 Good afternoon. My name is John Gonzalez and I'm a member of the City of Fort Worth Diversity and Collusion employee committee representing the Public Events Department. I am excited to introduce today's Martin Luther King Jr. Employee Celebration. A collaborative effort between the committee and a group of dedicated employee volunteers that are supported by the Diversity and Collision Department. Before we begin our spoken work program honoring the life and work of Martin Luther King Jr., we have a few brief messages from our elected officials, city leadership, and the employee work group that planned and produced today's event. First, please welcome Mayor Pro Tem Gina Vittles. Good morning and I don't know this afternoon. I don't know if you'll be clapping when I finish but thank you for that applause anyway. I think I have two and a half minutes is what I'm told. I was asked to give some remarks on the achievements of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I am convinced everybody knows those achievements but I did bring a deck of cards and the deck of cards is great African Americans. You can get this anywhere but David Cook and I were at the, I guess it was the National Museum of Smithsonian for the African American Museum of which I am a charter member and that's where I bought that deck. I also brought a book, The New Jim Crow, and this is a loan to me from Fernando Costa who loves all things equity. I will tell you right now I'm not feeling real good. I'm concerned about what might happen to me when I go to vote in March and later on. I'm concerned about what I don't know about how people are changing district lines so that people in the elected office can't even vote for the seat they have right now. So I'm very concerned. But what I would submit to you, and I think I'll keep my two and a half minutes, I would submit to you what you can do to honor the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is educate yourself. You've got to educate yourselves, your people, your family, your friends because what happens if a poll watcher approaches you, a person of color, when you go vote? You need to know what to do. What happens to you if you're in line with someone who you know is diabetic and they're about to have an insulin shock incident and you want to give them a glass of juice to keep that sugar up? What happens to you? You don't know. And so we are in critical times right now and I submit to you the important thing to do right now is find out what your rights are but more importantly how people are aiming to change what we consider our freedoms that we have in this country. Now as you know, people are different and council positions are nonpartisan. We have to work together. I would ask you when you run into people who have differences of opinion with you, it's important that you try to engage because sometimes folk may have thoughts that are not based on that. We see that quite a bit these days. And so whatever you do, do not alienate people. Try to work together as best you can but the most important thing you can do for Dr. King's legacy is get educated. And those are my, I guess that's a greeting. Is that a greeting? Okay. Do you all feel greeted? Feel free. Feel free. Feel safe. Feel important. Feel intelligent. Feel knowledgeable. But whatever you do, read something somewhere every day and I'm going to take my deck of cards back because I don't want to leave them here and I'm reading the New Jim Crow and cast. So read something. David, I appreciate your leadership as our city manager and I think you know that I stand with you and appreciate everything you're trying to do for the cause of equity. And there may be things that city employees don't know that you're doing, but I know it and I think I have a level of trust with them. So good to see you. Be blessed. Thank you, Mayor Pro Tem Bivens. Now I'd like to introduce Canon Henry, a member of the Diversity, Inclusion and Employee Committee and the MLK Employee Celebration Volunteer Work Group. Canon. Thanks John. Good afternoon everyone. It's great to have everybody present and tuned in to our program today. My name is Canon Henry and I'm a member of the Diversity, Inclusion and Employee Committee and I represent the Transportation and Public Works Department. First I would like to welcome everyone to our event, but I would like to let you know that I'm excited for today's program because not only do we recognize and commemorate one of our nation's greatest leaders who presented a lot of seeds of diversity within his service to us, but also because this program has brought a lot of our employees from various departments together, not only to network but also to fellowship. Thus I would like to say to the employees, this opportunity would not be possible without the dedication and hard work from these city's employees who each year volunteer their time to plan and produce this celebration. So I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge y'all at this time for putting together another great program. So again, thank you. Also I would like to acknowledge the leadership and support from the Diversity and Inclusion Department that provides the staff support needed to present programs