I grew up in Michigan in the '70s, in a very rural area.  We went into Lansing, Mich., to shop, and there I could see people of all colors, ethnicities and cultures. Still, the area I grew up in was very - white.  I never much thought about it; it just was. 

   Sometimes I still find myself wanting to apologize for this fact; as if it is my fault, and I am wrong for not knowing people from other backgrounds.  Yet, it was much the same with economic class - I grew up very, very middle class.  It's all I knew.

   Of course, we did learn about the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln freeing the slaves, Martin Luther King's dream and of Rosa Park's courage.

   But as a little girl, I knew nothing of the sting of rejection based on the color of my skin.  I did not know of the pain and the tears, of those who came before me due to man's ignorance.  I did not know the hatred and the fears.

   I had never heard of the Little Rock Nine, or that in a place called North Little Rock, Ark., black children were not allowed in schools with white children until public school busing began in 1972.

   How could I not have known?

   I have never believed in racism - from white to black or the opposite.  I remember moving to Arkansas in my 20s and being shocked by the words and actions of those around me who keep such hatred alive.

   But still I never knew.

   I went to the Emancipation Proclamation exhibit at the Clinton Presidential Library Sept. 25, and viewed "The Long Struggle."  Still, after seeing what I saw, I can only guess and still not come close to knowing.

   Each face on the walls, over a century of black people from all walks of life - here a nanny with her two white charges, there slaves working in the rice or cotton - tells a profound story.  The clothes, the hands, the eyes become a living thing and reach out to touch you.

   The mementos of long-past events linger on like scars: the sign saying, "We Only Wash White People's Clothes," and the shackles that once enclosed the freedom of a man or woman.

   Biting back the feeling that washes over one, you must wonder, how could we not know?

   And how can we continue to repeat our mistakes so willfully?  How can we continue to berate each other for our differences - political, religious, ethnic, sexual, physical?  How can we continue to make broad generalizations and think it's acceptable?

   Martin Luther King once had a dream.  I declare the dream is still alive:  that we learn to embrace all our diversity, and that we learn to accept, even when we cannot love.

   Our world is torn apart by hate.  We must do more, each and every one of us.  We must learn to work for a world where we all belong.

   How can we not see?