[Congressional Record Volume 161, Number 41 (Wednesday, March 11, 2015)]
[Senate]
[Pages S1432-S1434]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
REMARKS BY THE PRESIDENT ON THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF BLOODY SUNDAY
Mr. LEAHY. Mr. President, on Monday I gave a statement on the 50th
anniversary of Bloody Sunday and the Voting Rights Act. I ask unanimous
consent to have printed in the Record President Obama's remarks from
the commemoration.
There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in
the Record, as follows:
Remarks by the President at the 50th Anniversary of the Selma to
Montgomery Marches
Edmund Pettus Bridge
Selma, Alabama
THE PRESIDENT: Well, you know I love you back.
It is a rare honor in this life to follow one of your
heroes. And John Lewis is one of my heroes.
Now, I have to imagine that when a younger John Lewis woke
up that morning 50 years ago and made his way to Brown
Chapel, heroics were not on his mind. A day like this was not
on his mind. Young folks with bedrolls and backpacks were
milling about. Veterans of the movement trained newcomers in
the tactics of non-violence; the right way to protect
yourself when attacked. A doctor described what tear gas does
to the body, while marchers scribbled down instructions for
contacting their loved ones. The air was thick with doubt,
anticipation and fear. And they comforted themselves with the
final verse of the final hymn they sung:
``No matter what may be the test, God will take care of
you; Lean, weary one, upon His breast, God will take care of
you.''
And then, his knapsack stocked with an apple, a toothbrush,
and a book on government--all you need for a night behind
bars--John Lewis led them out of the church on a mission to
change America.
President and Mrs. Bush, Governor Bentley, Mayor Evans,
Sewell, Reverend Strong, members of Congress, elected
officials, foot soldiers, friends, fellow Americans:
As John noted, there are places and moments in America
where this nation's destiny has been decided. Many are sites
of war--Concord and Lexington, Appomattox, Gettysburg. Others
are sites that symbolize the daring of America's character--
Independence Hall and Seneca Falls, Kitty Hawk and Cape
Canaveral.
Selma is such a place. In one afternoon 50 years ago, so
much of our turbulent history--the stain of slavery and
anguish of civil war; the yoke of segregation and tyranny of
Jim Crow; the death of four little girls in Birmingham; and
the dream of a Baptist preacher--all that history met on this
bridge.
It was not a clash of armies, but a clash of wills; a
contest to determine the true meaning of America. And because
of men and women like John Lewis, Joseph Lowery, Hosea
Williams, Amelia Boynton, Diane Nash, Ralph Abernathy, C.T.
Vivian, Andrew Young, Fred Shuttlesworth, Dr. Martin Luther
King, Jr., and so many others, the idea of a just America and
a fair America, an inclusive America, and a generous
America--that idea ultimately triumphed.
As is true across the landscape of American history, we
cannot examine this moment in isolation. The march on Selma
was part of a broader campaign that spanned generations; the
leaders that day part of a long line of heroes.
We gather here to celebrate them. We gather here to honor
the courage of ordinary Americans willing to endure billy
clubs and the chastening rod; tear gas and the trampling
hoof; men and women who despite the gush of blood and
splintered bone would stay true to their North Star and keep
marching towards justice.
They did as Scripture instructed: ``Rejoice in hope, be
patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.'' And in the
days to come, they went back again and again. When the
trumpet call sounded for more to join, the people came--black
and white, young and old, Christian and Jew, waving the
American flag and singing the same anthems full of faith and
hope. A white newsman, Bill Plante, who covered the marches
then and who is with us here today, quipped that the growing
number of white people lowered the quality of the singing. To
those who marched, though, those old gospel songs must have
never sounded so sweet.
In time, their chorus would well up and reach President
Johnson. And he would send them protection, and speak to the
nation, echoing their call for America and the world to hear:
``We shall overcome.'' What enormous faith these men and
women had. Faith in God, but also faith in America.
The Americans who crossed this bridge, they were not
physically imposing. But they gave courage to millions. They
held no elected office. But they led a nation. They marched
as Americans who had endured hundreds of years of brutal
violence, countless daily indignities--but they didn't seek
special treatment, just the equal treatment promised to them
almost a century before.
What they did here will reverberate through the ages. Not
because the change they won was preordained; not because
their victory was complete; but because they proved that
nonviolent change is possible, that love and hope can conquer
hate.
