Last weekend I got together with a group of progressive campaigners to celebrate Obama’s victory. A story emerged from the weekend that has been ricocheting around in my mind.

On Saturday night, after a great meal and perhaps a little too much wine, we started making toasts. One of those toasts turned into a semi-silly, semi-sober, semi-sonorous singing of This Land Is Your Land. The song came straight from our hearts. For a group of Gen-Xers steeped in irony and not given to public displays of patriotism, it was an unusual moment.

Right after the singing stopped, one of the singers felt an unexpected swell of emotion. The feeling was so strong, he told us later, that even though it was nearly midnight, he felt compelled to call his father. He got his Dad on the phone, and immediately thanked him. See, his Dad (and Mom) had immigrated to the U.S. from Columbia when he was three years old. They fled harsh violence, and sought opportunity. In many ways, a classic America story, reflected in the histories of so many millions of us.

For much of his life, our friend had taken his adopted country for granted. In fact, as a committed progressive, he had long felt critical of America’s shortcomings, especially under the Bush administration. But at the moment of singing This Land is Your Land, something broke through, a swell of pride and thankfulness. He couldn’t hold back from thanking his dad, for allowing him to grow up in a country where the son of a Kenyan father and Kansan mother could become president.

This story stays with me, because I feel it too — pride, mixed with thanksgiving. I feel proud of my role leading Vote Today Ohio, and helping to elect our first African American president. I feel proud of America, for choosing hope over hate. And I finally feel the words that I sung on Saturday, that I’ve sung hundreds of times before — this land is my land.