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Katy Perry: 'Most of my unconscious adolescence, I prayed the gay away at my Jesus camps', Human Rights Campaign Gala - 2017

April 18, 2017


18 March 2017, JW Marriott, Los Angeles, California, USA

Thank you, guys. A little back story. Shannon Woodward, one of my best friends … A lot of my best friends are here tonight because I love them and I’m obsessed with them, and I’m loyal. They’ve taught me pretty much everything I know. Shannon, actually, I used to sleep on her couch. I was couch-surfing on her couch and I used to eat her frozen chicken tenders from Trader Joe’s. They were so good.

Here is the thing about that woman, we’ve kind of like raised each other. I’ll get into it in a second, but basically one time, I said, “I’m not a feminist because I don’t grow hair underneath my arms,” and stuff like that because I really didn’t understand what that meant. She lovingly pulled me aside as the strong woman she is and great friend, and those are great friends, and she goes, “Hey, this is what the word 'feminist' means.”

I was like, “What? This whole time? I’m a feminist.”

I love her so very much and I love all my friends that teach me everything that I’ve learned today so thank you so much for this incredible, humbling award. I got to say there is no other community that has done more to shape who I am today, and there is no other community that I believe in more than you.

This community here tonight has achieved more progress toward a more perfect union in a short amount of time as any group in our history. I stand with you and I know that we stand together against discrimination whether it be in the LGBTQ community, or our Latino brothers and sisters, or the millions of Muslims in this country.

I’m just a singer-songwriter, honestly. I speak my truths and I paint my fantasies into these little bite-size pop songs. For instance, I kissed a girl and I liked it. Truth be told: (a) I did more than that and … (b) how was I going to reconcile that with a gospel singing girl raised in youth groups that were pro-conversion camps?

What I did know is that I was curious and even then I knew sexuality wasn’t as black and white as this dress. Honestly, I haven’t always gotten it right, but in 2008, when that song came out, I knew that I started a conversation that a lot of the world seemed curious enough to sing along to.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane for one second. My first words were mama and dada, God and Satan. Right and wrong were taught to me on felt boards and of course through the glamorous Jan Crouch crying diamond teardrops every night on that Vaseline-TBN television screen. Make some noise if you know who I’m talking about.

When I was growing up, homosexuality was synonymous with the word abomination and hell, a place of gnashing of teeth, continuous burning of skin and probably Mike Pence’s ultimate guest list for a barbecue.

No way, no way! I wanted the pearly gates and the unlimited fro-yo toppings. Most of my unconscious adolescence, I prayed the gay away at my Jesus camps, but then in the middle of it all, in a twist of events, I found my gift and my gift introduced me to people outside my bubble and my bubble started to burst.

These people were nothing like who I had been taught to fear. They were the most free, strong, kind and inclusive people I have ever met. They stimulated my mind and they filled my heart with joy and they freaking danced all the while doing it. These people are actually magic and they are magic because they are living their truth. Oh my goddess, what a revelation ... and not the last chapter of the bible. Suffice to say, it’s been a long road for me and I’m sure a long road for many of you out there.

I know it doesn’t always feel safe to live out who you are, but here’s the thing though, I would have not chosen a different road. Priceless lessons have been learned. The path of discovery has made me, has tested me and forever changed me. You don’t get to choose your family, but you can choose your tribe. Many of the people I admire and trust, and work with belong to the LGBTQ community. Without them, I’d be half of the person I am today. My life is rich in every capacity because of them.

They are trusted allies that provide a safe space to fall, to not know it all and to make mistakes. These are the people I hold dear. See, I hope I stand here as real evidence for all that no matter where you came from, it’s about where you are going and that real change, real evolution and real perception shift can happen if we open our minds and soften our hearts. People can change. Believe me, it would have been easier just to stay the whipped cream tit, spring, poppy, light, fluffy, fun, anthems by the way of animal totem singing girl who was basically somewhat neutralist in a stance and just thought more hugs could save the world.

No way. No longer can I sit in silence. I have to stand for what I know is true and that is equality and justice for all, period.

That’s why the HRC is so important and I am so grateful for them being on the front lines every day from civil union legislation, to repealing 'don’t ask, don’t tell', to getting rid of DOMA at the Supreme Court which paved the way for marriage equality across the country and continuing to fight for trans equality amongst all things.

I don’t have to tell you that we have a lot more to do. We have to create a safe space for us to ask questions of ourselves and others and to keep the conversation going because the loudest voice in the room or on your TV set isn’t always right, but that little voice inside of you, pushing you to discover who you are is a trusted friend.

None of us have the answers, or all of them at least, but it’s time to lead with empathy and grace and compassion now more than ever to find the unity we need now.

I’ll never cease to be a champion, an ally, a spotlight and a loving voice for all LGBTQ identifying people. Whatever your sexuality, your gender, your preferred pronouns, blossom to be, we all know it ain’t so black and white and I will continue to champion the people that have been a champion for me.

Many friends and loved ones from the LGBTQ family have raised me into the woman I am today and I want to dedicate this award to one of my greatest champions of my life, my manager, Bradford Elton Cobb III.

I think it’s almost, like, 15 years because he believed in me before it all. Secretly paying my rent for years and bringing me leftovers from hamburger [inaudible 00:09:36]. He really did! I know we really connected on a soul level though because we came from the same upbringing where it was difficult to be our authentic selves. We had similar struggles breaking out of our suppressive shelves but we kept inspiring each other, challenging each other and retiring our past frame of mind.

We broke the cycle and now we’re living our best most authentic lives. I love you, B. Cobb. There will be obstacles, but we all know everything good takes work, but we can’t let our past get in the way of our brilliant future.

These days, I get an incomparable high from finally knowing myself and it feels more real than any story I was ever told on a felt board. It feels sparkly as fuck. Truth be told, I think a lot of that has to do with the magic that has rubbed off on me from all of you.

Thank you so much.

 

Source: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/see...

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In EQUALITY Tags KARY PERRY, TRANSCRIPT, HUMAN RIGHTS CAMPAIGN GALA, LGBTQ, LGBT, I KISSED A GIRL, MUSIC, POP MUSIC, AWARD
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Bruce Springsteen: 'We are the new American resistance!' Perth concert - 2017

January 23, 2017

21 January 2017, Perth, Australia​​

​The E Street Band is glad to be here in Western Australia. But we're a long way from home, and our hearts and spirits are with the hundreds of thousands of women and men that marched yesterday in every city in America and in Melbourne who rallied against hate and division and in support of tolerance, inclusion, reproductive rights, civil rights, racial justice, LGBTQ rights, the environment, wage equality, gender equality, healthcare, and immigrant rights. We stand with you. We are the new American resistance.

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In EQUALITY Tags DONALD TRUMP, BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, PERTH, WOMEN'S MARCH, CONCERT, TRANSCRIPT
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Ashley Judd: 'Our pussies ain't for grabbing', Women's March - 2017

January 23, 2017

 21 January 2017, Women's March, Washington DC, USA

 

 The '#NastyWoman' poem was written in 2016 by Tennessee teenager Nina Mariah Donovan, then working at Dunkin' Donuts. 

My name is Ashley Judd and I am a feminist. And I want to say hello to Independence Avenue in the back, all the way down to 17th Street, and I bring you words from Nina Donovan, a 19-year-old in Middle, Tennessee. She has given me the privilege of telling you what she has to say:

"I am a nasty woman. I'm as nasty as a man who looks like he bathes in Cheetos dust. A man whose words are a distract to America. Electoral college-sanctioned, hate-speech contaminating this national anthem. I'm not as nasty as Confederate flags being tattooed across my city. Maybe the South actually is going to rise again. Maybe for some it never really fell. Blacks are still in shackles and graves, just for being black. Slavery has been reinterpreted as the prison system in front of people who see melanin as animal skin. I am not as nasty as a swastika painted on a pride flag, and I didn't know devils could be resurrected but I feel Hitler in these streets. A mustache traded for a toupee. Nazis renamed the Cabinet Electoral Conversion Therapy, the new gas chambers shaming the gay out of America, turning rainbows into suicide. I am not as nasty as racism, fraud, conflict of interest, homophobia, sexual assault, transphobia, white supremacy, misogyny, ignorance, white privilege ... your daughter being your favorite sex symbol, like your wet dreams infused with your own genes. Yeah, I'm a nasty woman — a loud, vulgar, proud woman.

"I am not nasty like the combo of Trump and Pence being served up to me in my voting booths. I'm nasty like the battles my grandmothers fought to get me into that voting booth. I'm nasty like the fight for wage equality. Scarlett Johansson, why were the female actors paid less than half of what the male actors earned last year. See, even when we do go into higher paying jobs our wages are still cut with blades sharpened by testosterone. Why is the work of a black woman and a hispanic woman worth only 63 and 54 cents of a white man's privileged daughter? This is not a feminist myth. This is inequality. So we are not here to be debunked. We are here to be respected. We are here to be nasty.

I am nasty like my bloodstains on my bed sheets. We don't actually choose if and when to have our periods. Believe me if we could some of us would. We do not like throwing away our favorite pairs of underpants. Tell me, why are pads and tampons still taxed when Viagra and Rogaine are not? Is your erection really more than protecting the sacred messy part of my womanhood? Is the bloodstain on my jeans more embarrassing than the thinning of your hair?

I know it is hard to look at your own entitlement and privilege. You may be afraid of the truth. I am unafraid to be honest. It may sound petty bringing up a few extra cents. It adds up to the pile of change I have yet to see in my country. I can't see. My eyes are too busy praying to my feet hoping you don't mistake eye contact for wanting physical contact. Half my life I have been zipping up my smile hoping you don't think I want to unzip your jeans. I am unafraid to be nasty because I am nasty like Susan, Elizabeth, Eleanor, Amelia, Rosa, Gloria, Condoleezza, Sonia, Malala, Michelle, Hillary!