like this. If you'd like to learn more about our city's employee diversity efforts to learn more or have suggestions for a possible program, I would like to get involved with a feature program. Please contact me or someone with a Diversity and Inclusion Department. Again, thank you and welcome to our program. Thank you Canon. And finally, I'd like to welcome our city manager to the microphone, Mr. David Cook. Thank you everybody. It's a pleasure to be here today with you. I do want to share a few things and first though I want you to know what a pleasure it was to visit the African-American Museum of Washington D.C. with Gina Bivens. I mean, for those of you that have been there, you know the experience and for me to experience that with Council Member Mayor Pro Tem Bivens was just tremendous. So thank you for that. I also want to thank the Diversity and Inclusion Committee for putting this on. You do great work. Canon, thank you for your leadership on that. John, thank you for emceeing here today. We're expecting an absolutely great show. I thought in just my brief comments, it is 2022, right? And we're talking about a man who did his best work in the 60s. That was 60 years ago. Did we get that right? Did I do the math? Right? And we still, on one hand, we celebrate his life and his leadership for what he did that time. And at the same time, it reminds us we still have work to do. Right? There's still work to be done. Still work to do. And we all want to be part of making our community, our state, our country a better place. And this is a time to reflect on that and think about that. You know, it's getting educated. It's reading about Martin Luther King, Jr. It's understanding what the strive and the goals and what he wanted to achieve in his America, in his community. So I keep a couple quotes by my side. Just a few to think about that come from Martin Luther King, Jr. The first one is really straightforward and simple. The time is always right to do the right thing. Right? We need to remember that as we go forward in the things we do each and every day. The other one, a few more words than that. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. Again, I think those are great words, great things to think about as we again celebrate his life and think about the work that still needs to be done in our community, in our state and in our country. But again, thank you for what you've put on here today. I'm looking forward to the program and, John, you get the MC, so you get the microphone back. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Cook, for those thoughtful message and support of today's employee program. Alright, now it's time to begin the program featuring inspiring poems that commemorate the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. and his message of hope, love and unity. These selections will be recited and interpreted by professional spoken word artists from our community, student performers from 4th ISD's I Am Terrell Academy, and city employees. Our first selection is I Have a Dream by renowned and revered lesbian feminist poet Pat Parker. This poem is a retelling of Martin Luther King's famous I Have a Dream speech from the perspective of a woman whose work was fueled by her experiences growing up, black and female in south Texas of the 1940s. It will be recited by Lisa Reinhardt, city of Fort Worth Public Library employee. Lisa. I Have a Dream. No, not Martins, though my feet moved down many paths. It's a simple dream. I Have a Dream, not the dream of the vanguard, not to turn this world all over, not the dream of the masses, not the dream of women, not to turn this world all over. It's a simple dream. In my dream, I can walk the streets holding hands with my lover. In my dream, I can go to a hamburger stand and not be taunted by bikers on a holiday. In my dream, I can go to a public bathroom and not be shrieked at. In my dream, I can walk ghetto streets and not be beaten up by my brothers. In my dream, I can walk out of a bar and not be arrested by the pigs. I've placed this body, placed this mind in lots of dreams. In Martins and Malcolm's. In Huey's and Mao's. In Georgia's and Angela's. In North and South of Vietnam and America and Africa. I've placed this body and mind in dreams, dreams of people. Now I'm tired. Now you listen. I Have a Dream, too. It's a simple dream. Thank you, Lisa. Our next election is The Hill We Climb. This poem was written in the weeks following the 2020 United States presidential election with significant passages written on the night of January 6th, 2021, in response to the incident at the United States Capitol. It is a powerful call to action focusing on themes of hope, unity, healing, and resilience. Gorman was a 22 year old, Gorman was 22 years old when she recited the poem, making her the youngest inaugural poet ever. It will be performed by spoken word artists Tammy Melody Gomez. Greetings to all 4th residents. I dedicate this reading to Freedom Fighters Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Bell Hooks, and Sidney Patier who recently became ancestors, and to librarians currently safeguarding our right to access post-colonial literature. The Hill We Climb. When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry, a