The autobiography of martin luther

Supreme Court ruled Eugene "Bull" Connor and his fellow commis-

sioners out of office, once and for all.

I could not close an account of events in Birmingham without not-

ing the tremendous moral and financial support which poured in

upon us from all over the world during the six weeks of demonstra-

tions and in the weeks and months to follow. Although we were so

preoccupied with the day-to-day crises of the campaign that we did

not have time to send out a formal plea for funds, letters of encour-

agement and donations ranging from pennies taken from piggy

banks to checks of impressive size flowed into our besieged com-

mand post at the Gaston Motel and our Atlanta headquarters.

One of the most gratifying developments was the unprecedented

show of unity that was displayed by the national Negro community

in support of our crusade. From all over the country came Negro

ministers, civil rights leaders, entertainers, star athletes, and ordinary

citizens, ready to speak at our meetings or join us in jail. The

NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund came to our aid several

times both with money and with resourceful legal talent. Many other

organizations and individuals contributed invaluable gifts of time,

money, and moral support.

The signing of the agreement was the climax of a long struggle

for justice, freedom, and human dignity. The millennium still had

not come, but Birmingham had made a fresh, bold step toward

equality.

Birmingham is by no means miraculously desegregated. There is

still resistance and violence. The last-ditch struggle of a segregationist

governor still soils the pages of current events and it is still necessary for

a harried President to invoke his highest powers so that a Negro child

may go to school with a white child in Birmingham. But these factors

only serve to emphasize the truth that even the segregationists know:

The system to which they have been committed lies on its deathbed.

The only imponderable is the question of how costly they will make the

funeral.

Southern race relations. I like to believe that the negative extremes of

Birmingham's past will resolve into the positive and Utopian extreme of

her future; that the sins of a dark yesterday will be redeemed in the

achievements of a bright tomorrow. I have this hope because, once on a

summer day, a dream came true. The city of Birmingham discovered a

conscience.

20

MARCH ON

There can be no doubt, even in the true depths of the most prejudiced

minds, that the August 28 March on Washington was the most sig-

nificant and moving demonstration for freedom and justice in all the

history of this country.

JUNE 11. 1963

President Kennedy announces new civil rights proposal

JUNE 12

JUNE 22

AUGUST 28

Addresses the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom

In the summer of 1963 a great shout for freedom reverberated

across the land. It was a shout from the hearts of a people who

had been too patient, too long. It was a shout which arose from the

North and from the South. It was a shout which reached the ears of

a President and stirred him to unprecedented statesmanship. It was

a shout which reached the halls of Congress and brought back to the

legislative chambers a resumption of the Great Debate. It was a

shout which awoke the consciences of millions of white Americans

and caused them to examine themselves and to consider the plight

of twenty million black disinherited brothers. It was a shout which

brought men of God down out of their pulpits, where they had been

preaching only a Sunday kind of love, out into the streets to practice

a Monday kind of militancy. Twenty million strong, militant,

marching blacks, flanked by legions of white allies, were volunteers

in an army which had a will and a purpose—the realization of a new

and glorious freedom.

The shout burst into the open in Birmingham. The contagion of

the will to be free, the spreading virus of the victory which was

proven possible when black people stood and marched together with

love in their hearts instead of hate, faith instead of fear—that virus

spread from Birmingham across the land and a summer of blazing

discontent gave promise of a glorious autumn of racial justice. The

Negro revolution was at hand.

Birmingham had made it clear that the fight of the Negro could

be won if he moved that fight out to the sidewalks and the streets,

down to the city halls and the city jails and—if necessary—into the

martyred heroism of a Medgar Evers. The Negro revolution in the

South had come of age. It was mature. It was courageous. It was

epic—and it was in the American tradition, a much delayed salute

to the Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitu-

tion, and the Emancipation Proclamation.

The Negro in the North came to the shocking realization that

the subtle and hidden discrimination of the North was as hu-

miliating and vicious as the obvious and overt sins of the South.

In the South, the shout was being heard for public rights—

nondiscrimination in hotels, motels, schools, parks. In the North,

the shout was raised for private advancement—the elimination of de

facto school segregation, the wiping out of housing and job discrimi-

nation. In Chicago, IlHnois, intensified situations involving residen-

tial bias came to the fore.

