Standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington,
D.C., on August 28, 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr., delivered what is regarded
today as one of the greatest speeches in American history. King himself seemed
to sense the historic importance of the moment as he opened his “I Have a Dream”
speech by calling the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom “the greatest
demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.” The landmark protest,
which drew more than 200,000 people, announced a turning point in the civil
rights movement and set the stage for the movement’s two most important
legislative achievements, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act
of 1965.
“I Have a Dream”
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
momentous 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 hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by
the manacles 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
Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory
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 refuse 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. And 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 justice. 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 moment. 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. And 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. And there will be neither rest nor
tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The
whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until
the bright day of justice emerges.
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
community 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. And 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, cannot
gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. 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. And some of you have come from areas where your quest—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 suffering. Continue to
work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to
Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, 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.
And 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 be
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 be 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 oppression, will be 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, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be
made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; 'and the glory of the
Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.'
This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back
to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the
mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to
transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of
brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray
together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom
together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And this will be the day—this will be the day when all
of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning: My country 'tis of thee, sweet land
of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become
true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of
New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New
York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of
Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of
Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of
California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of
Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of
Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when
we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every
city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children,
black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be
able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: Free at last! free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!
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