And our pussies ain’t for grabbing. There for reminding you that our walls are stronger than America's ever will be. Our pussies are for our pleasure. They are for birthing new generations of filthy, vulgar, nasty, proud, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, you name it, for new generations of nasty women. So if you a nasty woman, or you love one who is, let me hear you say, hell yeah."

 

 

Source: http://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/...

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In EQUALITY Tags ASHLEY JUDD, DONALD TRUMP, ACTOR, TRANSCRIPT, WOMEN'S MARCH, FEMINISM, PROTEST
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Angela Davis: "History cannot be deleted like web pages", Women's march - 2017

January 22, 2017

21 January 2017, Washington DC, USA 

At a challenging moment in our history, let us remind ourselves that we the hundreds of thousands, the millions of women, trans-people, men and youth who are here at the Women's March, we represent the powerful forces of change that are determined to prevent the dying cultures of racism, hetero-patriarchy from rising again.

We recognize that we are collective agents of history and that history cannot be deleted like web pages. We know that we gather this afternoon on indigenous land and we follow the lead of the first peoples who despite massive genocidal violence have never relinquished the struggle for land, water, culture, their people. We especially salute today the Standing Rock Sioux.

The freedom struggles of black people that have shaped the very nature of this country's history cannot be deleted with the sweep of a hand. We cannot be made to forget that black lives do matter. This is a country anchored in slavery and colonialism, which means for better or for worse the very history of the United States is a history of immigration and enslavement. Spreading xenophobia, hurling accusations of murder and rape and building walls will not erase history.

No human being is illegal.

The struggle to save the planet, to stop climate change, to guarantee the accessibility of water from the lands of the Standing Rock Sioux, to Flint, Michigan, to the West Bank and Gaza. The struggle to save our flora and fauna, to save the air—this is ground zero of the struggle for social justice.

This is a women's march and this women's march represents the promise of feminism as against the pernicious powers of state violence. And inclusive and intersectional feminism that calls upon all of us to join the resistance to racism, to Islamophobia, to anti-Semitism, to misogyny, to capitalist exploitation.

Yes, we salute the fight for 15. We dedicate ourselves to collective resistance. Resistance to the billionaire mortgage profiteers and gentrifiers. Resistance to the health care privateers. Resistance to the attacks on Muslims and on immigrants. Resistance to attacks on disabled people. Resistance to state violence perpetrated by the police and through the prison industrial complex. Resistance to institutional and intimate gender violence, especially against trans women of color.

Women's rights are human rights all over the planet and that is why we say freedom and justice for Palestine. We celebrate the impending release of Chelsea Manning. And Oscar López Rivera. But we also say free Leonard Peltier. Free Mumia Abu-Jamal. Free Assata Shakur.

Over the next months and years we will be called upon to intensify our demands for social justice to become more militant in our defense of vulnerable populations. Those who still defend the supremacy of white male hetero-patriarchy had better watch out.

The next 1,459 days of the Trump administration will be 1,459 days of resistance: Resistance on the ground, resistance in the classrooms, resistance on the job, resistance in our art and in our music.

This is just the beginning and in the words of the inimitable Ella Baker, 'We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes.' Thank you."

Source: http://www.elle.com/culture/career-politic...

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In EQUALITY Tags DONALD TRUMP, CIVIL RIGHTS, EQUALITY, WOMEN, WOMEN'S MARCH, TRANSCRIPT
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Barack Obama: 'It was not a clash of armies, but a clash of wills', 50 year anniversary of Selma march - 2015

January 18, 2017

7 March 2015, Edmund Pettus Bridge, Selma, Alabama, USA

It is a rare honor in this life to follow one of your heroes.  And John Lewis is one of my heroes.

Now, I have to imagine that when a younger John Lewis woke up that morning 50 years ago and made his way to Brown Chapel, heroics were not on his mind.  A day like this was not on his mind.  Young folks with bedrolls and backpacks were milling about.  Veterans of the movement trained newcomers in the tactics of non-violence -- the right way to protect yourself when attacked.  A doctor described what tear gas does to the body, while marchers scribbled down instructions for contacting their loved ones.  The air was thick with doubt, anticipation and fear.  And they comforted themselves with the final verse of the final hymn they sung:

No matter what may be the test, God will take care of you;
lean, weary one, upon His breast, God will take care of you.

And then, his knapsack stocked with an apple, a toothbrush, and a book on government -- all you need for a night behind bars -- John Lewis led them out of the church on a mission to change America.

President and Mrs. Bush, Governor Bentley, Mayor Evans, Sewell, Reverend Strong, members of Congress, elected officials, foot soldiers, friends, fellow Americans:

As John noted, there are places and moments in America where this nation’s destiny has been decided.  Many are sites of war -- Concord and Lexington, Appomattox, Gettysburg.  Others are sites that symbolize the daring of America’s character -- Independence Hall and Seneca Falls, Kitty Hawk and Cape Canaveral.

Selma is such a place.  In one afternoon 50 years ago, so much of our turbulent history -- the stain of slavery and anguish of civil war; the yoke of segregation and tyranny of Jim Crow; the death of four little girls in Birmingham; and the dream of a Baptist preacher -- all that history met on this bridge.2

It was not a clash of armies, but a clash of wills; a contest to determine the true meaning of America.  And because of men and women like John Lewis, Joseph Lowery, Hosea Williams, Amelia Boynton, Diane Nash, Ralph Abernathy, C.T. Vivian, Andrew Young, Fred Shuttlesworth, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and so many others, the idea of a just America and a fair America, an inclusive America, and a generous America -- that idea ultimately triumphed.

As is true across the landscape of American history, we cannot examine this moment in isolation.  The march on Selma was part of a broader campaign that spanned generations; the leaders that day part of a long line of heroes.

We gather here to celebrate them.  We gather here to honor the courage of ordinary Americans willing to endure billy clubs and the chastening rod; tear gas and the trampling hoof; men and women who despite the gush of blood and splintered bone would stay true to their North Star and keep marching towards justice.

They did as Scripture instructed:  “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.”  And in the days to come, they went back again and again.  When the trumpet call sounded for more to join, the people came -- black and white, young and old, Christian and Jew, waving the American flag and singing the same anthems full of faith and hope.  A white newsman, Bill Plante, who covered the marches then and who is with us here today, quipped that the growing number of white people lowered the quality of the singing.  To those who marched, though, those old gospel songs must have never sounded so sweet.

In time, their chorus would well up and reach President Johnson.  And he would send them protection, and speak to the nation, echoing their call for America and the world to hear:  “We shall overcome.”  What enormous faith these men and women had.  Faith in God, but also faith in America. 

The Americans who crossed this bridge, they were not physically imposing.  But they gave courage to millions.  They held no elected office.  But they led a nation.  They marched as Americans who had endured hundreds of years of brutal violence, countless daily indignities -- but they didn’t seek special treatment, just the equal treatment promised to them almost a century before.

What they did here will reverberate through the ages.  Not because the change they won was preordained; not because their victory was complete; but because they proved that nonviolent change is possible, that love and hope can conquer hate.

As we commemorate their achievement, we are well-served to remember that at the time of the marches, many in power condemned rather than praised them.  Back then, they were called Communists, or half-breeds, or outside agitators, sexual and moral degenerates, and worse -- they were called everything but the name their parents gave them.  Their faith was questioned; their lives were threatened; their patriotism challenged.

And yet, what could be more American than what happened in this place?  What could more profoundly vindicate the idea of America than plain and humble people -- unsung, the downtrodden, the dreamers not of high station, not born to wealth or privilege, not of one religious tradition but many, coming together to shape their country’s course? 

What greater expression of faith in the American experiment than this, what greater form of patriotism is there than the belief that America is not yet finished, that we are strong enough to be self-critical, that each successive generation can look upon our imperfections and decide that it is in our power to remake this nation to more closely align with our highest ideals?

That’s why Selma is not some outlier in the American experience.  That’s why it’s not a museum or a static monument to behold from a distance.  It is instead the manifestation of a creed written into our founding documents:  “We the People…in order to form a more perfect union.”  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

These are not just words.  They’re a living thing, a call to action, a roadmap for citizenship and an insistence in the capacity of free men and women to shape our own destiny.  For founders like Franklin and Jefferson, for leaders like Lincoln and FDR, the success of our experiment in self-government rested on engaging all of our citizens in this work.  And that’s what we celebrate here in Selma.  That’s what this movement was all about, one leg in our long journey toward freedom.

The American instinct that led these young men and women to pick up the torch and cross this bridge, that’s the same instinct that moved patriots to choose revolution over tyranny.  It’s the same instinct that drew immigrants from across oceans and the Rio Grande; the same instinct that led women to reach for the ballot, workers to organize against an unjust status quo; the same instinct that led us to plant a flag at Iwo Jima and on the surface of the Moon.

It’s the idea held by generations of citizens who believed that America is a constant work in progress; who believed that loving this country requires more than singing its praises or avoiding uncomfortable truths.  It requires the occasional disruption, the willingness to speak out for what is right, to shake up the status quo.  That’s America.

That’s what makes us unique.  That’s what cements our reputation as a beacon of opportunity.  Young people behind the Iron Curtain would see Selma and eventually tear down that wall.  Young people in Soweto would hear Bobby Kennedy talk about ripples of hope and eventually banish the scourge of apartheid.  Young people in Burma went to prison rather than submit to military rule.  They saw what John Lewis had done.  From the streets of Tunis to the Maidan in Ukraine, this generation of young people can draw strength from this place, where the powerless could change the world’s greatest power and push their leaders to expand the boundaries of freedom. 

