Happy MLK Day all. A brief homage to the legacy of a great man, in the words of not just one but three great men.
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I Have a Dream
Delivered on the steps at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. on August 28, 1963
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 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 their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
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 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. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, 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, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, 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 slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four 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 that one day every valley shall be exalted, 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.
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true.
When we let 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!"
***
I, Too, Sing America
Langston Hughes
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
***
taken from "The Shadowland of Dreams" by Alex Haley
You've got to want to write, I say, not want to be a writer.
When I left a twenty year career in the Coast Guard to become a freelance writer, I had no prospects at all. What I did have was a friend in New York City, George Sims. George found me my home, a storage room in the Greenwich Village apartment building. It didn't even matter that it was cold and had no bathroom. I immediately bought a used manual typewriter and felt like a genuine writer.
After a year or so, however, I still hadn't gotten a break and began to doubt myself. It was so hard to sell a story that I barely made enough to eat. But I knew I wanted to write. I had dreamed about it for years. I wasn't going to be one of those people who die wondering, What if? I would keep putting my dream to the test--even though it meant living with uncertainty and fear of failure. This is the Shadowland of hope, and anyone with a dream must learn to live there.
Then one day I got a call that changed my life. On the phone was an old acquaintance from the Coast Guard. He had once lent me a few bucks and liked to egg me on about it. "When am I going to get that $15, Alex?" he teased.
"Next time I make a sale."
"I have a better idea," he said. "We need a new public information assistant out here, and we're paying $6,000 a year. If you want it, you can have it."
Six thousand a year! That was real money in 1960. I could get a nice apartment, a used car, pay off debts and maybe save a little something. What's more, I could write on the side.
As the dollars were dancing in my head, something cleared my senses. From deep inside a bullheaded resolution welled up. I had dreamed of being a writer--full time. And that's what I was going to be. "Thanks, but no," I heard myself saying. "I'm going to stick it out and write."
Afterward, as I paced around my little room, I started to feel like a fool. Reaching into my cupboard--an orange crate nailed to the wall--I pulled out all that was there: Two cans of sardines. Plunging my hands in my pockets, I came up with 18 cents. I took the cans and coins and jammed them into a crumpled paper bag. *There, Alex,* I said to myself.* There's everything you've made of yourself so far.* I'm not sure I've ever felt so low.
I wish I could say things started getting better right away. But they didn't. Thank goodness I had George to help me over the rough spots.
I met other struggling artists, like Joe Delaney. Often Joe lacked food money, so he'd visit a neighborhood butcher who would give him bones with morsels of meat and a grocer who would hand him some wilted vegetables. That's all Joe needed to make down-home soup.
Another neighbor was a handsome young singer who ran a struggling restaraunt. Rumour had it that if a customer ordered steak, the singer would dash to a market across the street to buy one. His name was Harry Belafonte.
I learned that you had to make sacrifices and live creatively to keep working at your dream. That's what living in the Shadowland is all about.
It was a long, slow climb out of the shadows. Yet in 1976, 17 years after I left the Coast Guard, Roots was published. Instantly I had the kind of fame and success that few writers ever experience. The shadows had turned into dazzling limelight. It was a confusing, exhilirating time, and in a sense I was blinded by the light of my own success.
Then one day, while unpacking, I came across a box filled with things I had owned years before in the Village. Inside was a brown paper bag.
I opened it, and there were two corroded sardine cans, a nickel, a dime, and three pennies. Suddenly the past came flooding in like a riptide. And I said to myself, *The things in this bag are part of my roots too. I can't ever forget that.*
I sent them out to be framed in Lucite. I keep that clear plastic case where I can see it every day. I can see it now above my desk in Knoxville, along with the Pulitzer prize; a portrait of nine Emmys awarded to the TV production of Roots; and the Spingarn medal--the NAACP's highest honor. I'd be hard pressed to say which means the most to me. But only one reminds me of the courage and persistence it takes to stay the course in the Shadowland.
It's a lesson anyone with a dream should learn.
