What Could Selma Have Meant for My Mother?

I have read the news stories that retell the events 50 years ago in Selma, Alabama. I watched the advertisement for the movie, but haven't managed to see it yet. I have listened to news stories and eye witness accounts of the Bloody Sunday. Through all these, my mind has been on my mother.

In 1965, my mother had never been to America. I don't think that it ever even occurred to her that one day she would visit her daughter in this country. My mother lived in a predominantly white country. She did not have any black friends. She did not participate in demonstrations or march for civil rights.

But she followed Martin Luther King Jr's life.

She read books about him. She listened to the news when they talked about him. She admired him. She admired his faith, his tenacity for justice and his ability to inspire millions. My mother didn't give speeches. She was not a leader.

But she was a lover of God and people.

She worked in a Gypsy orphanage. She cared and loved the children that others would have rather seen forsaken. She played and laughed with the children. She rocked them to sleep when they were sick. She loved them.

You see, in Finland there was very little diversity 50 years ago. Still, Finland had its minority: the Gypsies. My mother did not march (I don't even think there were any marches), but she loved everyone of those Gypsy children that she had the privilege to care for. Years later, Gypsies were not uncommon at our house. Our neighbors might have looked twice, but my mother (and my father also) welcomed all of them with open arms to our home.

Loving the Gypsy children--and adults--was my mother's Selma. Her job was not done in a few minutes or hours just like the job of those marchers 50 years ago did not end that day. We continue to fight for rights for everyone no matter where we live.

I am honoring those brave men and women who marched on March 7, 1965. I am honoring them because that is what my mother taught me!