sea we must wade. We've braved the belly of the beast. We've learned that quiet isn't always peace. And the norms and notions of what just is isn't always just is. And yet the dawn is ours. Before we knew it, somehow we do it. Somehow we've weathered and witnessed a nation that isn't broken, but simply unfinished. We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president or find herself reciting for one. And yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn't mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect. We are striving to forge a union with purpose, to compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters, and conditions of man. And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us. We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside. We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another. We seek harm to none and harmony for all. Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true. That even as we grieved, we grew. That even as we hurt, we hoped. That even as we tired, we tried. That we'll forever be tied together victorious. Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division. Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree. And no one shall make them afraid. If we're to live up to our own time, then victory won't lie in the blade. But in all the bridges we've made, that is the promise to glade. The hill we climb, if only we dare. It's because being American is more than a pride we inherit. It's the past we step into and how we repair it. We've seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it. Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy. And this effort very nearly succeeded. But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated. In this truth, in this faith, we trust. For while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us. This is the era of just redemption. We feared at its inception. We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour, but within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves. So while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe? Now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us? We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free. We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation. Our blunders become their burdens, but one thing is certain. If we merge mercy with might and might with light, then love becomes our legacy and change our children's birthright. So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left with. Every breath from the bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one. We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west. We will rise from the windswept northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution. We will rise from the Lake Rim cities of the Midwestern states. We will rise from the sun-baked south. We will rebuild, reconcile and recover an every-known nook of our nation and every corner called our country. Our people, diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful. When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame and unafraid. The new dawn blooms as we free it for there is always light if only we're brave enough to see it, if only we're brave enough to be it. Thank you, Tammy, for that beautiful recitation. Now I'd like to welcome another community-performing artist, Charles Jackson. We'll present our next selection on a highway east of Selma, Alabama by Gregory Orr. The poem reflects on the summer of 1965 when Mr. Orr drove from his home state of New York to the south to volunteer as a political organizer and demonstrator and was arrested. Charles. On a highway east of Selma, Alabama by Gregory Orr. July 1965. As the sheriff remarked, I had no business being there. He was right, but for the wrong reasons. Among that odd crew of volunteers from the north, I was by far the most inept and least effective. I couldn't have inspired or assisted a woodchuck to vote. In fact, when the sheriff's buddies nabbed me on the highway east of Selma, I had just been released from ten days of jail in Mississippi. I was fed up and terrified. I was actually fleeing north and glad to go. In Jackson, they'd been ready for the demonstration. After the peaceful arrest, after the news cameras recorded us being quietly ushered onto trucks, the doors were closed and we headed for the county fairgrounds. Once we passed its gates, it was a different story. The truck doors opened on a crowd of state troopers waiting to greet us with their nightsticks out. Smiles beneath mirrored sunglasses and blue riot helmets. Smiles above badges taped so numbers didn't show. For the next twenty minutes, they clubbed us. And it kept up at intervals, more or less at random, all that afternoon and into the evening. Next morning, we walked to the new guards who did not need to conceal their names or faces. A little later, the FBI arrived to ask if anyone had specific complaints about how they'd been treated and by whom. But late that first night, as we sat bolt upright and rose on the concrete floor of the cattle barn, waiting for mattresses to arrive. One last precise event. A guard stopped in front of the ten-year-old black