As we commemorate their achievement, we are well-served to
remember that at the time of the marches, many in power
condemned rather than praised them. Back then, they were
called Communists, or half-breeds, or outside agitators,
sexual and moral degenerates, and worse--they were called
everything but the name their parents gave them. Their faith
was questioned. Their lives were threatened. Their patriotism
challenged.
And yet, what could be more American than what happened in
this place? What could more profoundly vindicate the idea of
America than plain and humble people--unsung, the
downtrodden, the dreamers not of high station, not born to
wealth or privilege, not of one religious tradition but many,
coming together to shape their country's course?
[[Page S1433]]
What greater expression of faith in the American experiment
than this, what greater form of patriotism is there than the
belief that America is not yet finished, that we are strong
enough to be self-critical, that each successive generation
can look upon our imperfections and decide that it is in our
power to remake this nation to more closely align with our
highest ideals?
That's why Selma is not some outlier in the American
experience. That's why it's not a museum or a static monument
to behold from a distance. It is instead the manifestation of
a creed written into our founding documents: ``We the People
. . . in order to form a more perfect union.'' ``We hold
these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created
equal.''
These are not just words. They're a living thing, a call
to action, a roadmap for citizenship and an insistence in the
capacity of free men and women to shape our own destiny. For
founders like Franklin and Jefferson, for leaders like
Lincoln and FDR, the success of our experiment in self-
government rested on engaging all of our citizens in this
work. And that's what we celebrate here in Selma. That's what
this movement was all about, one leg in our long journey
toward freedom.
The American instinct that led these young men and women
to pick up the torch and cross this bridge, that's the same
instinct that moved patriots to choose revolution over
tyranny. It's the same instinct that drew immigrants from
across oceans and the Rio Grande; the same instinct that led
women to reach for the ballot, workers to organize against an
unjust status quo; the same instinct that led us to plant a
flag at Iwo Jima and on the surface of the Moon.
It's the idea held by generations of citizens who believed
that America is a constant work in progress; who believed
that loving this country requires more than singing its
praises or avoiding uncomfortable truths. It requires the
occasional disruption, the willingness to speak out for what
is right, to shake up the status quo. That's America.
That's what makes us unique. That's what cements our
reputation as a beacon of opportunity. Young people behind
the Iron Curtain would see Selma and eventually tear down
that wall. Young people in Soweto would hear Bobby Kennedy
talk about ripples of hope and eventually banish the scourge
of apartheid. Young people in Burma went to prison rather
than submit to military rule. They saw what John Lewis had
done. From the streets of Tunis to the Maidan in Ukraine,
this generation of young people can draw strength from this
place, where the powerless could change the world's greatest
power and push their leaders to expand the boundaries of
freedom.
They saw that idea made real right here in Selma, Alabama.
They saw that idea manifest itself here in America.
Because of campaigns like this, a Voting Rights Act was
passed. Political and economic and social barriers came down.
And the change these men and women wrought is visible here
today in the presence of African Americans who run
boardrooms, who sit on the bench, who serve in elected office
from small towns to big cities; from the Congressional Black
Caucus all the way to the Oval Office.
Because of what they did, the doors of opportunity swung
open not just for black folks, but for every American. Women
marched through those doors. Latinos marched through those
doors. Asian Americans, gay Americans, Americans with
disabilities--they all came through those doors. Their
endeavors gave the entire South the chance to rise again, not
by reasserting the past, but by transcending the past.
What a glorious thing, Dr. King might say. And what a
solemn debt we owe. Which leads us to ask, just how might we
repay that debt?
First and foremost, we have to recognize that one day's
commemoration, no matter how special, is not enough. If Selma
taught us anything, it's that our work is never done. The
American experiment in self-government gives work and purpose
to each generation.
Selma teaches us, as well, that action requires that we
shed our cynicism. For when it comes to the pursuit of
justice, we can afford neither complacency nor despair.
Just this week, I was asked whether I thought the
Department of Justice's Ferguson report shows that, with
respect to race, little has changed in this country. And I
understood the question; the report's narrative was sadly
familiar. It evoked the kind of abuse and disregard for
citizens that spawned the Civil Rights Movement. But I
rejected the notion that nothing's changed. What happened in
Ferguson may not be unique, but it's no longer endemic. It's
no longer sanctioned by law or by custom. And before the
Civil Rights Movement, it most surely was.
