The President:
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 bed rolls 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, and He 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,
Congresswoman 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.
And one afternoon 50 years ago, 
so much of our turbulent
history, the scene 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 
Lawry, Jose Williams, Amelia Boynton,
Diane Nash, Ralph Abernathy, 
C.T. Vivian, Andrew Young,
Fred Shuttlesworth,
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,
so many others, the idea of a 
just America and a fair America,
an inclusive America,
and a generous America,
that idea
ultimately triumphed.
Now, as it's 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 today
to celebrate them.
We gather here to honor the
courage of ordinary Americans
willing to endure billy clubs
and the chastening rods,
tear gas and the trampling 
hooves; men and women who,
despite the gush of blood and 
bone, would keep true
to their north star and keep 
marching towards justice.
They did as scripture
instructed: rejoice and 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,
singing the same anthems
full of faith and hope.
A white newsman, Bill Plant, 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.
(laughter)
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
wanted was pre-ordained,
not because their victory was
complete, but because
they proved that non-violent 
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?
(applause)
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?
(applause)
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 road map
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 F.D.R., the
success of our experiment
in self-government rests 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.
(applause)
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 and 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 believe 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!
(applause)
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
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 brought is visible
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.
(applause)
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
self 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.
But 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 its
discrimination are immutable,
that racial division
is inherent in America.
If you think nothing's changed
in the past 50 years,
ask someone who lived through 
the Los Angeles or Chicago
or Selma
of the 1950s.
Ask the female CEO who might
have once 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 30 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 a 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 it,
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 that
change depends on our action,
on our attitude, 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
serve 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.
(applause)
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 robbed a nation
of too many men who could be good 
dads and good workers
and good neighbors.
(applause)
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, but if we
really mean it, it will ruin
the sacrifice for it.
Yes, we can make sure every
child gets an education suitable
to this new century, one that
spans imagination and lists
sites and gives 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 foundations of our democracy
for which so many marched across
this bridge, and that is
the right to vote.
(applause)
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 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;
100 members of Congress
have come here today to
honor people who are willing
to die for the right
to protect it.
If we want to honor this day, 
let that 100
go back to Washington
and gather 400 more,
and together, pledge to make it
their mission to restore
that law this year!
That's how we honor
those on this bridge.
(applause)
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 jelly beans 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 rights 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 place?
We give away our power.
The march has changed
so much in 50 years.
We have endured war,
and we 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 love 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, 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, who we are.
We're Sojourner Truth, 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 hopeless drivers who
crossed the Rio Grande
because we wanted 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,
the countless laborers who laid
rail and raised skyscrapers
and organized
for workers' rights.
We're the fresh-faced G.I.s who
fought to liberate a continent.
And we're the Tuskegee Airmen
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 run on fairness 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 despite 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
find some of us as more
American than others.
(applause)
We respect the past, but
we don't pine for the past.
We don't fear the future.
We grab for it.
America's not some
fragile thing.
"We are large," in the words
of Whitman,
"containing multitudes."
We are boisterous, 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.
That's what the young people
here today and listening
all across the country must
take away from this day.
You are American, 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;
239 years after
this nation's founding, our 
union is not yet perfect,
but we are
getting closer.
Our job is 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 hold
firmly to 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 can 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.
