Fifty years ago I was in line in the cafeteria at Boston University. A radio played in the background, and I heard the stunning news: Dr. Martin Luther King had been shot on the balcony of a Memphis motel. People in line stopped, shaken, frightened, fearful. Too soon the word came that he had been killed, assassinated. That moment has stayed in my mind, punctuated two months later by the death of Robert Kennedy.

I was 21.

It was a few weeks after Dr. King’s death that I was walking through an alley to the movies in Brookline. I was with my girlfriend, and we were in a carefree mindset. Suddenly I noticed a fellow standing in the shadows, a rifle clutched to his chest. I drew my girlfriend to the other side of the alley, and another man was there, his hand on a pistol. My heart beat rapidly.

Before I could summon the courage to run ahead or turn back, a bright white light flashed ahead of us, and a voice called out: “Hurry up and get off the set. We’re trying to shoot this film.”

We had stumbled onto an amateur movie set that was so real it frightened me then, and the memory of those guys with guns frightens me today.

Last weekend I took the night train to Washington as part of the March for our Lives. After I slept for a bit, the train stopped at BWI Airport and a bunch of kids got on. One sat next to me, a student from Parkland. I shared my support and encouragement about their cohesive effort to limit the use of firearms. I told him how impressed I was at their dedication. He was shy, but determined, and I felt a level of confidence that maybe this time, something will get done.

I spent Saturday walking around the Pennsylvania avenue area as preparations for the March ensued. I took an hour off to visit the National Museum of African Americans, which sits in the shadow of the Washington Monument. I felt that was an appropriate interlude before the March. Then I returned to the March, which now filled 10 blocks, and stood by a jumbo television screen and took in the speeches, songs and statements. I felt encouraged, uplifted and hopeful.

Afterwards I walked over to the reflecting pool and sat facing the Capitol, with the statue of General Grant on horseback overseeing the hoards of marchers who relaxed at the water’s edge. This was a peaceful moment to gather my thoughts and say my prayers that this time, these young people have the momentum and the resilience to carry the torch to limit the use of guns.

Not since the protests and marches of the Vietnam era have I felt so optimistic. I urge us all to take a deep breath and encourage these efforts to legislate sensible limitations on weapons.

My only experience with guns turned out to be a bad movie; too many people’s lives have been shattered by guns. It’s time for change.