They saw that idea made real right here in Selma, Alabama.  They saw that idea manifest itself here in America.

Because of campaigns like this, a Voting Rights Act was passed.  Political and economic and social barriers came down.  And the change these men and women wrought is visible here today in the presence of African Americans who run boardrooms, who sit on the bench, who serve in elected office from small towns to big cities; from the Congressional Black Caucus all the way to the Oval Office.

Because of what they did, the doors of opportunity swung open not just for black folks, but for every American.  Women marched through those doors.  Latinos marched through those doors.  Asian Americans, gay Americans, Americans with disabilities -- they all came through those doors.  Their endeavors gave the entire South the chance to rise again, not by reasserting the past, but by transcending the past. 

What a glorious thing, Dr. King might say.  And what a solemn debt we owe.  Which leads us to ask, just how might we repay that debt?

First and foremost, we have to recognize that one day’s commemoration, no matter how special, is not enough.  If Selma taught us anything, it’s that our work is never done.  The American experiment in self-government gives work and purpose to each generation.

Selma teaches us, as well, that action requires that we shed our cynicism.  For when it comes to the pursuit of justice, we can afford neither complacency nor despair.

Just this week, I was asked whether I thought the Department of Justice’s Ferguson report3 shows that, with respect to race, little has changed in this country.  And I understood the question; the report’s narrative was sadly familiar.  It evoked the kind of abuse and disregard for citizens that spawned the Civil Rights Movement.  But I rejected the notion that nothing’s changed.  What happened in Ferguson may not be unique, but it’s no longer endemic.  It’s no longer sanctioned by law or by custom.  And before the Civil Rights Movement, it most surely was.

We do a disservice to the cause of justice by intimating that bias and discrimination are immutable, that racial division is inherent to America.  If you think nothing’s changed in the past 50 years, ask somebody who lived through the Selma or Chicago or Los Angeles of the 1950s.  Ask the female CEO who once might have been assigned to the secretarial pool if nothing’s changed.  Ask your gay friend if it’s easier to be out and proud in America now than it was thirty years ago.  To deny this progress, this hard-won progress -- our progress -- would be to rob us of our own agency, our own capacity, our responsibility to do what we can to make America better. 

Of course, a more common mistake is to suggest that Ferguson is an isolated incident; that racism is banished; that the work that drew men and women to Selma is now complete, and that whatever racial tensions remain are a consequence of those seeking to play the “race card” for their own purposes.  We don’t need the Ferguson report to know that’s not true.  We just need to open our eyes, and our ears, and our hearts to know that this nation’s racial history still casts its long shadow upon us. 

We know the march is not yet over.  We know the race is not yet won.  We know that reaching that blessed destination where we are judged, all of us, by the content of our character requires admitting as much, facing up to the truth.  “We are capable of bearing a great burden,” James Baldwin once wrote, “once we discover that the burden is reality and arrive where reality is.” 

There’s nothing America can’t handle if we actually look squarely at the problem.  And this is work for all Americans, not just some.  Not just whites.  Not just blacks.  If we want to honor the courage of those who marched that day, then all of us are called to possess their moral imagination.  All of us will need to feel as they did the fierce urgency of now.  All of us need to recognize as they did that change depends on our actions, on our attitudes, the things we teach our children.  And if we make such an effort, no matter how hard it may sometimes seem, laws can be passed, and consciences can be stirred, and consensus can be built.

With such an effort, we can make sure our criminal justice system serves all and not just some.  Together, we can raise the level of mutual trust that policing is built on -- the idea that police officers are members of the community they risk their lives to protect, and citizens in Ferguson and New York and Cleveland, they just want the same thing young people here marched for 50 years ago -– the protection of the law.  Together, we can address unfair sentencing and overcrowded prisons, and the stunted circumstances that rob too many boys of the chance to become men, and rob the nation of too many men who could be good dads, and good workers, and good neighbors.

With effort, we can roll back poverty and the roadblocks to opportunity.  Americans don’t accept a free ride for anybody, nor do we believe in equality of outcomes.  But we do expect equal opportunity.  And if we really mean it, if we’re not just giving lip service to it, but if we really mean it and are willing to sacrifice for it, then, yes, we can make sure every child gets an education suitable to this new century, one that expands imaginations and lifts sights and gives those children the skills they need.  We can make sure every person willing to work has the dignity of a job, and a fair wage, and a real voice, and sturdier rungs on that ladder into the middle class.

And with effort, we can protect the foundation stone of our democracy for which so many marched across this bridge -- and that is the right to vote.  Right now, in 2015, 50 years after Selma, there are laws across this country designed to make it harder for people to vote.  As we speak, more of such laws are being proposed.  Meanwhile, the Voting Rights Act, the culmination of so much blood, so much sweat and tears, the product of so much sacrifice in the face of wanton violence, the Voting Rights Act stands weakened, its future subject to political rancor.

How can that be?  The Voting Rights Act was one of the crowning achievements of our democracy, the result of Republican and Democratic efforts. President Reagan signed its renewal when he was in office.  President George W. Bush signed its renewal when he was in office. One hundred members of Congress have come here today to honor people who were willing to die for the right to protect it.  If we want to honor this day, let that hundred go back to Washington and gather four hundred more, and together, pledge to make it their mission to restore that law this year.  That’s how we honor those on this bridge.

Of course, our democracy is not the task of Congress alone, or the courts alone, or even the President alone.  If every new voter-suppression law was struck down today, we would still have, here in America, one of the lowest voting rates among free peoples.  Fifty years ago, registering to vote here in Selma and much of the South meant guessing the number of jellybeans in a jar, the number of bubbles on a bar of soap.  It meant risking your dignity, and sometimes, your life. 

What’s our excuse today for not voting?  How do we so casually discard the right for which so many fought?  How do we so fully give away our power, our voice, in shaping America’s future?  Why are we pointing to somebody else when we could take the time just to go to the polling places?  We give away our power.   

Fellow marchers, so much has changed in 50 years.  We have endured war and we’ve fashioned peace.  We’ve seen technological wonders that touch every aspect of our lives.  We take for granted conveniences that our parents could have scarcely imagined.  But what has not changed is the imperative of citizenship; that willingness of a 26-year-old deacon, or a Unitarian minister, or a young mother of five to decide they loved this country so much that they’d risk everything to realize its promise.

That’s what it means to love America.  That’s what it means to believe in America.  That’s what it means when we say America is exceptional. 

For we were born of change.  We broke the old aristocracies, declaring ourselves entitled not by bloodline, but endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights.  We secure our rights and responsibilities through a system of self-government, of and by and for the people.  That’s why we argue and fight with so much passion and conviction -- because we know our efforts matter.  We know America is what we make of it.

Look at our history:

We are Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea, pioneers who braved the unfamiliar, followed by a stampede of farmers and miners, and entrepreneurs and hucksters.  That’s our spirit.  That’s who we are.

We are Sojourner Truth and Fannie Lou Hamer, women who could do as much as any man and then some.  And we’re Susan B. Anthony, who shook the system until the law reflected that truth.  That is our character.

We’re the immigrants who stowed away on ships to reach these shores, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free -- Holocaust survivors, Soviet defectors, the Lost Boys of Sudan.  We’re the hopeful strivers who cross the Rio Grande because we want our kids to know a better life.  That’s how we came to be.

We’re the slaves who built the White House and the economy of the South.  We’re the ranch hands and cowboys who opened up the West, and countless laborers who laid rail, and raised skyscrapers, and organized for workers’ rights.

We’re the fresh-faced GIs who fought to liberate a continent.  And we’re the Tuskeegee Airmen, and the Navajo code-talkers, and the Japanese Americans who fought for this country even as their own liberty had been denied. 

We’re the firefighters who rushed into those buildings on 9/11, the volunteers who signed up to fight in Afghanistan and Iraq.  We’re the gay Americans whose blood ran in the streets of San Francisco and New York, just as blood ran down this bridge.

We are storytellers, writers, poets, artists who abhor unfairness, and despise hypocrisy, and give voice to the voiceless, and tell truths that need to be told.

We’re the inventors of gospel and jazz and blues, bluegrass and country, and hip-hop and rock and roll, and our very own sound with all the sweet sorrow and reckless joy of freedom.

We are Jackie Robinson, enduring scorn and spiked cleats and pitches coming straight to his head, and stealing home in the World Series anyway.

We are the people Langston Hughes wrote of who “build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how.”  We are the people Emerson wrote of, “who for truth and honor’s sake stand fast and suffer long;” who are “never tired, so long as we can see far enough.”

That’s what America is.  Not stock photos or airbrushed history, or feeble attempts to define some of us as more American than others.  We respect the past, but we don’t pine for the past.  We don’t fear the future; we grab for it.  America is not some fragile thing.  We are large, in the words of Whitman, containing multitudes.  We are boisterous and diverse and full of energy, perpetually young in spirit.  That’s why someone like John Lewis at the ripe old age of 25 could lead a mighty march. 

And that’s what the young people here today and listening all across the country must take away from this day.  You are America.  Unconstrained by habit and convention.  Unencumbered by what is, because you’re ready to seize what ought to be. 

For everywhere in this country, there are first steps to be taken, there’s new ground to cover, there are more bridges to be crossed.  And it is you, the young and fearless at heart, the most diverse and educated generation in our history, who the nation is waiting to follow.

