OF ALL American heroes, Martin Luther King is the one I feel closest to - the one whose words I hold on to for perspective and guidance. Without dreams life is empty and meaningless, and Dr. King's dreams and mine remain the same.

"...the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity."

Baltimore - 1940s: My mother is gravely ill, and my father hires Rita to care for me. Rita cannot enter my neighborhood stores, movie theaters, bowling lanes, beauty salons. Signs in many upscale neighborhoods and establishments read: "No Colored, Jews or Dogs."

When Rita and I are on the same streetcar, she must ride in the back. I will not let go of her, and we sit in the back together.

"...the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land."

1950s: I spend many Sundays at Rita's home in one of the poorest sections of town. Not one person is unkind to this lonely child, the only white one, playing with other children on a crowded street.

"I have a dream."

1960s: We picket, march, sit in. We are cursed, shoved, spat on and arrested. On her deathbed, Rita tells me she is proud of who I am. It is largely because of her.

"This sweltering summer of the Negro's discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality."

My college, Goucher, then a women's school located in the wealthy Baltimore suburb of Towson, has accepted a black student for the fall. No establishment is open to her, not even a drug store or pizza parlor.

A group of students spend countless hours visiting these businesses. We are ordered out, cursed at. We threaten a boycott, and the Baltimore Sun picks up our story. The businesses welcome our student. I begin to believe the world can be changed.

"The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation..."

1968: Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy are gone. I have become a mother. My life no longer belongs only to me.

"We are here today to dramatize an appalling condition."

I tell my daughters about Rita and Dr. King, and how proud I was to be part of the March on Washington on Aug. 28, 1963.

"Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness."

I concentrate on my professional life. But I still believe there is a way to change the world.

"Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."

1975: Continued divisiveness shatters hope. The death of a dream is also mirrored in my own life. I'm divorced, with two small daughters. I see that the only person I have the power to change is myself.

"We cannot walk alone."

Today: Not long before the system at the post office changed from separate window lines to one long one, I wait 45 minutes to mail a package to my stepdaughter in Berlin. I am the only white person, the last one in line.

When it is finally my turn, the clerk tells me that his shift is over, and I am to move to another line. I explain that I will only take a moment, but his eyes are cold and he turns his back.

As the man walks away I shout, "Your mother would not be pleased. She and I may have picketed and gone to jail together."

"I still have a dream."

Not long ago I was one of many women given an award by an African-American religious organization for work I have done in the area of domestic violence. I am the only white woman in the mayor's very crowded reception room in City Hall.

I try to engage several women in conversation, but though treated politely, I know I'm in the way. Since I'm a happy observer and love to eat, I fill my plate with delicious food and find a corner.

The main speaker is the mayor. He is relaxed, funny, deep, eloquent, and yes, even adorable. I have been in small circles with him before, but never have seen him this way. "Why has the dream eluded us? Why are we two cities?" I ask myself. I think of Rita. That's when tears come.

"With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood."

This year, a friend and I attend the extraordinary musical tribute to Dr. King at the Kimmel Center. The attendees are primarily African-American.

I see a few people I have worked with through the years, and their eyes and words are kind and welcoming. But there were other eyes that, if they met mine at all, seemed only to ask, "What are you doing here? He's ours."

In the women's room, when I receive one such cold and fleeting glance, I decide to touch the looker gently on the arm and respond, "He's mine, too."

"[All] destiny is tied with our destiny and... [all] freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom."

Not long after the concert, I visit my granddaughter, almost 3. Charlotte Rose likes my stories, even when she can't quite understand them. On this day I tell her about "Dr." King.

Charlotte Rose has decided that when she grows up, she wants to be a doctor. She likes that doctors fix "oww-ies," her word for what hurts.

My granddaughter listens attentively and then asks, "Does the man fix oww-ies?"

There is only one response: That's up to all of us.