Seen in perspective, the summer of 1963 was historic because it

witnessed the first offensive in history launched by Negroes along a

broad front. The heroic but spasmodic and isolated slave revolts of

the antebellum South had fused, more than a century later, into a

simultaneous, massive assault against segregation. And the virtues so

long regarded as the exclusive property of the white South—

gallantry, loyalty, and pride—had passed to the Negro demonstra-

tors in the heat of the summer's battles.

In assessing the summer's events, some observers have tended to

diminish the achievements by treating the demonstrations as an end

in themselves. The heroism of the march, the drama of the confron-

tation, became in their minds the total accomplishment. It is true

that these elements have meaning, but to ignore the concrete and

specific gains in dismantling the structure of segregation is like no-

ticing the beauty of the rain, but failing to see that it has enriched the

soil. A social movement that only moves people is merely a revolt. A

movement that changes both people and institutions is a revolution.

The summer of 1963 was a revolution because it changed the

face of America. Freedom was contagious. Its fever boiled in nearly

one thousand cities, and by the time it had passed its peak, many

thousands of lunch counters, hotels, parks, and other places of pub-

lic accommodation had become integrated.

The sound of the explosion in Birmingham reached all the way

to Washington, where the Kennedy administration, which had

firmly declared that civil rights legislation would have to be shelved

for 1963, hastily reorganized its priorities and placed a strong civil

rights bill at the top of the top of the Congressional calendar.

"Free in '63"

The thundering events of the summer required an appropriate cli-

max. The dean of Negro leaders, A. Philip Randolph, whose gifts of

imagination and tireless militancy had for decades dramatized the

civil rights struggle, once again provided the uniquely suitable an-

swer. He proposed a March on Washington to unite in one lumi-

nous action all of the forces along the far-flung front.

It took daring and boldness to embrace the idea. The Negro

community was firmly united in demanding a redress of grievances,

but it was divided on tactics. It had demonstrated its ability to orga-

nize skillfully in single communities, but there was no precedent for

a convocation of national scope and gargantuan size. Complicating

the situation were innumerable prophets of doom who feared that

the slightest incidence of violence would alienate Congress and de-

stroy all hope of legislation. Even without disturbances, they were

afraid that inadequate support by Negroes would reveal weaknesses

that were better concealed.

The debate on the proposal neatly polarized positions. Those

with faith in the Negro's abilities, endurance, and discipline wel-

comed the challenge. On the other side were the timid, confused,

and uncertain friends, along with those who had never believed in

the Negro's capacity to organize anything of significance. The con-

clusion was never really in doubt, because the powerful momentum

of the revolutionary summer had swept aside all opposition.

The shout had roared across America. It reached Washington,

the nation's capital, on August 28 when more than two hundred

thousand people, black and white, people of all faiths, people of

every condition of life, stood together before the stone memorial to

Abraham Lincoln. The enemies of racial justice had not wanted us

to come. The enemies of civil rights legislation had warned us not to

come. There were dire predictions of mass rioting and dark South-

ern hints of retaliation.

Even some friends of our cause had honest fears about our com-

ing. The President of the United States publicly worried about the

wisdom of such a project, and congressmen from states in which

liberality supposedly prevailed broadly hinted that such a march

would have no effect on their deliberative process. The sense of pur-

pose which pervaded preparations for the march had an infectious

quality that made liberal whites and leaders of great religious organi-

zations realize that the oncoming march could not be stopped. Like

some swelling chorus promising to burst into glorious song, the en-

dorsement and pledges of participation began.

Just as Birmingham had caused President Kennedy to completely

reverse his priorities with regard to seeking legislation, so the spirit

behind the ensuing march caused him to become a strong ally on its

execution. The President's reversal was characterized by a generous

and handsome new interest not only in seeing the march take place

but in the hope that it would have a solid impact on the Congress.

Washington is a city of spectacles. Every four years imposing Presi-

dential inaugurations attract the great and the mighty. Kings, prime

ministers, heroes, and celebrities of every description have been feted

there for more than 150 years. But in its entire glittering history,

Washington had never seen a spectacle of the size and grandeur that

assembled there on August 28, 1963. Among the nearly 250,000 peo-

pie who journeyed that day to the capital, there were many dignitar-

ies and many celebrities, but the stirring emotion came from the

mass of ordinary people who stood in majestic dignity as witnesses

to their single-minded determination to achieve democracy in their

time.

