"The town has changed," replies Perkins, who replaced as mayor a longtime segregationist. "But quite frankly some people haven't gotten there yet. It's a humbling experience, a real challenge, for Selmans to fully understand the significance of Selma to the world. It's an icon for human rights. We can wear our history like an albatross or we can look at it as an opportunity. I think we're getting to the point where people see it as an opportunity."
"What message would you have for kids?" Sam asks.

Perkins leans back in his chair and considers the question.

"Respect yourself," he says.

ATLANTA
In Atlanta, we come to the end of our trip. Our first stop on our last day is the visitors center at the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site, an interactive museum run by the National Park Service. The center offers video presentations, films, and a moving exhibit of eight life-size statues in a simulated 1960s freedom march.

We walk up the street to King's boyhood home. It's a striking cream-colored two-story house with brown shutters framing tall windows. A guide says it hasn't changed much since King lived there. Sam likes the stories of King scheming to get out of practicing the piano and of sitting in a tree, reading. The tales seem to revive him.

As evening descends, we walk over to Ebeneezer Baptist Church, where King was a co-pastor with his father from 1960 until his death. Nearby is King's gravesite. He's buried above ground in a rectangular white marble grave atop a reflecting pool.

Sam sits by himself for a long time, running his fingers through the water. It's been a long trip, and he's tired. I can see it in his drawn face.

"Ready to go?" I ask.

"In a minute," he replies. "Who knows when we'll be here again."