We do a disservice to the cause of justice by intimating
that bias and discrimination are immutable, that racial
division is inherent to America. If you think nothing's
changed in the past 50 years, ask somebody who lived through
the Selma or Chicago or Los Angeles of the 1950s. Ask the
female CEO who once might have been assigned to the
secretarial pool if nothing's changed. Ask your gay friend if
it's easier to be out and proud in America now than it was
thirty years ago. To deny this progress, this hard-won
progress--our progress--would be to rob us of our own agency,
our own capacity, our responsibility to do what we can to
make America better.
Of course, a more common mistake is to suggest that
Ferguson is an isolated incident; that racism is banished;
that the work that drew men and women to Selma is now
complete, and that whatever racial tensions remain are a
consequence of those seeking to play the ``race card'' for
their own purposes. We don't need the Ferguson report to know
that's not true. We just need to open our eyes, and our ears,
and our hearts to know that this nation's racial history
still casts its long shadow upon us.
We know the march is not yet over. We know the race is not
yet won. We know that reaching that blessed destination where
we are judged, all of us, by the content of our character
requires admitting as much, facing up to the truth. ``We are
capable of bearing a great burden,'' James Baldwin once
wrote, ``once we discover that the burden is reality and
arrive where reality is.''
There's nothing America can't handle if we actually look
squarely at the problem. And this is work for all Americans,
not just some. Not just whites. Not just blacks. If we want
to honor the courage of those who marched that day, then all
of us are called to possess their moral imagination. All of
us will need to feel as they did the fierce urgency of now.
All of us need to recognize as they did that change depends
on our actions, on our attitudes, the things we teach our
children. And if we make such an effort, no matter how hard
it may sometimes seem, laws can be passed, and consciences
can be stirred, and consensus can be built.
With such an effort, we can make sure our criminal justice
system serves all and not just some. Together, we can raise
the level of mutual trust that policing is built on--the idea
that police officers are members of the community they risk
their lives to protect, and citizens in Ferguson and New York
and Cleveland, they just want the same thing young people
here marched for 50 years ago--the protection of the law.
Together, we can address unfair sentencing and overcrowded
prisons, and the stunted circumstances that rob too many boys
of the chance to become men, and rob the nation of too many
men who could be good dads, and good workers, and good
neighbors.
With effort, we can roll back poverty and the roadblocks to
opportunity. Americans don't accept a free ride for anybody,
nor do we believe in equality of outcomes. But we do expect
equal opportunity. And if we really mean it, if we're not
just giving lip service to it, but if we really mean it and
are willing to sacrifice for it, then, yes, we can make sure
every child gets an education suitable to this new
century, one that expands imaginations and lifts sights
and gives those children the skills they need. We can make
sure every person willing to work has the dignity of a
job, and a fair wage, and a real voice, and sturdier rungs
on that ladder into the middle class.
And with effort, we can protect the foundation stone of our
democracy for which so many marched across this bridge--and
that is the right to vote. Right now, in 2015, 50 years after
Selma, there are laws across this country designed to make it
harder for people to vote. As we speak, more of such laws are
being proposed. Meanwhile, the Voting Rights Act, the
culmination of so much blood, so much sweat and tears, the
product of so much sacrifice in the face of wanton violence,
the Voting Rights Act stands weakened, its future subject to
political rancor.
How can that be? The Voting Rights Act was one of the
crowning achievements of our democracy, the result of
Republican and Democratic efforts. President Reagan signed
its renewal when he was in office. President George W. Bush
signed its renewal when he was in office. One hundred members
of Congress have come here today to honor people who were
willing to die for the right to protect it. If we want to
honor this day, let that hundred go back to Washington and
gather four hundred more, and together, pledge to make it
their mission to restore that law this year. That's how we
honor those on this bridge.
Of course, our democracy is not the task of Congress alone,
or the courts alone, or even the President alone. If every
new voter-suppression law was struck down today, we would
still have, here in America, one of the lowest voting rates
among free peoples. Fifty years ago, registering to vote here
in Selma and much of the South meant guessing the number of
jellybeans in a jar, the number of bubbles on a bar of soap.
It meant risking your dignity, and sometimes, your life.
What's our excuse today for not voting? How do we so
casually discard the right for which so many fought? How do
we so fully give away our power, our voice, in shaping
America's future? Why are we pointing to somebody else when
we could take the time just to go to the polling places? We
give away our power.
Fellow marchers, so much has changed in 50 years. We have
endured war and we've fashioned peace. We've seen
technological wonders that touch every aspect of our lives.
