"We the people,
in order to form
a more perfect union."
Two hundred
and twenty one years ago,
in a hall
that still stands
across the street,
a group of men
gathered and,
with these simple words,
launched
America's improbable experiment
in democracy.
Farmers and scholars;
statesmen and patriots
who had traveled
across an ocean
to escape tyranny and persecution
finally made real
their declaration
of independence
at a Philadelphia convention
that lasted
through the spring of 1787.
The document they produced
was eventually signed
but ultimately unfinished.
It was stained
by this nation's original sin
of slavery,
a question
that divided the colonies
and brought the convention
to a stalemate
until the founders chose
to allow the slave trade
to continue
for at least twenty more years,
and to leave
any final resolution
to future generations.
Of course,
the answer
to the slavery question
was already embedded
within our Constitution
-- a Constitution
that had at its very core
the ideal
of equal citizenship
under the law;
a Constitution
that promised
its people liberty,
and justice,
and a union
that could be
and should be perfected
over time.
And yet
words on a parchment
would not be enough
to deliver slaves from bondage,
or provide men and women
of every color and creed
their full rights and obligations
as citizens
of the United States.
What would be needed
were Americans
in successive generations
who were willing
to do their part
-- through protests and struggle,
on the streets
and in the courts,
through a civil war
and civil disobedience
and always at great risk --
to narrow that gap
between
the promise of our ideals
and the reality of their time.
This was
one of the tasks
we set forth
at the beginning
of this campaign
-- to continue
the long march of those
who came before us,
a march for a more just,
more equal,
more free,
more caring
and more prosperous America.
I chose
to run
for the presidency
at this moment in history
because
I believe deeply
that we cannot solve
the challenges of our time
unless we solve them together
-- unless we
perfect our union
by understanding
that we
may have different stories,
but we hold common hopes;
that we
may not look the same
and we
may not have come
from the same place,
but we all want
to move
in the same direction --
towards a better future
for our children
and our grandchildren.
This belief comes
from my unyielding faith
in the decency and generosity
of the American people.
But it also comes
from my own American story.
I am the son
of a black man
from Kenya and
a white woman from Kansas.
I was raised
with the help
of a white grandfather
who survived a Depression
to serve
in Patton's Army
during World War II
and a white grandmother
who worked on a bomber
assembly line
at Fort Leavenworth
while he was overseas.
I've gone
to some of the best schools
in America
and lived
in one of the world's
poorest nations.
I am married
to a black American
who carries within her
the blood of slaves
and slaveowners
-- an inheritance
we pass on
to our two precious daughters.
I have brothers,
sisters,
nieces,
nephews,
uncles and cousins,
of every race and every hue,
scattered
across three continents,
and for as long as I live,
I will never forget
that in no other country
on Earth
is my story even possible.
It's a story
that hasn't made me
the most conventional candidate.
But it is a story
that has seared
into my genetic makeup
the idea
that this nation
is more
than the sum of its parts
-- that out of many,
we are truly one.
Throughout the first year
of this campaign,
against all predictions
to the contrary,
we saw how hungry
the American people were
for this message of unity.
Despite the temptation
to view my candidacy
through a purely racial lens,
we won commanding victories
in states
with some
of the whitest populations
in the country.
In South Carolina,
where the Confederate Flag
still flies,
we built a powerful coalition
of African Americans
and white Americans.
This is not to say
that race
has not been an issue
in the campaign.
At various stages
in the campaign,
some commentators
have deemed me
either "too black"
or "not black enough."
We saw racial tensions
bubble to the surface
during the week before
the South Carolina primary.
The press
has scoured every exit poll
for the latest evidence
of racial polarization,
not just in terms
of white and black,
but black
and brown as well.
And yet,
it has only been
in the last couple of weeks
that the discussion of race
in this campaign
has taken
a particularly divisive turn.
On one end
of the spectrum,
we've heard
the implication
that my candidacy
is somehow an exercise
in affirmative action;
that it's based solely
on the desire
of wide-eyed liberals
to purchase
racial reconciliation
on the cheap.