They came from almost every state in the union; they came in

pay plus the cost of transportation, which for many was a heavy

financial sacrifice. They were good-humored and relaxed, yet disci-

plined and thoughtful. They applauded their leaders generously, but

the leaders, in their own hearts, applauded their audience. Many a

Negro speaker that day had his respect for his own people deepened

as he felt the strength of their dedication. The enormous multitude

was the living, beating heart of an indefinitely noble movement. It

was an army without guns, but not without strength. It was an army

into which no one had to be drafted. It was white, and Negro, and

of all ages. It had adherents of every faith, members of every class,

every profession, every political party, united by a single ideal. It was

a fighting army, but no one could mistake that its most powerful

weapon was love.

One significant element of the march was the participation of

white churches. Never before had they been so fully, so enthusiasti-

cally, so directly involved. One writer observed that the march

"brought the country's three major religious faiths closer than any

other issue in the nation's peacetime history." I venture to say that

no single factor which emerged in the summer of 1963 gave so much

momentum to the on-rushing revolution and to its aim of touching

the conscience of the nation as the decision of the religious leaders

of this country to defy tradition and become an integral part of the

quest of the Negro for his rights.

In unhappy contrast, the National Council of the AFL-CIO de-

clined to support the march and adopted a position of neutrality. A

number of international unions, however, independently declared

their support, and were present in substantial numbers. In addition,

hundreds of local unions threw their full weight into the effort.

We had strength because there were so many of us, representing

so many more. We had dignity because we knew our cause was just.

We had no anger, but we had a passion—a passion for freedom. So

r

we stood there, facing Mr. Lincoln and facing ourselves and our own

I prepared my speech partially in New York City and partially in

Washington, D.C. The night of the twenty-seventh I got in to Wash-

ington about ten o'clock and went to the hotel. I thought through

what I would say, and that took an hour or so. Then I put the outline

together, and I guess I finished it about midnight. I did not finish

the complete text of my speech until 4:00 A.M. on the morning of

August 28.

Along with other participant speakers, I was requested by the

national March on Washington Committee to furnish the press liai-

son with a summary or excerpts of my intended speech by the late

afternoon or evening of August 27. But, inasmuch as I had not com-

pleted my speech by the evening before the march, I did not forward

any portion of my remarks which I had prepared until the morning

of August 28.

"7 have a dream"

I started out reading the speech, and read it down to a point. The

audience's response was wonderful that day, and all of a sudden this

thing came to me. The previous June, following a peaceful assem-

blage of thousands of people through the streets of downtovm De-

troit, Michigan, I had delivered a speech in Cobo Hall, in which I

used the phrase 'T have a dream." I had used it many times before,

and I just felt that I wanted to use it here. I don't know why. I hadn't

thought about it before the speech. I used the phrase, and at that

point I just turned aside from the manuscript altogether and didn't

come back to it.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history

as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow

we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momen-

tous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro

slaves, who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came

as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hun-

dred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the mana-

cles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years

later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast

ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still

languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile

in his own land.

And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense, we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When

the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Consti-

tution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a prom-

issory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a

promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be

guaranteed the unalienable rights of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of

Happiness."

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory

note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring

this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check,

a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we re-

fuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe

that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of

this nation. So we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us

upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the

fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling

off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to

make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the

dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial jus-

tice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial

injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make

justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the mo-

ment This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will

not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality.

Nineteen sixty-three is not an end but a beginning. Those who hope

that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will

have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.

There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro

is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue

r

to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on

the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: in the process

of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds.

Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the

cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on

the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative

protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must

rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro com-

munity must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of

our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have

come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have

come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that

we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When

will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is

the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never

be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, can-

not gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the

cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is

from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long

as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity

by signs stating "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a

Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he

has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied and we will

not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness

like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great

trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail

cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom

left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the

winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffer-

ing. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is re-

demptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Caro-

Una, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and

ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can

and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my

friends: so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow,

I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out

the true meaning of its creed—we hold these truths to he self-evident

that all men are created equal.

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of

former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will he able to sit

down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state

sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppres-

sion, will he transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a

nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by

the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious

racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of

interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama little

black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white

boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill

and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain