I woke up weepy today. When NPR told the story of a 105 year-old woman who made the trek to Washington to watch the inauguration because she needed to see a lifetime of struggle culminate in the first black president sworn into office. Who wouldn’t get teary as she told tales from her life and her feelings about today?

I’d avoided coverage for most of the weeks leading up to the inauguration. I didn’t want to hear every tidbit of it coming together, the choices, the controversies, the analysis. I just wanted to watch it.

I don’t know why I felt weepy. As a white person, racism has never touched my life. I haven’t fought for civil rights, I haven’t seen overt racism, I haven’t any stories to share that make this day particularly special to me.

But as an American, I feel haunted by our past. I feel ashamed the the forefathers whom I celebrate so often on holidays in in history books, welcomed slavery and racism, or turned a blind eye to the struggles of so many of those fighting for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I’m proud of my country – I really am — but I know its proud history is marred by violence and prejudice. I may not have seen or been a part of it, but I can’t deny it’s part of the nation’s identity, my identity.

So when I watched the first black man sworn in as president of the United States, I felt a breath of what that 105 year-old woman felt. Progress.