On the other end,
we've heard my former pastor,
Reverend Jeremiah Wright,
use incendiary language
to express views
that have the potential
not only
to widen the racial divide,
but views that denigrate
both the greatness
and the goodness of our nation;
that
rightly offend
white and black alike.
I have already condemned,
in unequivocal terms,
the statements
of Reverend Wright
that have caused
such controversy.
For some,
nagging questions remain.
Did I know him
to be
an occasionally fierce critic
of American domestic
and foreign policy?
Of course.
Did I ever
hear him make remarks
that could be considered
controversial
while I sat in church?
Yes.
Did I strongly disagree
with many
of his political views?
Absolutely
-- just as I'm sure
many of you
have heard remarks
from your pastors,
priests,
or rabbis
with which
you strongly disagreed.
But the remarks
that have caused
this recent firestorm
weren't simply controversial.
They weren't simply
a religious leader's effort
to speak out
against perceived injustice.
Instead,
they expressed
a profoundly distorted view
of this country
-- a view
that sees white racism
as endemic,
and that elevates
what is wrong with America
above all that we know
is right with America;
a view
that sees the conflicts
in the Middle East
as rooted primarily
in the actions
of stalwart allies like Israel,
instead of emanating
from the perverse
and hateful ideologies
of radical Islam.
As such,
Reverend Wright's comments
were not only wrong
but divisive,
divisive at a time
when we need unity;
racially charged at a time
when we need
to come together
to solve a set
of monumental problems
-- two wars,
a terrorist threat,
a falling economy,
a chronic health care crisis
and potentially devastating
climate change;
problems
that are neither
black or white
or Latino or Asian,
but rather problems
that confront us all.
Given my background,
my politics,
and my professed values
and ideals,
there will no doubt
be those
for whom my statements
of condemnation
are not enough.
Why associate myself
with Reverend Wright
in the first place,
they may ask?
Why not join another church?
And I confess
that if all that I knew
of Reverend Wright
were the snippets
of those sermons
that have run
in an endless loop
on the television
and You Tube,
or if Trinity
United Church of Christ
conformed to the caricatures
being peddled
by some commentators,
there is no doubt
that I would react
in much the same way
But the truth is,
that isn't all
that I know of the man.
The man I met
more than twenty years ago
is a man
who helped introduce me
to my Christian faith,
a man
who spoke to me
about our obligations
to love one another;
to care for the sick
and lift up the poor.
He is a man
who served his country
as a U.S. Marine;
who has studied
and lectured
at some of the finest universities
and seminaries
in the country,
and who for over thirty years
led a church
that serves the community
by doing God's work
here on Earth
-- by housing the homeless,
ministering to the needy,
providing
day care services
and scholarships
and prison ministries,
and reaching out to those
suffering from HIV/AIDS.
In my first book,
Dreams From My Father,
I described the experience
of my first service
at Trinity:
"People
began to shout,
to rise from their seats
and clap and cry out,
a forceful wind
carrying the reverend's voice
up into the rafters....
And in that single note
-- hope! --
I heard something else;
at the foot
of that cross,
inside
the thousands of churches
across the city,
I imagined the stories
of ordinary black people
merging
with the stories
of David and Goliath,
Moses and Pharaoh,
the Christians
in the lion's den,
Ezekiel's field of dry bones.
Those stories
-- of survival,
and freedom,
and hope --
became our story,
my story;
the blood
that had spilled
was our blood,
the tears our tears;
until this black church,
on this bright day,
seemed once more
a vessel carrying the story
of a people
into future generations
and into a larger world.
Our trials and triumphs
became at once
unique and universal,
black and more than black;
in chronicling our journey,
the stories and songs
gave us a means
to reclaim memories
that we didn't need
to feel shame about...
memories that all people
might study and cherish
-- and with which
we could start to rebuild."
That has been
my experience at Trinity.
Like other
predominantly black churches
across the country,
Trinity
embodies
the black community
in its entirety
-- the doctor
and the welfare mom,
the model student
and the former gang-banger.
