Let's set the scene -- The theater is one of those comfortable, new theaters with waiters who come to your seat and serve you food and drinks. It's plush and the screen is close and clear.
Although we had menus, neither I nor the two friends I was with ever pushed the button for service. We hadn't had dinner, but the drama on the screen was too intense. We didn't want to miss a word, a phrase or a gesture.
I'm so glad I didn't go alone. It's that much of an emotional experience. When it was going on, I knew people involved in the march -- and even considered going. Wow! As I watched the crowd scenes -- I was struck by the fact that there seemed to be more women than men.
The people with me who had been close to the movement nodded when I mentioned this. Yes, it was true. It's hard to sort it all out. Hard to believe that the racists could be such horrible animals. What kind of a man beats up mothers and grandmothers? No soul, no soul at all.
Are there still racists? Oh, yeah. The hope, and I have said this before, is that they are dying out and that our younger generations recognize the reality: We are all biologically the same. No skin color is superior.
If there could be mandatory viewing, I would wish that everyone would see this film -- to know what happened, to feel it to the bone.
An irony in the name of the film is a close personal connection -- My mother's name was Selma. On top of that, my parents were married in Selma, Alabama during WWII because my father was stationed there. The name "Selma" rings in my ears.