MARTIN LUTHER KING Jr.'s "I HAVE A DREAM SPEECH"
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 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 self-hood 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."¹
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."2
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!
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
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 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 self-hood 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."¹
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."2
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!
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