Like other black churches,
Trinity's services
are full of raucous laughter
and sometimes bawdy humor.
They are full of dancing,
clapping,
screaming and shouting
that may seem jarring
to the untrained ear.
The church
contains in full
the kindness and cruelty,
the fierce intelligence
and the shocking ignorance,
the struggles and successes,
the love and yes,
the bitterness and bias
that make up
the black experience
in America.
And this helps explain,
perhaps,
my relationship
with Reverend Wright.
As imperfect
as he may be,
he has been
like family to me.
He strengthened my faith,
officiated my wedding,
and baptized my children.
Not once in my conversations
with him
have I heard him talk
about any ethnic group
in derogatory terms,
or treat whites
with whom he interacted
with anything
but courtesy and respect.
He contains within him
the contradictions
-- the good and the bad --
of the community
that he
has served diligently
for so many years.
I can no more disown him
than I can disown
the black community.
I can no more disown him
than I can
my white grandmother
-- a woman
who helped raise me,
a woman
who sacrificed
again and again for me,
a woman
who loves me
as much as she loves
anything in this world,
but a woman
who once confessed her fear
of black men
who passed by her
on the street,
and who
on more than one occasion
has uttered racial
or ethnic stereotypes
that made me cringe.
These people
are a part of me.
And they
are a part of America,
this country that I love.
Some will see this
as an attempt to justify
or excuse comments
that are simply inexcusable.
I can assure you
it is not.
I suppose
the politically safe thing
would be to move on
from this episode
and just hope
that it fades
into the woodwork.
We can dismiss Reverend Wright
as a crank or a demagogue,
just as some
have dismissed
Geraldine Ferraro,
in the aftermath
of her recent statements,
as harboring some
deep-seated racial bias.
But race
is an issue that
I believe this nation
cannot afford
to ignore right now.
We would be making
the same mistake
that Reverend Wright made
in his offending sermons
about America
-- to simplify and stereotype
and amplify the negative
to the point
that it distorts reality.
The fact is
that the comments
that have been made
and the issues
that have surfaced
over the last few weeks
reflect
the complexities of race
in this country
that we've
never really worked through
-- a part of our union
that we have yet to perfect.
And if we
walk away now,
if we simply retreat
into our respective corners,
we will never be able
to come together
and solve challenges
like health care,
or education,
or the need
to find good jobs
for every American.
Understanding this reality
requires a reminder
of how
we arrived at this point.
As William Faulkner
once wrote,
"The past
isn't dead and buried.
In fact,
it isn't even past."
We do not need
to recite here
the history
of racial injustice
in this country.
But we do need
to remind ourselves
that so many
of the disparities that exist
in the
African-American community today
can be directly traced
to inequalities
passed on
from an earlier generation
that suffered
under the brutal legacy
of slavery and Jim Crow.
Segregated schools were,
and are,
inferior schools;
we still haven't fixed them,
fifty years after
Brown v. Board of Education,
and the inferior education
they provided,
then and now,
helps explain
the pervasive achievement gap
between today's black
and white students.
Legalized discrimination
-- where blacks
were prevented,
often through violence,
from owning property,
or loans
were not granted
to African-American
business owners,
or black homeowners
could not access
FHA mortgages,
or blacks
were excluded from unions,
or the police force,
or fire departments --
meant that
black families
could not amass
any meaningful wealth
to bequeath
to future generations.
That history
helps explain
the wealth and income gap
between black and white,
and the concentrated pockets
of poverty
that persists in so many
of today's urban
and rural communities.
A lack
of economic opportunity
among black men,
and the shame and frustration
that came
from not being able
to provide for one's family,
contributed
to the erosion
of black families
-- a problem
that welfare policies
for many years
may have worsened.
And the lack
of basic services
in so many urban
black neighborhoods
-- parks
for kids to play in,
police
walking the beat,
regular garbage pick-up
and building code enforcement --
all helped create
a cycle of violence,
blight
and neglect
that continue to haunt us.