Because Selma shows us that America is not the project of any one person.  Because the single-most powerful word in our democracy is the word “We.”  “We The People.”  “We Shall Overcome.”  “Yes We Can.”  That word is owned by no one.  It belongs to everyone.  Oh, what a glorious task we are given, to continually try to improve this great nation of ours.

Fifty years from Bloody Sunday, our march is not yet finished, but we’re getting closer.  Two hundred and thirty-nine years after this nation’s founding our union is not yet perfect, but we are getting closer.  Our job’s easier because somebody already got us through that first mile.  Somebody already got us over that bridge.  When it feels the road is too hard, when the torch we’ve been passed feels too heavy, we will remember these early travelers, and draw strength from their example, and hold firmly the words of the prophet Isaiah: 

Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not be faint.4

We honor those who walked so we could run.  We must run so our children soar.  And we will not grow weary.  For we believe in the power of an awesome God, and we believe in this country’s sacred promise.

May He bless those warriors of justice no longer with us, and bless the United States of America.

Thank you, everybody.

Source: http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/b...

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In EQUALITY Tags SELMA MARCH, BARACK OBAMA, TRANSCRIPT, CIVIL RIGHTS, AFRICAN AMERICAN RIGHTS, EQUALITY, VOTING RIGHTS ACT, DESEGREGATION, JOHN LEWIS
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Lawrence O'Donnell: 'The original sin of this country is that we invaders shot and murdered our way across the land killing every Native American that we could', The Last Word, 'Dakota' - 2016

September 12, 2016

24 August 2016, The Last Word, NBC nightly news show, USA

Dakota means friend…friendly. The people who gave that name to the Dakotas have, sadly, never been treated as friends. The people whose language was used to name the Dakotas and Minnesota, Iowa, Oklahoma, Connecticut, Massachusetts and other states, the Native American tribes, the people who were here before us… long before us, have never been treated as friends. They have been treated as enemies..more harshly than any other enemy. In any of this countrys’ wars. After all of our major wars we signed peace treaties and live by those treaties. After world war II when we made peace with Germany we then did everything we possibly could to rebuild Germany. No Native American tribe has ever been treated as well as we treated Germans after World War II.

The original sin of this country is that we invaders shot and murdered our way across the land killing every Native American that we could, and making treaties with the rest. This country was founded on genocide before the word genocide was invented. Before there was a War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague. When we finally stopped actively killing Native Americans for the crime of living here before us, we then proceeded to violate every treaty we made with the Tribes. Every. Single. Treaty. We piled crime on top of crime against a people whose offense against us was simply that they lived where we wanted to live. We don’t feel the guilt of the crimes because we pretend they happened a very long time ago, in ancient history. And we actively suppress the memories of those crimes.. but there are people alive today whose grandparents were in the business of killing the Native Americans. That’s how recent these crimes are.

Every once in a while there is a painful and morally embarrassing reminder, as there is this week in North Dakota near the Standing Rock Sioux reservation where hundreds of people have gathered and camped out in opposition to an interstate pipeline being built from North Dakota to Illinois. The protest in being led by this countrys’ original environmentalists. Native Americans. For hundreds of years they were our only environmentalists. The only people who thought that land and rivers should be preserved in their natural state. The only people who thought a mountain or a prairie or a river could be a sacred place.

Yesterday a federal judge heard arguments from the tribes against the federal governments approval of the pipeline and said he will deliver his decision on whether the pipeline can proceed next month. There are now over ninety tribes gathered in protest of that pipeline. That protest will surely continue even if the judge allows construction to proceed. And so we face the prospect next month of the descendants of the first people to ever set foot on that land,.. being arrested by the descendants of the invaders who seized that land. Arrested for trespassing. That we still have Native Americans left in this country to be arrested for trespassing on their own land is testament, not to the mercy of the genocidal invaders who seized and occupied their land, but to the stunning strength and the five hundred years of endurance and the undying dignity of the people who were here long before us. The people who have always known; what is truly sacred in this world.

 

Source: http://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/...

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In EQUALITY Tags LAWRENCE O'DONNELL, MSNBC, THE LAST WORD, TELEVISION, NATIVE AMERICANS, DAKOTA PIPELINE, PROTESTS, TRESPASSING, GENOCIDE
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Harald V of Norway: 'Norwegians believe in God, Allah, Everything and Nothing', Garden party welcome - 2016

September 9, 2016

1 September 2016, Royal Palace gardens, Oslo, Norway

After having traveled around most of the country, it is very nice to be able to host representatives from all over Norway in our garden here at the castle! A warm welcome to our place, everyone!

You who are gathered here represents the width of what Norway is today. So what is Norway?”

Norway is high mountains and deep fjords. It’s plains and coastline, islands and islets. There are lush meadows and gentle hills.Sea crashing against the country from the north, west and south.”

Norway Midnight sun and polar night. It is both harsh and mild winters. There are both hot and cold summers. Norway is elongated and scattered inhabited.

But Norway is, above all, people.

Norwegians are northerners, troenders, southerners – and people from all the other regions. Norwegians have also emigrated from Afghanistan, Pakistan and Poland, Sweden, Somalia and Syria. My grandparents immigrated from Denmark and England 110 years ago. 

It is not always easy to say where we are from, what nationality we belong too. What we call home, is where our heart is – and that is sometimes difficult to place within borders.

Norwegians are young and old, high and low, able-bodied and wheelchair users. An increasing number are over one hundred years. Norwegians are rich, poor and in between. Norwegians like football and baseball, climb mountains and sail – while others are most fond of the sofa.

Some have good self-esteem, while others are struggling to believe that they are good enough as they are. Norwegians are working in shops, hospitals, and oil platforms. Many Norwegians work to keep us safe, and many work to keep the country clean of garbage and looking for new solutions for a green future. Norwegians farm the land and are engaged in fishing.

Norwegians research and teach. Norwegians are engaged youth and experienced old.  Norwegians are unmarried, divorced, families and old couples. Norwegians are girls who love girls, boys who like boys, and girls and boys who are fond of each other.

Norwegians believe in God, Allah, Everything and Nothing.

Norwegians like Grieg and Kygo, Hellbillies and Kari Bremnes.

In other words, Norway is you. Norway is us. When we in our national anthem sing; “Yes, we love this country,” we must remember that we also sing about each other. For it’s we who make up the country. Therefore, our national anthem also is a declaration of love to the Norwegian people.

My greatest hope for Norway is that we are able to take care of each other. That we in the future are going to build this country on trust, fellowship and generosity. That we shall know that we – despite of all our differences – are one people. That Norway is one. Again – a warm welcome to us and Our garden – I hope we get a nice time together!

Source: http://www.selvuniverset.com/2016/09/02/th...

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In EQUALITY Tags KING HARALD, GARDEN PARTY, TOLERANCE, NORWAY, TRANSCRIPT, FULL SPEECH, DIVERSITY, EQUALITY, NATIONAL ANTHEM, NATIONALISM, ACCEPTANCE, ROYAL, HARALD V OF NORWAY, SPEAKOLIES 2016
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Stan Grant: "This week Australia is a boy in a hood strapped to a chair", Wallace Wurth lecture, UNSW - 2016

August 4, 2016

29 July 2016, UNSW Kensington Campus, Sydney, Australia

The lecture was given only a few days after damning allegations were revealed on ABC's Four Corners program about treatment of Indigenous children in the Don Dale Youth Detention Centre in Australia's Northern Territory.

There was a speech I had planned to give tonight. I wished it to be a speech rational and measured.

In this speech I would have appealed to the best of Australia – to what Abraham Lincoln would have called the better angels of our nature.

In this speech I would have wished to locate Indigenous people within the framework of the grand tradition of liberal western democracy.

In this speech I would have spoken of Hegel's idea of man "not being at home in the world".

I would have asked how we – the first peoples of this land – could be at home in a world imposed upon us.

In this speech I would have spoken of Edmund Burke's template for society – that it be a covenant between those living those who have passed and those yet to come.

What is this covenant that would link my ancestors and my children – for us it would not be the glory of nations won but of nations lost.

How then after having our world upended could I pledge allegiance to what has supplanted us?

In this speech I could have touched on those thinkers who are the pillars of western democratic ideas – I would have told of wrestling with John Locke and JS Mill.

How they have inspired me yet left me reeling from their implicit harsh judgment of the society and culture that I am drawn from.

I would have told of feeling both drawn to the steadfastness and stoicism of conservatism yet wonder how so many of those who lay claim to the mantle conservative today can be so mean spirited and have a deficit of generosity.

This speech would have looked to contemporary thinkers like Australian Duncan Ivison.

Ivison strives for a theory of justice that enables us to feel at home in the world when we are no longer alienated from the institutions and practices of this society – that being at home in the world is not just having to be resigned to accepting or accommodating injustice.

I would have quoted the late American philosopher John Rawls and his idea of reconciliation through public reason – of people being able to endorse the institutions and practices of society and not merely tolerate them.

I would have explored what American political scientist William Connolly has termed the 'vital centre of the nation'

I would have returned to John Stuart Mill – the Mill who could speak of a centre that could "soften the extreme form and fill up the intervals between us"?

This speech I wished to give would have sought amity with a tradition that has excluded us.

In this speech I would have sought those things that can unite us not those things that divide.

In this speech I would have chosen carefully my words.

In this speech I would have sought less to inflame and more to comfort.

I cannot give that speech it is best saved for another day.

That speech would have come from my head but I wish to speak from my heart.

Some of my own people have criticised me for being too faithful to diplomacy.

They find fault in my hope or optimism. To my critics I give Australia too much credit.

In another week I might challenge them – but not this week.

This week they are right.

