These powerful lines by Harlem Renaissance writer Langston Hughes have challenged African-Americans to realize they have a dream and that a dream deferred is still a dream, although it risks being drained of its initial passion...or of "[exploding]," as Hughes strikingly puts it.

African-Americans of the past were forced to delay their dreams, to let their dreams sit in the solitude of their own minds and hearts, disregarded by the world.

Both the young and old of present generations have opportunity after opportunity to express their dreams and bring them to life! Yet, so many defer their own dreams, whether out of fear, laziness, insecurity, or just does not belief their voices matter.

It is a sad state to disregard rights our predecessors were forced to give up, especially something as personal and as powerful as a vision, a dream, a voice.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

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