kid next to me. He pulled a Freedom Now pin from the kid's shirt, made him put it in his mouth, and then ordered him to swallow. That stake-out at dusk, on Route 80 east of Selma, was intended for someone else. Some imaginary organizer rumored to be headed toward their dismal god-forsaken town. Why did they stop me? The New York plates, perhaps, and that little bit of stupidity. The straw hat I wore, a souvenir of Mississippi. Siren rail from an unmarked car behind me. Why should I think they were cops? I hesitated, then pulled to the shoulder. The two who jumped out waved pistols, but wore no uniforms or badges. By then, my doors were locked, my windows were rolled. Absurd sound of a pistol barrel wrapping the glass three inches from my face. Get out, you son of a bitch or we'll blow your head off. When they found the pamphlets on the back seat, they were sure they got the right guy. The fat one started poking my stomach with his gun, saying, Boy, we're gonna dump you in the swamp. It was a long ride through the dark. They tried full of believable threats before they arrived at that hamlet with its cinder block jail. He was very glad to see it that adolescent I was 20 years ago. For eight days, he cowered in his solitary cell, stinking of dirt and fear. He's cowering there still, waiting for me to come back and release him by turning this terror into art. But consciously or not, he made his choice and he's caught in history. And if I reach back now, it's only to hug him and tell him to be brave, to remember that black kid who sat beside him in the Mississippi darkness and to remember that silence shared by guards and prisoners alike as they watched in disbelief the darkness deepening around the small shape in his mouth, the taste of metal, the feel of the pen against his tongue. It's too dark for it to matter what's printed on the pen. It's too dark for anything but the brute fact that someone wants him to choke to death on its hard shape. And still, he refuses to swallow. Thank you. Thank you, Charles, very much. The next seven selections are from the book, Martin Rising, Requiem for a King, by Andrea Davis Pinky and Brian Pinkney. This series of docu poems summarizes the life of Dr. Martin Luther King from his birth on January 15th to his assassination in 1968. They will be recited by I.M. Terrell Students, Vincent Osborne, Zoe Hodges, and Charles Jackson. Home Away from Home, April 3rd, 1968, evening at the Lorraine Motel. Thank goodness for the Lorraine Motel in the heart of Black Memphis, home away from home, warm comfort from Martin and his roommate Ralph. Room 306, $13.00 a night. Fresh sheets, clean towels, packaged soaps, waxy, tiny, fragrant, like the Forrester, now blooming for Wilting. The bomb scares and made him weary. His fever hangs on like a weighty wool coat, two sizes too small. This warrenthin minister needs to save his energy for the march on April 8th. Martin asks his ace to deliver tonight's speech to show up at the Mason Temple in his stead. Ralph agrees. Fever, April 3rd, 1968, evening at the Motel. Even a king can succumb to a fever's pitch. Overtaken by Delirium's dizzying dreams, Martin can't seem to shake the heat that rises from a place deep within him. He wishes he could beg off, stay in bed, skip the speech just this once, but that'll never do. Especially when Ralph calls him on the phone at the Lorraine. Martin, they want you, they want your words, your wisdom, your wings that can fly against the tide of rain covering Memphis in a thick sheet of painfully slow progress. Martin trembles, shrugs, wills himself to show up for a steep, steep climb to the mountaintop of premonition. Goaded by his own knowing, forgetting his umbrella legs heavy, Martin ventures out on this hammer rain night. Soaked, his fever raging, Mason Temple, here he comes to deliver his final tourniquet. Storm, April 3rd, 1968, night at the Mason Temple. The sky, sickly green swirls lace its black cape. Can the elements get any more ugly? Hard to believe, but yes, it's true. On this hammer rain night, radio station W-D-I-A has up the ante. Strong winds, a hissing locomotive, tornado watch! For still a branch is torn from pretty bushes, whirl-giggies batting at the wind. Martin rushes through the side door of the Mason Temple, sudden as a thunderclap smacking the back of his tight-seamed suit. Good Lord! A horde welcomes the mighty minister, still weary under the weather, but renewed of spirit when he sees thousands of smiles greet his arrival. His lectern awaits, a hush swells. Martin blots his bra, pauses, pray silently, and speaks. First comes the flight. The Almighty has granted Martin a bird's eye journey and escape from here and now, with his listeners riding in the palms of his hands, Martin guides them to Egypt's Red Sea, Greece, Rome, the Renaissance, behold the majesty of history's lessons. But I wouldn't stop there, he declares. Martin's words pull us forward on this passage through time, with King as conductor on Heaven's railroad, high above the ground we roll ahead to Mr. Lincoln's urgent emancipation, to FDR's nothing to fear but fear itself. History's trip holds the road back to progress, Martin proclaims. But I wouldn't stop there, his words coursing wind fill the wings that lift this crowd enraptured. Martin talks of trouble in the land, confusion all around, but he lifts them with his wisdom. Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars, he says. Tonight, Martin is the star, the North Star, the beacon leader who lights the way, with all who have gathered. Now, fully following Martin's words, this bird's eye trip lands, I am a man, first took its flight. Memphis, Martin implores us to stay the course, to move through the ugliness that has been heaped onto Memphis workers wanting justice. Peace, peace, only peace. His message is simple and the same as it has been since the beginning of every journey. It is no longer a choice between violence and non-violence in this world. Non-violence or non-existence, that's the choice. That's our ticket to freedom's destination. Now, the vision, the souls knowing foreshadow. Martin calls us to action, rise up tonight with a greater readiness. But are we truly ready for what's to come? Outside the hammer-down rain is an iron fist. Good Lord, this rain, will it ever quit? Relitless, spitting with a will, it stings. Good Lord, this rain, slinging pings of premonition, though mason temple is dry inside, Martin is drenched, sweating, fever. As he speaks, his gaze lifts to a far-off place. Martin sees something in the gray gloom sky, senses doom on that blurred horizon. The knowing soul in Martin's eye sees far into the rain outside, foreboding. But still, Martin's words roll ahead with a thunder that only he can bring. He tells of the airplane bomb scare. He speaks of threats and his view from high up. This seeing man's words overtake him. They push, blur into the edge of their seat's crowd. Martin tells it like it is, and like it will be. I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place, but I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. Every edge of their seat, I am a man. Every dressed in their best woman, every sanitation striker and the rain-slicked baby who has come with Martin through tonight's journey honors him with cheers and praise. The heated crowd fuels Martin's fever-pitched delivery now spiked high. And, in a sudden revelation, Martin Luther King Jr. delivers his own deliverance. Here, tonight, fueled by his godly vision, Martin has climbed to the highest mountain peak. And I've looked over, and I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. The rain slams down, ruthless, alive. Bone deep inside himself, Martin's henny-penny premonitions know what the sky will do. Brow to brow with that monster called mortality. He holds fast to his faith. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. Thank you. Quick Strange, April 4th, 1968, Night Approaches. Dressed as the man of distinction that he is, Martin steps out into the balcony of his home away from home. And to the fresh air terrace of the Lorraine Motel, breathing in the evening, sun's burnt pearl has painted the sky. So lovely, so calming. Twilight's hush welcomes Martin with stillness. From inside room 306, Ralph hears at first. A dull, sudden pop. Quick Strange wonderings flood Ralph's mind. What on earth? A cranky car? A firecracker? Ralph rushes to see. Lord have mercy. Powerless. Time out of time. Brave bird wings blurred in a flutter flap frenzy. She tries. Oh, she tries to fly in the bullet's face. Tries to dance in front of its path. Tries. Oh, she tries so hard she tries. This determined bird works her wings with the might of a mama protecting her young from oncoming harm. Brings it on in a frenzy dance. Tries to stop time. Works double time to distract death. Maybe her flapping can divert its path. In a full out, center stage fashion, she extends both wings chest wide open. A feathery cross that bird. A brave shield of showy, flappy feathers. Hoping to block the unstoppable oncoming, train a pain locomotive speeding towards sparkling-eyed Martin. But no matter how hard she works her wings, no matter how much she tries to deflect the inevitable, nothing can erase the name etched on the bullet's face. Powerless bird, forced to surrender, is the first to cry. Compass. Martin. His white shirt spattered red. His necktie, tie ripped off by the force of that anonymous pop. The tie's black and gold stripes have been flung every which way. The necktie's tail flipped, crooked, cockamamie. It's a needle pointing north on a compass whose every arrow leads to peace. Martin Luther King, Jr. Hungry for that sure is good food for the soul. His last supper, ripped away like a broken promise. Through a past waits, losing its sweet steam while Gwen wonders, what's keeping Martin? He's laid out, flat, on the home away from home welcome mat whose name is Lorraine. Brother. Friend. King. No, it can't be that once baby boy sparkling-eyed child, believer, dream weaver, Papa bear, mighty blow. Come all ye faithful, all aboard Heaven's railroad. The higher side torch rests by the open door inviting him to fly. Come home, time for supper child. And so, I'm happy tonight. No, I'm not fearing no God, no peace. No stop, it can't be. My eyes have seen the glory. Goodbye, brother, friends. Goodbye, Lorraine. I am a man. Spiritual food for weary souls, slain. Thank you, Vincent, Charles, and Zoe, very, very