We take for granted conveniences that our parents could have
scarcely imagined. But what has not changed is the imperative
of citizenship; that willingness of a 26-year-old deacon, or
a Unitarian minister, or a young mother of five to decide
they loved this country so much that they'd risk everything
to realize its promise.
That's what it means to love America. That's what it means
to believe in America. That's what it means when we say
America is exceptional.
For we were born of change. We broke the old aristocracies,
declaring ourselves entitled not by bloodline, but endowed by
our
[[Page S1434]]
Creator with certain inalienable rights. We secure our rights
and responsibilities through a system of self-government, of
and by and for the people. That's why we argue and fight with
so much passion and conviction--because we know our efforts
matter. We know America is what we make of it.
Look at our history. We are Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea,
pioneers who braved the unfamiliar, followed by a stampede of
farmers and miners, and entrepreneurs and hucksters. That's
our spirit. That's who we are.
We are Sojourner Truth and Fannie Lou Hamer, women who
could do as much as any man and then some. And we're Susan B.
Anthony, who shook the system until the law reflected that
truth. That is our character.
We're the immigrants who stowed away on ships to reach
these shores, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free--
Holocaust survivors, Soviet defectors, the Lost Boys of
Sudan. We're the hopeful strivers who cross the Rio Grande
because we want our kids to know a better life. That's how we
came to be.
We're the slaves who built the White House and the economy
of the South. We're the ranch hands and cowboys who opened up
the West, and countless laborers who laid rail, and raised
skyscrapers, and organized for workers' rights.
We're the fresh-faced GIs who fought to liberate a
continent. And we're the Tuskeegee Airmen, and the Navajo
code-talkers, and the Japanese Americans who fought for this
country even as their own liberty had been denied.
We're the firefighters who rushed into those buildings on
9/11, the volunteers who signed up to fight in Afghanistan
and Iraq. We're the gay Americans whose blood ran in the
streets of San Francisco and New York, just as blood ran down
this bridge.
We are storytellers, writers, poets, artists who abhor
unfairness, and despise hypocrisy, and give voice to the
voiceless, and tell truths that need to be told.
We're the inventors of gospel and jazz and blues, bluegrass
and country, and hip-hop and rock and roll, and our very own
sound with all the sweet sorrow and reckless joy of freedom.
We are Jackie Robinson, enduring scorn and spiked cleats
and pitches coming straight to his head, and stealing home in
the World Series anyway.
We are the people Langston Hughes wrote of who ``build our
temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how.'' We are the
people Emerson wrote of, ``who for truth and honor's sake
stand fast and suffer long;'' who are ``never tired, so long
as we can see far enough.''
That's what America is. Not stock photos or airbrushed
history, or feeble attempts to define some of us as more
American than others. We respect the past, but we don't pine
for the past. We don't fear the future; we grab for it.
America is not some fragile thing. We are large, in the words
of Whitman, containing multitudes. We are boisterous and
diverse and full of energy, perpetually young in spirit.
That's why someone like John Lewis at the ripe old age of 25
could lead a mighty march.
And that's what the young people here today and listening
all across the country must take away from this day. You are
America. Unconstrained by habit and convention. Unencumbered
by what is, because you're ready to seize what ought to be.
For everywhere in this country, there are first steps to be
taken, there's new ground to cover, there are more bridges to
be crossed. And it is you, the young and fearless at heart,
the most diverse and educated generation in our history, who
the nation is waiting to follow.
Because Selma shows us that America is not the project of
any one person. Because the single-most powerful word in our
democracy is the word ``We.'' ``We The People.'' ``We Shall
Overcome.'' ``Yes We Can.'' That word is owned by no one. It
belongs to everyone. Oh, what a glorious task we are given,
to continually try to improve this great nation of ours.
Fifty years from Bloody Sunday, our march is not yet
finished, but we're getting closer. Two hundred and thirty-
nine years after this nation's founding our union is not yet
perfect, but we are getting closer. Our job's easier because
somebody already got us through that first mile. Somebody
already got us over that bridge. When it feels the road is
too hard, when the torch we've been passed feels too heavy,
we will remember these early travelers, and draw strength
from their example, and hold firmly the words of the prophet
Isaiah: ``Those who hope in the Lord will renew their
strength. They will soar on [the] wings like eagles. They
will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not be
faint.''
We honor those who walked so we could run. We must run so
our children soar. And we will not grow weary. For we believe
in the power of an awesome God, and we believe in this
country's sacred promise.
May He bless those warriors of justice no longer with us,
and bless the United States of America. Thank you, everybody.
____________________