This is the reality
in which Reverend Wright
and other
African-Americans
of his generation
grew up.
They came of age
in the late fifties
and early sixties,
a time
when segregation
was still
the law of the land
and opportunity
was systematically constricted.
What's remarkable
is not how many failed
in the face of discrimination,
but rather
how many men and women
overcame the odds;
how many
were able
to make a way
out of no way
for those like me
who would come after them.
But for all those
who scratched and clawed
their way
to get a piece
of the American Dream,
there were many
who didn't make it
-- those
who were ultimately defeated,
in one way or another,
by discrimination.
That legacy of defeat
was passed on
to future generations
-- those young men
and increasingly young women
who we see
standing on street corners
or languishing in our prisons,
without hope
or prospects
for the future.
Even for those blacks
who did make it,
questions of race,
and racism,
continue
to define their worldview
in fundamental ways.
For the men and women
of Reverend Wright's generation,
the memories
of humiliation
and doubt and fear
have not gone away;
nor has the anger
and the bitterness
of those years.
That anger
may not get expressed
in public,
in front
of white co-workers
or white friends.
But it does find voice
in the barbershop
or around the kitchen table.
At times,
that anger
is exploited by politicians,
to gin up votes
along racial lines,
or to make up for
a politician's own failings.
And occasionally
it finds voice
in the church
on Sunday morning,
in the pulpit
and in the pews.
The fact
that so many people
are surprised
to hear that anger
in some of Reverend Wright's
sermons
simply reminds us
of the old truism
that the most segregated hour
in American life
occurs on Sunday morning.
That anger
is not always productive;
indeed,
all too often
it distracts attention
from solving real problems;
it keeps us
from squarely facing
our own complicity
in our condition,
and prevents
the African-American community
from forging the alliances
it needs
to bring about real change.
But the anger is real;
it is powerful;
and to simply wish it away,
to condemn it
without understanding
its roots,
only serves
to widen the chasm
of misunderstanding
that exists
between the races.
In fact,
a similar anger
exists within segments
of the white community.
Most working-
and middle-class white Americans
don't feel
that they have been
particularly privileged
by their race.
Their experience
is the immigrant experience
-- as far as
they're concerned,
no one's
handed them anything,
they've built it from scratch.
They've worked hard
all their lives,
many times
only to see their jobs
shipped overseas
or their pension
dumped
after a lifetime of labor.
They are anxious
about their futures,
and feel their dreams
slipping away;
in an era
of stagnant wages
and global competition,
opportunity
comes to be seen
as a zero sum game,
in which
your dreams
come at my expense.
So when they are told
to bus their children
to a school across town;
when they hear
that an African American
is getting an advantage
in landing a good job
or a spot
in a good college
because of an injustice
that they themselves
never committed;
when they're told
that their fears about crime
in urban neighborhoods
are somehow prejudiced,
resentment builds
over time.
Like the anger
within the black community,
these resentments
aren't always expressed
in polite company.
But they
have helped shape
the political landscape
for at least a generation.
Anger over welfare
and affirmative action
helped forge
the Reagan Coalition.
Politicians routinely exploited
fears of crime
for their own electoral ends.
Talk show hosts
and conservative commentators
built entire careers
unmasking
bogus claims of racism
while dismissing
legitimate discussions
of racial injustice and inequality
as mere political correctness
or reverse racism.
Just as black anger
often proved
counterproductive,
so have
these white resentments
distracted attention
from the real culprits
of the middle class squeeze
-- a corporate culture
rife with inside dealing,
questionable accounting practices,
and short-term greed;
a Washington
dominated by lobbyists
and special interests;
economic policies
that favor the few
over the many.
And yet,
to wish away the resentments
of white Americans,
to label them as misguided
or even racist,
without recognizing
they are grounded
in legitimate concerns
-- this too
widens the racial divide,
and blocks the path
to understanding.
This is where we are
right now.
It's a racial stalemate
we've been stuck in
for years.
