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Throughout the museum, I kept seeing one word: Truth. This trip helped me understand why.

As someone who is not from the U.S., most of what I knew about the civil rights movement was about Martin Luther King Jr. and the bus boycott. But today, I learned about so many other figures and events that are not as well-known. Their stories deserve to be told, too.

I took this photo inside a segregated bus. Walking through it, I felt as if I had stepped back in time. It was more than history. It was a reality that so many people lived through. Being in that space made me reflect on their struggles in a way that words alone never could.

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I cannot begin to describe how deeply this place impacted me. I knew the history, I had read about it, but seeing everything visually made it an entirely different experience, one that words cannot fully capture.

One moment that stayed with me was walking to this room where every tiny light represented a child who lost their life. As I watched the room fill with glowing lights, I felt an overwhelming mix of sorrow and disbelief. It was a hauntingly beautiful yet painful way to tell their story. This museum didn’t just teach history it made me feel it.

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Standing before Abraham Lincoln’s memorial, I felt the weight of his impact on history. His fight for equality and willingness to evolve his beliefs showed his courage and wisdom. Learning that he initially supported sending freed African Americans elsewhere but later changed his stance after conversations with Frederick Douglass was a powerful reminder that great leaders listen, learn, and grow. Visiting this memorial was an inspiring start to my journey in Washington.

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Standing before this war memorial, I was shocked by the great number of names each representing a life, a family, a sacrifice. Every name belonged to someone’s child, sibling, or spouse, a reminder of the deep cost of war. As I traced the engraved letters, I kept asking myself: Have I ever been this brave? The words at the entrance echoed in my mind “Freedom is not free”

This memorial made me reflect on the sacrifices that shaped the world we live in today.

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I found myself looking at this building every time we passed the area. Now, whenever I think of Washington, this monument is the first thing that comes to my mind.

I believe this is a perfect reminder of the strength and dedication that built United States.

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As an international student who came to the U.S. just six months ago, I had never heard of Frederick Douglass before this trip. I am so grateful that I got to learn about him and his incredible journey. His perfect bravery and unwavering dedication to the right path inspired me beyond words. The sacrifices he and his wife, Anna Murray, made were truly heartbreaking yet admirable.

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Visiting this house was an emotional experience for me. I found myself in tears as I listened to the story of his final moments and Anna’s as well, both passing away while trying to make one last positive impact. They never stopped fighting, not even in their last moments. Their story left a deep mark on my heart, showing me what it truly means to stand for justice, no matter the cost.

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Frederick Douglass’ Library - The Power of Knowledge

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Frederick Douglass’ Library - The Power of Knowledge

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Standing in Frederick Douglass’ library, I couldn’t help but think about how important education and reading were to his success. He was born into slavery and denied the right to learn, yet he taught himself to read and write, using knowledge as his greatest weapon against oppression. Seeing his collection of books reminded me that education is one of the most powerful tools for change. I truly believe that reading and learning are key factors for success, and Douglass’ life is proof of that.

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This moment was moving, powerful, and incredibly brave. The protest at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics was a great example of intersectionality (a word I just learned during our reflection meeting). It showed how race, politics, and sports are deeply connected.

Athletes and public figures who use their platform to speak out have a unique ability to bring attention to injustice. Moments like this are not just about sports; they are about telling the world the truth about what is happening in a country.

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This artwork left a strong impression on me. It tells the story of redlining, a system that kept African American communities in poverty by denying them financial opportunities. Seeing how neighborhoods were marked in red, making it nearly impossible for people to get loans or insurance, made me realize how deep these injustices ran. The red slats in the painting form a metaphorical fence, symbolizing how people were quite literally trapped by this system. This was a powerful reminder that discrimination was not just social, it was built into policies that shaped lives for generations.

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I already knew that the Disney movie wasn’t true, but I had never learned the real story of Pocahontas until this trip. It was sad to discover that no words from her have been left behind and that only one portrait of her exists.

Now I know that she was from Virginia, married an Englishman, moved to England, and had a son before passing away at just 22. Her life has inspired many, and over time, different versions of her story have emerged. No matter how it is told, one thing is clear: she was an influential figure and remains one of the most well-known Native American Women in history.

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The artwork in the Native American Museum was delicate and beautiful, showcasing the richness of their culture. I truly enjoyed seeing the photos and artworks, each reflecting the deep traditions and artistry of Indigenous communities.

However, I couldn’t help but feel that the museum didn’t fully capture their history. I had previously visited the Harvard Museum, which provided a much deeper look into the struggles and resilience of Native American people. While this museum celebrated their culture beautifully, I left wishing it had done more to tell the full story of their past.

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This room was one of the hardest to stand in. Piles of shoes, each belonging to a person who had a life, a family, and dreams, now gone. They came in all sizes and colors, each with its own untold story.

I tried to focus on just one. A white high-heeled shoe. It once belonged to a woman, someone who had walked in it, made memories in it, never knowing what fate awaited her. That single shoe made everything feel even more real. These were not just numbers in history books. They were people, and their stories must never be forgotten.