The letter U all over again

I often think about two things my first grade teacher, Ms. Riley, told me many years ago.

1. Usually your first guess is the correct answer.
2. Everyone is special in their own way.

As a white girl in my first grade class, I was in the minority. Most of my classmates were multiracial. We lived in Seoul, Korea where I was constantly stared at and commented on – from my height to my weight to the size of my nose to the color of my eyes.

Ms. Riley was African-American. She always wore bright colors and always smelled nice. I remember looking at her eyeshadow during class and wondering how she put it on. Or how she took it off, for that matter. I loved hearing about the stories of her growing up. I liked how she encouraged me to talk in class after my kindergarten teacher told me I talked too much. Ms. Riley told me I could be a writer if I wanted to be one. She told me it was okay to be different – in fact, it was much better to be different.

We learned about Martin Luther King, Jr and one of our projects was to finish his “I have a dream” line. I remember all my classmates working away on their posters, adding clouds and stars and hearts. Even back then, I was more interested in words than pictures but I couldn’t think of anything to write. I remember Ms. Riley sitting with me and telling me stories about Dr. King.

And then one day, my parents put us in the car and we drove past my elementary school. My mom and dad told me to look out the window as we drove past. Do you see something? Can you see it? And there it was – my name in print. The very first time.

Later that year we put on a play for Martin Luther King, Jr Day. Ms. Riley assigned each of us to a letter in his name. I got the letter “U”. When it was my turn, all I had to do was take a step forward and say, “U is for unique.” But that play, that moment, has stayed with me ever since.

In my final term at university, I took an African American Politics course. It was on Thursday nights from 6pm-10pm. It would complete my Political Science minor and I would be finished with my degree. I couldn’t wait.

On the last night of class, I had to write various essays on the civil rights movement. The last question was on whether or not America would ever have a black president.

I finished the exam, returned to my apartment where Scott proposed. Soon after, I moved to a different country.

Last week, I saw a black man become the next American president, four years after that essay and nearly 20 years after my first byline.

Naturally I was happy because I had voted for him, though it was not because of the color of his skin. I was thrilled to have seen, albeit from an ocean away, an incredible voter turnout for probably the most unique election there will be in my lifetime. I was excited that the international view of the US would hopefully change for the better.

But mostly, I was proud to see that the American Dream does still exist. And that a first grader, all those years ago, had a dream which might actually come true some day.