This week I have struggled to contain a pulsating rage.

I have moved from boiling anger to simmering resentment but the feeling has not passed nor do I wish it too.

Even as I write, my words are powered by a coursing fury. My hands hover above the keyboard in a clenched fist.

This is an anger that comes from the certainty of being.

This is an anger that speaks to my soul.

This anger I know to be just.

This speech tonight does not look to Lincoln's first inaugural – then the great American president spoke words of brotherhood to a fractured nation on the eve of war.

"We are not enemies but friends", he said.

"We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection."

How I wish I could say that tonight. Another time – yes – but not tonight.

For this speech I look to Lincoln's second inaugural.

Here he stood before a country bloodied and worn.

Victory was at hand and slavery at an end.

But this president was tired.

His country lay in ruin. His assassin lurked in the audience.

Lincoln leaned on the gospels to lay at the feet of the nation the sin of slavery:

"Woe unto the world because of offenses – for it must needs be that offences come, but woe to the man by whom those offences cometh."

Woe to the man by whom those offences cometh.

What offences we have seen this past week.

How can I stand here and speak to the idea of our place in an indissoluble commonwealth when this week my people have been reminded that our place is so often behind this nation's bars.

This week we know what Australia looks like.

This week Australia is a boy in a hood strapped to a chair.

This week Australia is Aboriginal boys tear gassed, locked down and beaten.

These are the images on our television screens.

These boys who look like my boys.

I watched my teenage son as he saw this unfold before him. I saw him lose his place in the world – with each scene of horror he became less sure of his country.

For he has been raised not to believe in our worst.

He has been spared the fate of so many of his people.

But on that night he wondered at the difference between himself and the boys on the screen.

For in these boys he sees something of himself and he asks how his country can allow this.

When I saw the boys I saw a tragedy my son had escaped but I saw a reminder of a brutality his grandfather and my grandfather had endured.

I saw in those boys the broken bones and stab wounds and dark ink jail tattoos of my father.

I recalled the story of my mother's father dragged from his bed by police accused of drinking.

The same man arrested and tied to a tree like a dog.

There are those who would rather I not speak of these things.

There are those who accuse me of having a nostalgia for injustice.

A nostalgia for injustice – as if these wounds on the body and soul of my mother and father are things of memory.

As if we choose to cling to suffering – as if this injustice is a thing recalled and not a thing lived.

A nostalgia for injustice – such a charge could be levelled only by someone certain of his place in this country.

A certainty denied to a people – the first people – still searching for ours. Estranged in the land of our ancestors.

It could be levelled only by someone who sees injustice and brutality as something to be pondered and not endured.

It is a charge brought by people comfortable in their own history while they tell us to forget ours – to get over it.

These are people who value their traditions exalt their heroes and deny ours.

I wonder: would they dismiss the memories of the Jewish people so lightly?

Are the Jewish memories of suffering too, merely a nostalgia for injustice?

These are people who proclaim themselves conservatives but with their meanness debase the very traditions they claim to uphold.

These people who seize on difference – gay, Muslim, Asian, black – to vilify, divide and demonise.

All the while reserving for themselves the right to define our country and set the price of inclusion.

They are the people who wrap their words in civility to mask the beating heart of their bigotry.

How do these people square their supposed conservatism and professed love of country with the words of British conservative writer Roger Scruton when he says: "individuals must be free which means being free from the insolent claims of those who wish to redesign them."

Yet these people seek to redesign us to tell us who we should be and how we should think.

These people would tell those boys on our television screens this week – the boys crying in agony - that they live in an imagined world of pain.

They would tell them that they are to blame for their treatment.

They would tell the family of a 10-year-old indigenous girl who takes her own life that they live in an imagined world of sadness.

They would tell our people in overcrowded housing in communities ravaged by violence and drug and alcohol abuse that they revel in their misery.

They tell me I have a nostalgia for injustice.

No, we have no nostalgia for injustice because we have not first had the chance to forget.

Polish Nobel prize winning poet Czeslav Milosc spoke of his people carrying the 'memory of wounds'.

The memory of wounds – as Milosc wrote –perhaps all memory is the memory of wounds.

Certainly for us these memories sit deep within our soul.

Rather than long for these memories – rather than seek them out to give meaning to my identity in a perfect world I would wish them away.

But what has been done cannot be undone.

What has been seen cannot be unseen.

The scars of my father and the memory of my grandfather – these stories and images – the graveyard crosses of people gone too young are seared into my minds eyes as surely as the charred flesh and the stench of blood from a lifetime of reporting haunts my night's sleep.

The memory of a hooded, bound boy in a cell is now similarly burned in my consciousness.

Australia was redeemed in part from complicity in this disgrace only by the national outrage.

The Prime Minister responded by calling immediately for a royal commission.

It may meet a minimum requirement for action but forgive us if we lack faith.

We have been poked and prodded for two centuries.

We have been the subject of endless inquiry.

The heads of our people rest still in glass jars in foreign museums and our skeletons contained in cardboard boxes – the artefacts of inquiry.

Two decades ago we held a royal commission into black deaths in custody – it was supposed to end the culture of incarceration.

Today almost every face – man woman and child – behind bars in the Northern Territory is black.

Nationally, barely 3 per cent of the population comprise a quarter of those in jails.

It is not to excuse their individual crimes to make plain the fact that every one of those people – indigenous people – are a product of this country's history.

It is a history still yet to be given its full account.

It is a history still yet to puncture the public consciousness.

It is a history born of terra nullius – the founding of a nation on the lie of the empty land.

It is a history lamented in the 1960s by anthropologist W.E.H Stanner as the "'great Australian Silence".

It was he said: "A cult of forgetting practiced on a national scale."

Half a century later his words ring just as true.

Rather than this royal commission how more necessary is a truth and reconciliation commission.

A full reckoning of our Nation's past, that may set loose the chains of history that bind this country's first and today most miserably impoverished people.

In my caution I have argued against such things fearing it would harden division.

Now I accept that we need this mirror into our soul.

How can we continue to look at endemic child suicide, intractable disadvantage and our choking jail cells as mere pieces of a policy puzzle scattered on a board devoid of the outline of our troubled past.

If we are to remember the fallen of Pozieres and Fromelles, then surely we can remember the fallen warriors who resisted the invasion of their lands on this soil 200-plus years ago.

We can remember my people the Wiradjuri and the martial law of Bathurst.

We can recall the words of William Cox given the first land grant on the plains west of the Blue Mountains.

"It is better that all the blacks be shot and their carcasses used to manure the ground which is all the good they are fit for."

And shot they were – and poisoned and herded over cliffs – others ravaged by disease.

Half the population wiped out in a matter of years in what the Sydney Gazette reported as an "exterminating war."

And this is just the story of my own blood – each of our hundreds of nations has its own similar history.

This truth telling would make good on the demand of French philosopher Paul Ricouer:

"We must remember because remembering is a moral duty, we owe a debt to the victims. By remembering and telling we stop them from being buried twice."

Stop them from being buried twice – Australia's war dead are etched on walls of remembrance: 'lest we forget'.

Our dead lie in fields forgotten - histories still untold.

Without such truth where is our reconciliation?

Is it just to be measured in economic statistics?

Must closing the gap be the only measure of our justice?

Without such truth what is this thing we are calling recognition?

I sit on the referendum council and this week the word itself: recognition has felt small.

In this week it reeks of incremental shift when we cry out for fundamental change.

What is this perversity – that we should ask Australia to finally recognise us?

That we should ask for others to decide whether we have a place in a constitution that was designed for our exclusion?

This recognition lives in the netherworld of symbolism when so many of the lives of our people are crushed by a real world that has never truly recognised them – that has rendered them invisible: out of sight and out of mind.

We are asking Australia to recognise us when most Australians still admit to having never met an Indigenous person.

They may likely hang a dot painting on their wall having never touched the hand of the painter.

This recognition doesn't speak to my father – he recognises himself when he speaks with the power of his language: still alive when Australia would have seen it silenced.

Balladhu Wiradjuri Gibbir – dyirramadilinya badhu Wiradjuri! I am a Wiradjuri man – proudly Wiradjuri.

In this week: how can this recognition excite our people, weary of a struggle for rights so long denied.

Support for this recognition feels insipid and its supporters can speak only an air of resignation that the best we can get is less than we deserve.

I had thought that recognition may complete our nation – that it may fill the unfilled void.

I saw it as a chance for Australians to recognise ourselves. I am prepared to say that I put too much store in the power of this symbolism.

Now my arguments feel timid.

Recognition on these terms feels like betrayal of those who have fought for a justice more deserving: more dignified.

Recognition risks shrinking our ambitions to fit a miserable national mood where the polity has lost faith in its politicians.

This recognition is hostage to politics and politics is often the enemy of the truth.

This recognition demands finding common cause with those who have no interest in enlarging our nation but containing it.

This recognition demands a dispiriting compromise with those who seek to do nothing more than the least they can do.

To give full flight to our aspirations would be to court failure.

What a damning state of affairs in a country that remains the only commonwealth nation not to enshrine the sovereign rights of its first peoples.

Are we really so stricken with lethargy on this subject?

Must we be comfortable with our laggard status?

Do we not look to New Zealand or the United States or Canada and ask why we too cannot negotiate treaties?

Treaty even unattainable sings to the heart of indigenous people here in a way that recognition cannot.

If recognition is then to mean anything then we need to infuse it with the urgency of now.

It needs to speak with hope to the hooded beaten boys in dark prison cells.

It needs to rise above the transactions of our daily lives to sing in our hearts.

It needs to whisper to the conscience of our political leaders.

