer, rather than the first day of summer.  The first day of a season would be the date exactly between each equinox and solicit.  These dates tend to be more inline with what we would call a season by the nature of the weather and world around us.

Other cultures define the season with less precision, and in many ways, their lesser degree of precision yields to them greater degree of accuracy.  For many, the first day of fall begins with the last harvest of the season, the first day of winter with the first snowfall.  By this, Mother Earth determines her seasons, rather than by the calenders and calculations of man.  There is a certain comfort in allowing nature to define herself and speak to us.  

For many weeks now I have noted that buds have been forming on the trees and that spring flowers have been breaking soil.  With today's warm sunny morning came the blooming of the first crocus, and with it the beginning of spring.  

Broken

Coming to terms with the fact that you are, in a way, 'broken' is an interesting developmental process.  People do not refer to transient conditions in a personal way.  They say, "I have the Flu" or "a cold".  But conditions of life that impart some kind of permanence to the body or soul must be internalized.  We do not say "the asthma is killing me", rather we say "my asthma is killing me", "my diabetes", "my scared heart".  They become part of who we are, but it is not an instantaneous process, rather it is a process that slowly proceeds from initial shock and denial, to self internalization and acceptance.  It becomes part of who we are, part of how we identify ourselves.

Being a deep thinker, I find myself watching this process take place inside myself, almost as if I were watching from the third person as I observe how it plays out in 'my' newly diagnosed ulcerative colitis.

I have a dream...

I have a dream that one day a woman may share equal rights and wage with her male counter part.

I have a dream that one day a man may marry who he will, irrespective of gender.

I have a dream that one day a Hispanic child may receive an equal chance to raise out of poverty, to equal education and health.

I have a dream that one day a young white male will have an equal chance to education, that he will not be discriminated against because he is not the minority, that merit will determine his fate rather than his colour or gender.

I have a dream that one day a mosque, church, synagogue, and temple may one day line the same street, and that all may worship freely without discrimination.

I have a dream that one day political affiliation will not determine the choice you must make, but that a man can decide for himself what is right and wrong.

I have a dream that the rights of freedom, health, and the pursuit of happiness will lay equally before all the children of Eden.