much. Our next selection, while short, is a limitation of the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the grief felt by a nation. Devouring the light by Cheryl Boyce-Taylor is recited by Lisa Reinhardt. After Martin Luther King, Jr. The day they killed Martin, we could not return to New York City. Our visiting senior class stuck in Huntsville. Streets blazed with suffering in that small Alabama town. In the dull shroud of mourning, the whole world went crazy. Devouring whatever light that lit our half-cracked windows. Thank you, Lisa. Now I'd like to invite Tammy Gomez back to the mic for her recitation of One Today by Richard Blanco, which embodies MLK's vision for a more inclusive world. One Today by Richard Blanco. One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, peeking over the smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. One light, waking up rooftops under each one, a story told by our silent gestures moving behind windows. My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors, each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day, pencil yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands, apples, limes, and oranges, a raid like rainbows begging our praise, silver trucks heavy with oil or paper, bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives, to teach geometry or ring up groceries as my mother did for 20 years so I could write this poem. All of us as vital as the one light we move through, the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day, equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined. The I have a dream, we keep dreaming, or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain the empty dusts of 20 children marked absent today and forever. Many prayers, but one light, breathing color into stained glass windows, life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth onto the steps of our museums and park benches as mothers watch children slide into the day. One ground, our ground, rooting us to every stalk of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane so my brother and I could have books and shoes, the dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains, mingled by one wind, our breath, breathe, hear it through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony of footsteps, guitars and screeching subways, the unexpected songbird on your clothesline, hear squeaking playground swings, trains whistling or whispers across cafe tables. Hear the doors we open for each other all day, saying hello, shalom, bonjour, no, howdy, namaste, or buenos dias. In the language my mother taught me, in every language spoken into one wind, carrying our lives without prejudice as these words break from my lips one sky. Since the Appalachians and Sierras claim their majesty and the Mississippi and Colorado work their way to the sea, thank the work of our hands, weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report for the boss on time, stitching another wound or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait or the last floor on the freedom tower, jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience one sky toward which we sometimes lift our eyes tired from work, some days guessing at the weather of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother who knew how to give or forgiving a father who couldn't give what you wanted. We head home through the gloss of rain or weight of snow or the plum blush of dark, but always home, always under one sky, our sky, and always one moon like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop and every window of one country, all of us facing the stars, hope, a new constellation, waiting for us to map it, waiting for us to name it, together, together. Thank you. Thank you, Tammy, very much. Our final selection today is I Dream a World by Langston Hughes. The theme of the poem is equality and unity as mankind envisions a world where racism, discrimination, selfishness, and greed are eliminated. It will be recited by Lisa Reinhardt. I Dream a World where man, no other man will scorn, where love will bless the earth and peace its paths adorn. I Dream a World where all will know how sweet freedom's way, where greed no longer saps the soul, nor avarice blights the day. A World I Dream where black or white, whatever race you be, will share the bounties of the earth and every man is free. Where wretchedness will hang its head and joy, like a pearl, attends the needs of all mankind. Of such I Dream my world. Thank you, Lisa. The sentiments conveyed in Langston Hughes' poems are indeed inspirational and aspirational and the perfect way to conclude our MLK program today. But before doing so, I want to thank all of our performing artists today here with us for your thoughtful recitations of these beautiful and reflective poems. On behalf of the Diversity and Inclusion Committee, Employee Committee, thank you for joining us today and be sure to read the roundup to learn more about the upcoming DNI employee programs and learning opportunities. And one last message. Talk and especially listen to one another. It's the oldest and the most powerful form of communication we have. Have a wonderful and blessed day. Thank you.