Who hasn’t heard the "I Have A Dream" speech by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.? I am sure we all have heard of this famous man’s cry for equality. King’s words are without a doubt worth knowing, but I would like to take a second to tell you the dreams that an African-American female once had. Bear with me; my message is one worth your time.

I don’t remember how old I was when my mother divorced, but I can tell you I was about three years old when she fell in love again. She fell in love with the man who is now legally my father. Being so young, I never saw a difference between my African-American mother and her Caucasian boyfriend. I knew my mother was from a small house in Cleveland, Ohio. I knew her parents had never attended a university, but they had successfully raised six girls, two of whom are foster children. I was also aware that the man she was dating was from Nashville, Indiana. I knew he talked funny, a thing I now understand to have been an accent. I also knew he was one of the silliest men I had met in my three years of existence, not to mention that he said he was a Hoosier, whatever that meant. My mother and her boyfriend dated for almost two years before they got married. The transition, actually a transformation, was quickly made so my mother’s boyfriend became my father.

I can’t say I liked my new father immediately, but he seemed to be a good person; he certainly was a likable person. Most importantly for me, the man treated my brother well. My brother was quickly taught all the rules to the game that I have come to know as basketball; they called the game "madness" where the Hoosiers came from. My brother didn’t have the best eye-hand coordination and he struggled to pick up the game of basketball. I am not sure what triggered my own interest in the game; it might have been that by the age of six I’d started filling out tournament sheets and picking with accuracy who would win the championship games. Little did anyone know I was picking the teams by the colors of their uniforms. I thought for sure if a team had a cute uniform they were bound to go far. Basketball had become the bond between my father and me.

My family was living in Bloomington. My mom was attending Indiana University to get a degree in law. In the mornings, she would go off to the campus library and leave my father at home to get me ready for school. Yes, she left him with the job of braiding my hair. I was so used to my new, white father and all the other things that he did for and with me that it never occurred to me he that had no idea what to do with the kinky hair of a little black girl. Oh yeah, I noticed that my braids never lasted throughout the day and I would frequently come home with barrettes that had come loose or that dangled or that were missing altogether, but this simply became the way things were.

My father taught me everything he knew about basketball. He coached me for four years. He taught me all that I know and even worked with me step-by-step until I perfected my lay-up. When basketball season ended track began. Although he never coached me at track he attended almost every meet I ran in. I began to see more and more how people reacted to my mother and father. I can recall times that my family would go to restaurants and instead of thinking that we were a family, it would be assumed that my dad was waiting to be seated by himself. I remember the first time I saw the disappointment on a person’s face when they realized that my last name and me did not share the same German heritage.

The fact that my parents didn’t consider race to be a barrier allowed me to have dreams that lacked barriers. For all I knew, I saw no reason for me not to be president of the United States. My mother and father may not have been aware of how far my confidence stretched but they would not have had it any other way. I have heard it said before that I lived a sheltered childhood. I simply lived life like Martin Luther King’s dream was true.

My father has attended awards ceremonies, games, tournaments, orchestra concerts and graduations. If you ask him, he will tell you that he has two successful children. People ask me all time why I call him dad. It is true that I have a biological father, but I couldn’t have it any other way. I do not think I am denying what I have. I think I am admitting what I have been given. He has the T-shirt and sweatshirt that you see most parents wearing during the first weekend of school, the one that says PURDUE DAD in large letters. I know he is proud of me and I am proud of him. Imagine how hard it must be for him to live Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream.

No matter how much my father knows that black and white can be equals he is told differently on a regular basis. I am sure that he gets a different response to having my picture on his desk than most fathers do. I am sure people have given him strange looks for purchasing oil sheen at Sally’s. Yet, in the 15 years that I have known my father he has not complained once. My father cannot be ignorant to how society views race, but with this in mind he goes out of his way for me. When we are at the grocery store and people try to ring us up separately, we laugh. If only everyone could see things as we do.

Maybe my mother and father did shelter me. I think they gave me an opportunity to see things how they could and should be. We are all human; the truth cannot be denied.

I will take my time off on this Martin Luther King Day to think of how his dream is alive in me. I am too young to say I knew Dr. King but I know a man just as famous to me.

I never thought that a white man would have taught Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream to me, but it has been a lesson that I have gained more from than any history lecture I can recall. I am not sure a person can understand Dr. King’s message by attempting to learn it; however, I am sure that you can understand Dr. King’s message by attempting to live it.

Chrystal Westerhaus
President of the Black Student Union
Member of Zeta Phi Beta Sorority Inc.