"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 is 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
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
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
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
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
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
his 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
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.
We can do that.
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 particularly 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
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
"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.