Contrary
to the claims
of some of my critics,
black and white,
I have never been so naïve
as to believe
that we
can get beyond
our racial divisions
in a single election cycle,
or with a single candidacy
-- particularly
a candidacy as imperfect
as my own.
But I
have asserted
a firm conviction
-- a conviction
rooted in my faith in God
and my faith
in the American people --
that working together
we can move beyond
some of
our old racial wounds,
and that in fact
we have no choice
if we are
to continue
on the path
of a more perfect union.
For the African-American community,
that path means
embracing the burdens
of our past
without becoming
victims of our past.
It means
continuing to insist
on a full measure of justice
in every aspect
of American life.
But it also means
binding
our particular grievances
-- for better health care,
and better schools,
and better jobs --
to the larger aspirations
of all Americans
-- the white woman
struggling
to break the glass ceiling,
the white man
whose been laid off,
the immigrant
trying to feed his family.
And it means
taking full responsibility
for own lives
-- by demanding more
from our fathers,
and spending more time
with our children,
and reading to them,
and teaching them
that while they
may face challenges
and discrimination
in their own lives,
they must
never succumb
to despair or cynicism;
they must always believe
that they can write
their own destiny.
Ironically,
this quintessentially American
-- and yes,
conservative --
notion of self-help
found
frequent expression
in Reverend Wright's sermons.
But what my former pastor
too often failed
to understand
is that embarking
on a program of self-help
also requires a belief
that society can change.
The profound mistake
of Reverend Wright's sermons
is not
that he spoke
about racism
in our society.
It's that he spoke
as if our society
was static;
as if no progress
has been made;
as if this country
-- a country
that has made it possible
for one of its own members
to run
for the highest office
in the land
and build a coalition
of white and black;
Latino and Asian,
rich and poor,
young and old --
is still irrevocably bound
to a tragic past.
But what we know
-- what we have seen --
is that
America can change.
That is true genius
of this nation.
What we
have already achieved
gives us hope
-- the audacity to hope --
for what we can
and must achieve tomorrow.
In the white community,
the path
to a more perfect union
means
acknowledging
that what ails
the African-American community
does not just exist
in the minds
of black people;
that the legacy
of discrimination
-- and current incidents
of discrimination,
while less overt
than in the past --
are real
and must be addressed.
Not just with words,
but with deeds
-- by investing
in our schools
and our communities;
by enforcing
our civil rights laws
and ensuring fairness
in our criminal justice system;
by providing
this generation
with ladders of opportunity
that were unavailable
for previous generations.
It requires all Americans
to realize that your dreams
do not have to come
at the expense
of my dreams;
that investing in the health,
welfare,
and education
of black and brown
and white children
will ultimately help
all of America prosper.
In the end,
then,
what is called for
is nothing more,
and nothing less,
than what
all the world's
great religions demand
-- that we
do unto others
as we would have them
do unto us.
Let us be
our brother's keeper,
Scripture tells us.
Let us be
our sister's keeper.
Let us find
that common stake
we all have in one another,
and let our politics
reflect that spirit as well.
For we have a choice
in this country.
We can accept
a politics
that breeds division,
and conflict,
and cynicism.
We can tackle race
only as spectacle
-- as we did
in the OJ trial --
or in the wake
of tragedy,
as we did
in the aftermath
of Katrina
-- or as fodder
for the nightly news.
We can play
Reverend Wright's sermons
on every channel,
every day
and talk about them
from now
until the election,
and make the only question
in this campaign
whether or not
the American people think
that I
somehow believe
or sympathize
with his most offensive words.
We can pounce
on some gaffe
by a Hillary supporter
as evidence
that she's playing
the race card,
or we
can speculate
on whether white men
will all flock
to John McCain
in the general election
regardless
of his policies.
But if we do,
I can tell you
that in the next election,
we'll be talking
about some other distraction.
And then another one.
And then another one.
And nothing
will change.
That is one option.
Or, at this moment,
in this election,
we can come together
and say,
"Not this time."
This time
we want to talk about
the crumbling schools
that are stealing the future
of black children
and white children
and Asian children
and Hispanic children
and Native American children.