If it is to mean anything it needs to be imbued with the power to reorder our lives…to give real voice to the first peoples.

If the constitution is our rule book then we need to rewrite those rules.

Anything less will speak to the poverty of our spirit not the breadth of our vision.

Can we do this? That part of me that wants to believe struggles with what my eyes this week have seen.

Those boys: links in a chain that has bound us for 200 years.

This recognition: what is it without truth?

To quote the poet Milosc: "Crimes against human rights never confessed and never publicly denounced, are a poison which destroys the possibility of friendship between nations."

Can we confess these truths?

My people have spoken this country's confession even when no one would listen.

Our heroes have sought to fill out this country. They have held its greatness to great account.

Our warriors of the frontier: Pemulwuy, Windradyne, Yagun, Jandamarra, Tunnerminnerwait and so many others who resisted invasion and whose names should fall from the lips of schoolchildren as easily as Captain Cook, Arthur Phillip or Ned Kelly.

Their spirit has lived in those who have followed.

Joe Anderson – otherwise known as King Burraga of the Tharawal people – who said in 1933:

"All the black man wants is representation in federal parliament. There is plenty of fish in the river for us all and land to grow all we want."

Victorian Aboriginal leader William Cooper who in 1937 petitioned King George for representation in Parliament.

The years have not diminished our struggle. We have fought on many fronts.

In 1963 the Yirrkala bark petitions were recognised by the Australian parliament.

The Yolngu People asserted the ownership of their lands and the right to be heard.

In 1966 Vincent Lingiari walked off Wave Hill station to demand equal pay and won his land when Gough Whitlam poured the sand through Vincent's fingers.

Charles Perkins led a bus load of students to smash segregation outback New South Wales.

In 1972 a group of activists pitched a tent on the lawns of parliament house.

In 1988 Yolngu leader Gallarwuy Yunnipingu presented the Barunga statement to Prime Minister Bob Hawke demanding what the Yirrkala people had demanded in their petition to the Queen: a treaty.

Eddie Mabo a man from Murray Island took his battle to the highest court in the land and did not live to see his claim vindicated: this was indeed his land.

After the apology to the stolen generations Gallarwuy Yunnipingu gave a speech talking about what he called 'serious business': a final settlement.

Still we wait.

This week we ask again: how long do we wait?

I don't put myself in this pantheon.

I live in the enormous shadow they cast.

So I turn to words; the words of a man I turned to as I began this speech.

I turn to the speech I had hoped to give.

I recalled the words of Lincoln's first inaugural, his appeal to his nation's better angels.

I return to the words of the weary Lincoln. The Lincoln at the start of his second term, a man whose death stalked him as he spoke.

"Let us finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds."

Mandang Guwu – Thank you.

Stan Grant was a guest on episode 8 of the Speakola podcast, talking about his Australian Dream speech.


Source: http://www.smh.com.au/comment/this-week-au...

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In EQUALITY Tags DON DALE DETENTION CENTRE, STAN GRANT, ABORIGINAL, DEATHS IN CUSTODY, INCARERATION, BLACK LIVES MATTER, FOUR CORNERS, UNSW, TRANSCRIPT, RACISM, CORRECTIONAL FACILITIES, NORTHERN TERRITORY, SPEAKOLIES 2016
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Brian Williams: 'I understand the anger and the frustration and the distrust of law enforcement', hospital presser post Dallas ambush - 2016

August 4, 2016

11 July 2016, Parkland Memorial Hospital, Dallas, Texas, USA

Hello my name’s Brian Williams.

I want to state first and foremost I stand with the Dallas police department. I stand with law enforcement all over this country.

This experience has been very personal for me, and a turning point in my life.

There was the added dynamic of officers being shot. We routinely care for multiple gunshot victims. But the preceding days of more black men dying at the hands of police officers affected me. I think the reasons are obvious. I fit that demographic of individuals. But I abhor what has been done to these officers and I grieve with their families.

I understand the anger and the frustration and the distrust of law enforcement, but they are not the problem. The problem is the lack of open discussions about the impact of race relations in this country. I think about it everyday that I was unable to save those cops when they came here that night. It weighs on my mind constantly. This killing, it has to stop.

Black men dying and being forgotten. People retaliating against the people who are sworn to defend us. We have to come together. And end all this.

…

When I see police officers eating at a restaurant I pick up their tab. I even one time a year ago bought one of the Dallas PD officers some ice cream, when I was out with my daughter to get ice cream. I want my daughter seeing me interacting with police that way, so she doesn’t grow up with the same burden that I carry, when it comes to interaction with law enforcement.

I want those officers also to see me, a black man, and understand, I support you, I will defend me, and I will care for you. That doesn’t mean, that I do not fear you.

That does not mean, that if you approach me, I will not immediately have a visceral reaction to start worrying for my personal safety.

But I’ll control that the best I can, and not let that impact how I deal with law enforcement.

Source: http://edition.cnn.com/2016/07/11/us/emoti...

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In EQUALITY Tags TRANSCRIPT, BRIAN WILLIAMS, SURGEON, BLACK LIVES MATTER, BLUE LIVES MATTER, POLICE SHOOTINGS, AMBUSH OF POLICE, RACE, RACIAL EQUALITY, RACIAL CONFLICT, USA, GUNS, SPEAKOLIES 2016
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Chris Sarra: 'We are stronger than we believe and smarter than we know', NAIDOC Person of the Year - 2016

July 18, 2016

8 July 2016, NAIDOC awards, Darwin, Australia

To watch video of this speech, see NITV facebook page

It’s my wedding anniversary tonight. So thank you to my wife, Grace. Sixteen years. I think last year we were at State of Origin, watching Queensland win. Greatest game of all.

I acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land, the Larrakia people. I’m so honoured to be here on your country.

Thank you to my wife and children, my family, for your ongoing support.

Thank you to my friends and colleagues, who are part of the stronger smarter revolution.

And that’s a real revolution.

A revolution with an authentic belief in the humanity of Aboriginal Australia and Torres Strait Islander Australia. And of all Australians, and our capacity to be exceptional together .

Some years ago, I was pretty down and I thank those who stood by me during this time ... a time when I had never felt so culturally, spiritually or professionally disempowered but you continued to believe in me, and gave me licence to keep believing in myself.

This honour in some ways belongs to our ghost children.

Those Aboriginal girls and boys, who chose to die by their own hand, who no longer believed that the future could be better, or that they had a place in it.

It belongs to Indigenous students rotting in classrooms that no minister or millionaire would send their children to ... to those kids I say this: in more than 500 Stronger Smarter schools nationwide, students just like you, are coming to school, staying in school and succeeding.

And you are not forgotten … and we will come for you.

This honour in some way belongs to Indigenous parents and communities, across Australia, who are working with schools to deliver on the life-giving promise of a stronger smarter future.

It also belongs to more than 2,000 school and community leaders in this education revolution for our children. They’ve worked their guts out to deliver what most thought was impossible.

This is an emotional moment for me. We're closing the gap in Indigenous education

Your work honours Aboriginal Australia and Torres Strait Islander Australia and the teaching profession. And I salute you for this.

For as long as I can remember, thanks to my mum and my dad, I’ve always known that being Aboriginal was awesome. That I was no better or worse than any other. And that hard work, service and compassion was my obligation.

That even in the face of inhumanity, I should treat people as I wanted to be treated.

Those values and beliefs strengthen my core and kept safe my soul.

Armed with this truth, even when victimised, no one could make me their victim ... not the government, whose laws stole the land that my grandfather Broome was promised in return for his hard work.

Not the drunk neighbour who called us little black bastards, even when we mowed his lawn for him.

Not the teachers who had limited beliefs in who I was and what I could achieve.

Not even the university, which used my black face to attract money for projects, but then couldn’t trust me to execute its delivery.

None of your racism, none of your hurt, none of your lies that others said about me or my culture rang true. None broke through to that precious place where my self-belief resides.

Aboriginal people are exceptional. When we can all acknowledge that, the gap will close

The battle to create equal futures has a frustratingly long way to go. Plenty of people must play a part.

To those of us who feel broken or insufficient, who feel anything but powerful, remember this: of all the billions ever born, it is we, Australia’s first people ... we alone share the blood of the world’s oldest civilisation on the planet.

And to this end, this note, I have a message for Jack Dempsey, mayor of Bundaberg, to Annastacia Palaszczuk, premier of Queensland, and to Malcolm Turnbull, who will probably be the prime minister of Australia.

I am a descendant of the Gurang Gurang and Taribilang Bunda people.

And when you are ready, and when you have the courage and you are bold enough, I am ready on behalf of my people and my people are ready to speak with you about a treaty.

For tens of thousands of years, our sovereign nations shared borders, trade and travel. Our laws were strong. Our faith was deep. And our songs enchanted. Culture enlightened our souls, and dreamings lit the way.

The past 200 years, by contrast, were everything the past 50,000 years were not.

In the blink of an historical eye, we were banished to the edges of the worlds we’d governed for eons.

There was a disruption to our excellence. Our parents and theirs were stripped of all they loved – their kids, homes, land and culture. Our people weren’t called slaves, but laboured as such – shackled, starved, never paid wages. Black diggers fought and died for a nation that denied them the right to vote.

The damage and privations continue for many today.

And I acknowledge those complexities and stand with you in acknowledging that all Australians have a part to play in resolving them – that is a truth.

But other truths are also at play. Those challenges, as complex as they are, do not define us.

Those who despise or pity us or think we are less, their blindness, that is their affliction and loss. And it doesn’t matter how many blackfellas they can line up to help them believe that.

