What really woke me from my solemn daydream wasn't so much the southern accents, it was a specific comment.

One of the boys was reading the handout identification card he had popped out of his pocket; the museum gives one to all visitors at the onset of the museum tour. It chronicles the life of one person who endured the Holocaust. Some individuals lived through the tragedy, in many cases separated from loved ones in the process, while the majority highlighted in the booklets suffered an untimely death at the hands of Nazi brutality.

This young boy next to me, 16 or 17 at most, blurted out in discovery that the card he was holding was of a persecuted homosexual man.