Barack Obama on the State of Race in America
"The External Flame of Race in National Politics" by ChrisMWilliams.com
No matter what place in time or the nature of partisanship, every American president and every major political party has had to answer one fundamental question as old as American democracy itself, "What does our nation do about the question of race in the United States?" Even Calvin Coolidge, who is often touted as being our laziest president for having slept as many as 15 hours a day while president, said this to an all-Black crowd at Howard University on June 6th, 1924.
"Racial hostility, ancient tradition, and social prejudice are not to be eliminated immediately or easily. But they will be lessened as the colored people by their own efforts and under their own leaders shall prove worthy of the fullest measure of opportunity." [1]
While obviously his answer is not altogether foreign to modern predilections, given the opposition to the role of government in affirmative programs such as hiring and college enrollment, the passage remains remarkably anachronistic in some important ways. Poll after poll show that Americans do believe that part of the proper role of government is to guarantee or secure a basic level of human needs for the poor, the old, and the infirmed regardless of race. As well, I would say that many whites have assumed a personal responsibility for the plight of many and, in particular, inner-city African Americans, especially where Black collective efforts have failed or when the treatment of Black people had become so intolerable, so emotionally overwhelming, and so immoral on a universal human level.
Just as the end of poverty is unlikely, the end of division of Americans along racial lines is unlikely. From George Washington, who inherited his first 'slaves' at age eleven. To Andrew Jackson, who said that Native Americans "have neither the intelligence, the industry,the moral habits, nor the desire of improvement which are essential to any favorable change in their condition" and forcibly removed millions of Native Americans from their lands in eastern and southern states. To Rutherford B Hayes, who stole the 1877 election by guaranteeing the removal of federal troops in the South, essentially ushered in a less severe, but no more immoral form of slavery for African Americans. To Woodrow Wilson who proclaimed at a private screening at the White House that D.W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation, a film of utter indignity and self-indulgence, to be "terribly true." To Harry Truman's Commission on Civil Rights and the desegregation of the military. To Nixon and the issues of busing, which he sought to abate amid white fears of integration. To the current president and his administration, being lambasted for his response to Hurricane Katrina.
The race question is not going away anytime soon, if for no other reason than because every President of the United States has, in some way or another, been forced to engage the issue. So it seems to suggest to me that the next president must take the exigencies of race politics very seriously. It will not be enough to appoint minorities and pray that the problem goes away. As Obama demonstrated in his speech today, the President must, as an obligation of his political and civil duty, continue to raise the standards for addressing issues of race that we now confront. Simplifications and hyperboles just will not do. A level-headedness requires not only a new framework, but a a critical viewpoint, a willingness to expose the hypocrisy, the cancer, and the mutual race-baiting.
Philadelphia, PA | March 18, 2008 | National Constitution Center
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 its 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 time.
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 divisive turn.
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
strongly disagreed.
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 every American.
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 to understanding.
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 naive 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 is 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 the true genius of this nation. What
we have already achieved gives us hope - the audacity to hope - for what we can
and must achieve tomorrow.
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 her mom.
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 of Ashley."
"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.



