We are more than victims and mere survivors. The scars we carry aren’t who we are. They aren’t signs of guilt or capability. They are the not the truth about our potential or capacity.

They are a part of ourselves that still need healing. And healing cannot happen while ever we believe the lies that we are a weak, desperate people, devoid of humanity and incapable of helping ourselves.

Council should be sacked for not flying Aboriginal flag in Naidoc week, says MP

The truth is this: we are stronger than we believe and smarter than we know.

For 50,000 history-making years, our old people lived like kings in lands where camels die of thirst.

They stood as ironbark – upright, strong, tall, standing and unbreakable.

Their lessons, their songlines, their legacy and their dreamings. They are our true north.

They are the truth not only of who we were, but who we can be again.

My brothers and sisters, believe me when I say this.

We are stronger than we believe. And smarter than we know.

Solidly anchored by an honourable past, more than any other human beings on the planet, we can take our place in an honourable future. We have survived – and now we must thrive.

Source: https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news...

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In EQUALITY Tags CHRIS SARRA, TREATY, NAIDOC, PERSON OF THE YEAR, TRANSCRIPT, SPEAKOLIES 2016
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Nellie McClung: 'Man’s place is to provide for his family, a hard enough task in these strenuous days' 'Should men vote? - 1914

March 28, 2016

28 January 1914, Manitoba, Canada

Nellie McClung was a Canadian suffragette from the province of Manitoba. Following a statment from the Premier of Manitoba, Sir Redmond Roblin, that giving women the vote would be tantamount to breaking up the home, McLung and fellow suffragettes staged a mock parliament. This was the most famous speech. Manitoba granted women the vote on 28 January 1916, exactly two years later.


 (Hands in front, locking fingers with the thumbs straight up, gently moving them up and down, before speaking….Teeter back on heels.) Gentlemen of the Delegation, I am glad to see you. (Cordial paternalism) Glad to see you—come any time, and ask for anything you like. We like delegations—and I congratulate this delegation on their splendid, gentlemanly manners. If the men in England had come before their Parliament with the frank courtesy you have shown, they might still have been enjoying the privilege of meeting their representatives in this friendly way.

But, gentlemen, you are your own answer to the question; you are the product of an age which has not seen fit to bestow the gift you ask, and who can say that you are not splendid specimens of mankind? No! No! any system which can produce the virile, splendid type of men we have before us today, is good enough for me, and (drawing up shoulders, facetious) if it is good enough for me—it is good enough for anybody.

But my dear young friends, I am convinced you do not know what you’re asking me to do (didactic, patient); you do not know what you ask. You have not thought of it, of course, with the natural thoughtlessness of your sex. You ask for something which may disrupt the whole course of civilization. Man’s place is to provide for his family, a hard enough task in these strenuous days. We hear of women leaving home, and we hear it with deepest sorrow. Do you know why women leave home? There is a reason. Home is not made sufficiently attractive. Would letting politics enter the home help matters? Ah no! Politics would unsettle our men. Unsettled men mean unsettled bills—unsettled bills mean broken homes—broken vows—and then divorce. (Heavy sorrow, apologetic for mentioning unpleasant things.)

(Exalted mood) Man has a higher destiny than politics! What is home without a bank account? The man who pays the grocer rules the world. Shall I call men away from the useful plow and harrow, to talk loud on street corners about things which do not concern them? Ah, no, I love the farm and the hallowed associations—the dear old farm, with the drowsy tinkle of cowbells at eventide. There I see my father’s kindly smile so full of blessing, hardworking, rough-handed man he was, maybe, but able to look the whole world in the face…. You ask me to change all this.

(Draw huge white linen handkerchief, crack it by the corner like a whip and blow nose like a trumpet) I am the chosen representative of the people, elected to the highest office this fair land has to offer. I must guard well its interests. No upsetting influence must mar our peaceful firesides. Do you never read, gentlemen? (Biting sarcasm) Do you not know of the disgraceful happenings in countries cursed by manhood suffrage? Do you not know the fearful odium into which the polls have fallen—is it possible you do not know the origin of that offensive word “Poll-cat”, do you not know that men are creatures of habit—give them an inch—and they will steal the whole sub-division, and although it is quite true, as you say, the polls are only open once in four years—when men once get the habit—who knows where it will end—it is hard enough to keep them at home now! No, history is full of unhappy examples of men in public life; Nero, Herod, King John—you ask me to set these names before your young people. Politics has a blighting, demoralizing influence on men. It dominates them, pursues them even after their earthly career is over. Time and again it has been proven that men came back and voted—even after they were dead.

So you ask me to disturb the sacred calm of our cemeteries? (Horrified) We are doing very well just as we are, very well indeed. Women are the best students of economy. Every woman is a student of political economy. We look very closely at every dollar of public money, to see if we couldn’t make a better use of it ourselves, before we spend it. We run our elections as cheaply as they are run anywhere. We always endeavour to get the greatest number of votes for the least possible amount of money. That is political economy.

(Responding to an outcry—furious) You think you can instruct a person older than yourself, do you—you, with the brains of a butterfly, the acumen of a bat; the backbone of a jelly-fish. You can tell me something, can you? I was managing governments when you were sitting in your high chair, drumming on a tin plate with a spoon. (Booming) You dare to tell me how a government should be conducted?

(Storming up and down, hands at right angles to the body) But I must not lose my temper (calming, dropping voice) and I never do—never—except when I feel like it—and am pretty sure I can get away with it. I have studied self-control, as you all know—I have had to, in order that I may be a leader. If it were not for this fatal modesty, which on more than one occasion has almost blighted my political career, I would say I believe I have been a leader, a factor in building up this fair province; I would say that I believe I have written my name large across the face of this province.

But gentlemen, I am still of the opinion, even after listening to your cleverly worded speeches, that I will go on just as I have been doing, without the help you so generously offer. My wish for this fair, flower-decked land is that I may long be spared to guide its destiny in world affairs. I know there is no one but me—I tremble when I think of what might happen to these leaderless lambs—but I will go forward confidently, hoping that the good ship may come safely into port, with the same old skipper on the bridge. We are not worrying about the coming election, as you may think. We rest in confidence of the result, and will proudly unfurl, as we have these many years, the same old banner of the grand old party that had gone down many times to disgrace, but thank God, never to defeat

Source: http://www.l-ruth-carter.com/blog/should-m...

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In EQUALITY Tags NELLIE MCCLUNG, SUFFRAGETTE, EQUALITY, HUMOUR, SATIRE, MOCK PARLIAMENT, CANADA, MANITOBA, FEMINISM, WOMEN'S RIGHTS
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Bella Abzug: 'Do you know me?', Centre for American Women and Politics (CAWP) - 1983

March 26, 2016

1983, parody ad shot at Rutgers Unviersity, New Jersey, USA

In 1970, Bella Abzug became the first Jewish woman to be elected to Congress. Her campaign slogan was 'A woman's place is in the house: The House of Representatives'. In 1973 she discovered that despite being in Congress, any credit card in her name had to read Mrs Martin Abzug and her husband had to sign for it. She fought to change the law, and did in 1974, when President Ford signed the Depository Institutions Amendments Act, 1974. 

Do you know me?

Well,  American Express did not know me, because when I was in the Congress of the united States, and I applied for an American Express card, they said I couldn’t get one unless my husband signed for it.

So I called up Martin, my husband and said, ‘what do you believe? Do you love me? Because American Express doesn’t and they you to sign for my card.’

He said, ‘I love you, Bella. I wouldn’t trade you even for Joe Namath (an American football quarterback], But American Express is going to have to give you your own card, and I’m going to fight with you until we do.’

And so in the Congress of the united states we passed the credit law, in which we were able to get women to get their own credit,  and so I didn’t know whether I should really get an American Express card, but I decided I would so I could tell this story.

So now i have an American Express card, so I can tell this story.

Women fought for their own credit, and American Express had to give in.

So carry an American Express card as a symbol of women’s right to credit!

[off camera applause]

Source: http://eloquentwoman.blogspot.com.au/2013/...

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In EQUALITY Tags PARODY, WOMEN'S RIGHTS, BELLA ABZUG, AMERICAN EXPRESS, CREDIT LAWS, CREDIT CARDS, BANKING
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Martin Luther King Jr: 'Only when it's dark enough can you see the stars', I've Been to the Mountaintop speech - 1968

February 16, 2016

3 April 1968, Memphis, Tennessee, USA

This was Dr King's final speech before his assassination.

Thank you very kindly, my friends. As I listened to Ralph Abernathy and his eloquent and generous introduction and then thought about myself, I wondered who he was talking about. It's always good to have your closest friend and associate to say something good about you. And Ralph Abernathy is the best friend that I have in the world. I'm delighted to see each of you here tonight in spite of a storm warning. You reveal that you are determined to go on anyhow.

Something is happening in Memphis; something is happening in our world. And you know, if I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of taking a kind of general and panoramic view of the whole of human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, "Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?" I would take my mental flight by Egypt and I would watch God's children in their magnificent trek from the dark dungeons of Egypt through, or rather across the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the promised land.

And in spite of its magnificence, I wouldn't stop there.


I would move on by Greece and take my mind to Mount Olympus. And I would see Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Euripides and Aristophanes assembled around the Parthenon. And I would watch them around the Parthenon as they discussed the great and eternal issues of reality.

But I wouldn't stop there.

I would go on, even to the great heyday of the Roman Empire. And I would see developments around there, through various emperors and leaders.

But I wouldn't stop there.


I would even come up to the day of the Renaissance, and get a quick picture of all that the Renaissance did for the cultural and aesthetic life of man. But I wouldn't stop there.
I would even go by the way that the man for whom I am named had his habitat. And I would watch Martin Luther as he tacked his ninety-five theses on the door at the church of Wittenberg.