This time
we want to reject
the cynicism
that tells us that
these kids can't learn;
that those kids
who don't look like us
are somebody else's problem.
The children of America
are not those kids,
they are our kids,
and we will not let them
fall behind
in a 21st century economy.
Not this time.
This time
we want to talk about
how the lines
in the Emergency Room
are filled
with whites and blacks
and Hispanics
who do not have health care;
who don't have the power
on their own
to overcome
the special interests
in Washington,
but who
can take them on
if we do it together.
This time
we want to talk about
the shuttered mills
that once provided
a decent life
for men and women
of every race,
and the homes for sale
that once belonged
to Americans from every religion,
every region,
every walk of life.
This time
we want to talk about
the fact
that the real problem
is not that someone
who doesn't look like you
might take your job;
it's that
the corporation you work for
will ship it overseas
for nothing more
than a profit.
This time
we want to talk about
the men and women
of every color and creed
who serve together,
and fight together,
and bleed together
under the same proud flag.
We want to talk about
how to bring them home
from a war
that never should've
been authorized
and never should've
been waged,
and we want to talk about
how we'll show our patriotism
by caring for them,
and their families,
and giving them the benefits
they have earned.
I would not be running
for President
if I didn't believe
with all my heart
that this is what
the vast majority
of Americans
want for this country.
This union
may never be perfect,
but generation
after generation has shown
that it can always be perfected.
And today,
whenever
I find myself
feeling doubtful or cynical
about this possibility,
what gives me
the most hope
is the next generation
-- the young people
whose attitudes and beliefs
and openness to change
have already made history
in this election.
There is one story
in particularl
that I'd like
to leave you with today
-- a story I told
when I had
the great honor
of speaking
on Dr. King's birthday
at his home church,
Ebenezer Baptist,
in Atlanta.
There is a young,
twenty-three year old
white woman
named Ashley Baia
who organized
for our campaign in Florence,
South Carolina.
She had been working
to organize
a mostly African-American community
since the beginning
of this campaign,
and one day
she was
at a roundtable discussion
where everyone
went around
telling their story
and why they were there.
And Ashley said
that when she
was nine years old,
her mother got cancer.
And because
she had to miss
days of work,
she was let go
and lost her health care.
They had
to file for bankruptcy,
and that's when
Ashley decided
that she
had to do something
to help her mom.
She knew that food
was one
of their most expensive costs,
and so Ashley
convinced her mother
that what she really liked
and really wanted to eat
more than anything else
was mustard
and relish sandwiches.
Because that
was the cheapest way
to eat.
She did this for a year
until her mom
got better,
and she told everyone
at the roundtable
that the reason
she joined our campaign
was so that
she could help
the millions
of other children
in the country
who want and need
to help their parents too.
Now Ashley
might have made
a different choice.
Perhaps somebody
told her
along the way
that the source
of her mother's problems
were blacks
who were on welfare
and too lazy to work,
or Hispanics
who were coming
into the country illegally.
But she didn't.
She sought out allies
in her fight
against injustice.
Anyway,
Ashley
finishes her story
and then goes around the room
and asks everyone else
why they're supporting
the campaign.
They all
have different stories
and reasons.
Many
bring up a specific issue.
And finally
they come to this
elderly black man
who's been sitting there quietly
the entire time.
And Ashley
asks him why he's there.
And he
does not bring
up a specific issue.
He does not say
health care
or the economy.
He does not say education
or the war.
He does not say
that he was there
because of Barack Obama.
He simply says
to everyone in the room,
"I am here
because of Ashley."
"I'm here
because of Ashley."
By itself,
that single moment
of recognition
between
that young white girl
and that old black man
is not enough.
It is not enough
to give health care
to the sick,
or jobs to the jobless,
or education
to our children.
But it is
where we start.
It is where our union
grows stronger.
And as
so many generations
have come to realize
over the course
of the two-hundred
and twenty one years
since
a band of patriots
signed that document
in Philadelphia,
that is where
the perfection begins.