DREAM
by Sharzi © 2014–2026
My Reflections…
.
Please bear with me as I share a story from my childhood.
It was 1967, and the country was in the midst of turmoil. War, prejudice, confusion, and upheaval were the prevailing themes of the day. Meanwhile, I lived in a kind of cocoon. My parents owned a thriving bar, nightclub, and restaurant, and I spent a lot of time there with them or with my grandparents. Despite these frequent influences, at twelve years old, I was naïve, sheltered from the harsh realities and angst of the world.
It was a hot summer, the kind where sweat glistens on your cheeks and forehead, but men still wore suits to work, then sought refuge in the nearest watering hole to cool down after a long day.
On this particular day, I was sitting with my grandmother and sister at a table close enough to the bar to watch the friendly regulars, when a well-dressed Black man entered. He took a seat on the stool near the door, removed his dark jacket and hat, and placed them on the stool beside him.
He appeared weary, troubled. He raised his hand, signaling my father. “I’d like a beer.”
The inebriated man behind the bar, who happened to be the same one who contributed to my existence and had visitation on the weekends (the reason we spent it in a bar), turned slowly to the unfamiliar face trying to get his attention.
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
I was confused. His kind? He was just a man, wanting a beer — just like countless others who had walked through that same door before him. My father had never turned anyone away. Why him?
The man, clearly exhausted, responded, “Look, I’ve had the worst day of my life. I just want one beer. Then I’ll leave, I promise.”
I thought my father might feel sympathy for him. Even at my young age, I could see the man’s pain, etched clearly on his face.
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But my father only glared at him. The other men in the bar did the same. My father pointed toward the door. “Did you hear what I said? We don’t serve your kind here. Now get out.”
The man pleaded again. “Come on, it’s just one beer.”
At that moment, every man in the bar stood up in unison, rushing toward him. They grabbed him roughly, swearing and shouting in his face. I stood, wanted to scream at them, “What’s wrong with you???” But before I could, my grandmother placed her hands firmly on my shoulders, pushing me back into my seat. “Don’t say a word,” she ordered, her voice hissing through her teeth, sharp and unfamiliar to me.
The men — men who had always been kind and welcoming to me — dragged the man to the door, beat him mercilessly on the curb, then threw him into the street, leaving him bloody and broken. Then, as if nothing had happened, they returned to their seats, resuming their drinking and chatting about life as though nothing whatsoever had happened.
I rushed to the bathroom, overwhelmed with emotion. I cried and vomited, my body trembling. How could they treat another human being this way? In that moment, and in many others that followed, I felt an unbearable shame for being human.
They did it because they could.
Even now, decades later, the memory sickens me.
Throughout my life, I’ve always believed we are all here for a reason — not to dominate one another, not to feel lesser than anyone else. We are all loved by our creator.
I never forgave my father for that, and I felt no sadness when he chose to distance himself from his children, claiming he was “too busy” to be a part of our lives.
After this incident, along with a series of others, it all contributed to shaping the person I am today. The only thank you I will ever give my father, is the fight for what’s right, in spite of him.
I’m proud to say that in my lifetime, something monumental happened… a man of color became the first Black president of our country. We, as a nation, electing a leader based on what he could offer, regardless of his color.
Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream — a dream many of us waited far too long to see realized. Through the lens of my rose-colored glasses, I see us all as one race, the human one.
I was captivated by Dr. King’s speeches, and with each one, I gained a deeper understanding of the work that lay ahead. I went on to join marches and protests in solidarity with my brothers and sisters of color, wrote letters to our representatives, and became the rebellious voice in my family — an “upstart”— a label I wear with pride to this day.
Happy Birthday, Dr. King. Your legacy endures. You have not been forgotten.
