[Congressional Record Volume 161, Number 45 (Tuesday, March 17, 2015)]
[House]
[Pages H1695-H1697]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




          COMMEMORATING THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF BLOODY SUNDAY

  (Mr. HOYER asked and was given permission to address the House for 1 
minute and to revise and extend his remarks.)
  Mr. HOYER. Mr. Speaker, I was proud to join many Members of this 
House in Birmingham, Selma, and Montgomery, Alabama, from March 6 to 8 
to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Bloody Sunday, which led 
inexorably to the signing of the Voting Rights Act in August of that 
same year, 1965.
  It was my 10th visit to Selma to mark the anniversary of Bloody 
Sunday, and each one is more powerful than the last. The visit was 
organized by The Faith & Politics Institute and was led by John Lewis, 
our colleague, such a giant in our history and in this body.
  While there, Members heard powerful and moving remarks from President 
Obama, who made history as the first African American to hold the 
highest office in our land. We also heard, Mr. Speaker, from the late 
Governor Wallace's daughter, Peggy Wallace Kennedy, who spoke 
eloquently and movingly about living in the shadow of her father's 
actions 50 years ago. Governor Wallace later recanted his support for 
segregation and asked forgiveness from the African American community, 
and his daughter has worked hard to build bridges and promote dialogue 
and understanding.
  Mr. Speaker, I include the remarks of the President into the 
Congressional Record so that all Members can read them and be inspired 
and uplifted, as I was in hearing them delivered.

  Remarks by President Obama at the 50th Anniversary of the Selma to 
        Montgomery Marches Edmund Pettus Bridge--Selma, Alabama

       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 nonviolence; 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

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     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?
       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

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     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 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.

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