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 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 captivity.
But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact
that the Negro is still 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 languishing in the corners of American society and
finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize
an appalling condition.
In a sense we have 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 would be guaranteed the inalienable 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 colour are concerned. Instead of honouring
this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad 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. So we
have 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 rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the
sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity
to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick
sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency
of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. 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. 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. There will be neither rest nor tranquillity 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 marvellous 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.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall
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 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 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 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.
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
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 slave owners 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 colour of their skin but by the
content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose
governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and
nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and
black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls
and walk together as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
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.
This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return
to the South. 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.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be
able to sing with a 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."
By The Rev. MARTIN
LUTHER KING Jr.
Aug. 28, 1963
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