But I wouldn't stop there.


I would come on up even to 1863, and watch a vacillating President by the name of Abraham Lincoln finally come to the conclusion that he had to sign the Emancipation Proclamation.

But I wouldn't stop there.

I would even come up to the early thirties, and see a man grappling with the problems of the bankruptcy of his nation. And come with an eloquent cry that we have nothing to fear but "fear itself."

But I wouldn't stop there.


Strangely enough, I would turn to the Almighty, and say, "If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the 20th century, I will be happy."


Now that's a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land; confusion all around. That's a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, in some strange way, are responding.


Something is happening in our world. The masses of people are rising up. And wherever they are assembled today, whether they are in Johannesburg, South Africa; Nairobi, Kenya; Accra, Ghana; New York City; Atlanta, Georgia; Jackson, Mississippi; or Memphis, Tennessee -- the cry is always the same: "We want to be free."


And another reason that I'm happy to live in this period is that we have been forced to a point where we are going to have to grapple with the problems that men have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demands didn't force them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them. Men, for years now, have been talking about war and peace. But now, no longer can they just talk about it. It is no longer a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world; it's nonviolence or nonexistence. That is where we are today.

And also in the human rights revolution, if something isn't done, and done in a hurry, to bring the colored peoples of the world out of their long years of poverty, their long years of hurt and neglect, the whole world is doomed. Now, I'm just happy that God has allowed me to live in this period to see what is unfolding. And I'm happy that He's allowed me to be in Memphis.
I can remember -- I can remember when Negroes were just going around as Ralph has said, so often, scratching where they didn't itch, and laughing when they were not tickled. But that day is all over. We mean business now, and we are determined to gain our rightful place in God's world.

And that's all this whole thing is about. We aren't engaged in any negative protest and in any negative arguments with anybody. We are saying that we are determined to be men. We are determined to be people. We are saying -- We are saying that we are God's children. And that we are God's children, we don't have to live like we are forced to live.

Now, what does all of this mean in this great period of history? It means that we've got to stay together. We've got to stay together and maintain unity. You know, whenever Pharaoh wanted to prolong the period of slavery in Egypt, he had a favorite, favorite formula for doing it. What was that? He kept the slaves fighting among themselves. But whenever the slaves get together, something happens in Pharaoh's court, and he cannot hold the slaves in slavery. When the slaves get together, that's the beginning of getting out of slavery. Now let us maintain unity.

Secondly, let us keep the issues where they are. The issue is injustice. The issue is the refusal of Memphis to be fair and honest in its dealings with its public servants, who happen to be sanitation workers. Now, we've got to keep attention on that. That's always the problem with a little violence. You know what happened the other day, and the press dealt only with the window-breaking. I read the articles. They very seldom got around to mentioning the fact that one thousand, three hundred sanitation workers are on strike, and that Memphis is not being fair to them, and that Mayor Loeb is in dire need of a doctor. They didn't get around to that.

Now we're going to march again, and we've got to march again, in order to put the issue where it is supposed to be -- and force everybody to see that there are thirteen hundred of God's children here suffering, sometimes going hungry, going through dark and dreary nights wondering how this thing is going to come out. That's the issue. And we've got to say to the nation: We know how it's coming out. For when people get caught up with that which is right and they are willing to sacrifice for it, there is no stopping point short of victory.
We aren't going to let any mace stop us. We are masters in our nonviolent movement in disarming police forces; they don't know what to do. I've seen them so often. I remember in Birmingham, Alabama, when we were in that majestic struggle there, we would move out of the 16th Street Baptist Church day after day; by the hundreds we would move out. And Bull Connor would tell them to send the dogs forth, and they did come; but we just went before the dogs singing, "Ain't gonna let nobody turn me around."


Bull Connor next would say, "Turn the fire hoses on." And as I said to you the other night, Bull Connor didn't know history. He knew a kind of physics that somehow didn't relate to the transphysics that we knew about. And that was the fact that there was a certain kind of fire that no water could put out. And we went before the fire hoses; we had known water. If we were Baptist or some other denominations, we had been immersed. If we were Methodist, and some others, we had been sprinkled, but we knew water. That couldn't stop us.


And we just went on before the dogs and we would look at them; and we'd go on before the water hoses and we would look at it, and we'd just go on singing "Over my head I see freedom in the air." And then we would be thrown in the paddy wagons, and sometimes we were stacked in there like sardines in a can. And they would throw us in, and old Bull would say, "Take 'em off," and they did; and we would just go in the paddy wagon singing, "We Shall Overcome." And every now and then we'd get in jail, and we'd see the jailers looking through the windows being moved by our prayers, and being moved by our words and our songs. And there was a power there which Bull Connor couldn't adjust to; and so we ended up transforming Bull into a steer, and we won our struggle in Birmingham. Now we've got to go on in Memphis just like that. I call upon you to be with us when we go out Monday.
Now about injunctions: We have an injunction and we're going into court tomorrow morning to fight this illegal, unconstitutional injunction. All we say to America is, "Be true to what you said on paper." If I lived in China or even Russia, or any totalitarian country, maybe I could understand some of these illegal injunctions. Maybe I could understand the denial of certain basic First Amendment privileges, because they hadn't committed themselves to that over there. But somewhere I read of the freedom of assembly. Somewhere I read of the freedom of speech. Somewhere I read of the freedom of press. Somewhere I read that the greatness of America is the right to protest for right. And so just as I say, we aren't going to let dogs or water hoses turn us around, we aren't going to let any injunction turn us around. We are going on.

We need all of you. And you know what's beautiful to me is to see all of these ministers of the Gospel. It's a marvelous picture. Who is it that is supposed to articulate the longings and aspirations of the people more than the preacher? Somehow the preacher must have a kind of fire shut up in his bones. And whenever injustice is around he tell it. Somehow the preacher must be an Amos, and saith, "When God speaks who can but prophesy?" Again with Amos, "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream." Somehow the preacher must say with Jesus, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me," and he's anointed me to deal with the problems of the poor."

And I want to commend the preachers, under the leadership of these noble men: James Lawson, one who has been in this struggle for many years; he's been to jail for struggling; he's been kicked out of Vanderbilt University for this struggle, but he's still going on, fighting for the rights of his people. Reverend Ralph Jackson, Billy Kiles; I could just go right on down the list, but time will not permit. But I want to thank all of them. And I want you to thank them, because so often, preachers aren't concerned about anything but themselves. And I'm always happy to see a relevant ministry.

It's all right to talk about "long white robes over yonder," in all of its symbolism. But ultimately people want some suits and dresses and shoes to wear down here! It's all right to talk about "streets flowing with milk and honey," but God has commanded us to be concerned about the slums down here, and his children who can't eat three square meals a day. It's all right to talk about the new Jerusalem, but one day, God's preacher must talk about the new New York, the new Atlanta, the new Philadelphia, the new Los Angeles, the new Memphis, Tennessee. This is what we have to do.

Now the other thing we'll have to do is this: Always anchor our external direct action with the power of economic withdrawal. Now, we are poor people. Individually, we are poor when you compare us with white society in America. We are poor. Never stop and forget that collectively -- that means all of us together -- collectively we are richer than all the nations in the world, with the exception of nine. Did you ever think about that? After you leave the United States, Soviet Russia, Great Britain, West Germany, France, and I could name the others, the American Negro collectively is richer than most nations of the world. We have an annual income of more than thirty billion dollars a year, which is more than all of the exports of the United States, and more than the national budget of Canada. Did you know that? That's power right there, if we know how to pool it.

We don't have to argue with anybody. We don't have to curse and go around acting bad with our words. We don't need any bricks and bottles. We don't need any Molotov cocktails. We just need to go around to these stores, and to these massive industries in our country, and say, "God sent us by here, to say to you that you're not treating his children right. And we've come by here to ask you to make the first item on your agenda fair treatment, where God's children are concerned. Now, if you are not prepared to do that, we do have an agenda that we must follow. And our agenda calls for withdrawing economic support from you."

And so, as a result of this, we are asking you tonight, to go out and tell your neighbors not to buy Coca-Cola in Memphis. Go by and tell them not to buy Sealtest milk. Tell them not to buy -- what is the other bread? -- Wonder Bread. And what is the other bread company, Jesse? Tell them not to buy Hart's bread. As Jesse Jackson has said, up to now, only the garbage men have been feeling pain; now we must kind of redistribute the pain. We are choosing these companies because they haven't been fair in their hiring policies; and we are choosing them because they can begin the process of saying they are going to support the needs and the rights of these men who are on strike. And then they can move on town -- downtown and tell Mayor Loeb to do what is right.

But not only that, we've got to strengthen black institutions. I call upon you to take your money out of the banks downtown and deposit your money in Tri-State Bank. We want a "bank-in" movement in Memphis. Go by the savings and loan association. I'm not asking you something that we don't do ourselves at SCLC. Judge Hooks and others will tell you that we have an account here in the savings and loan association from the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. We are telling you to follow what we are doing. Put your money there. You have six or seven black insurance companies here in the city of Memphis. Take out your insurance there. We want to have an "insurance-in."

Now these are some practical things that we can do. We begin the process of building a greater economic base. And at the same time, we are putting pressure where it really hurts. I ask you to follow through here.

Now, let me say as I move to my conclusion that we've got to give ourselves to this struggle until the end. Nothing would be more tragic than to stop at this point in Memphis. We've got to see it through. And when we have our march, you need to be there. If it means leaving work, if it means leaving school -- be there. Be concerned about your brother. You may not be on strike. But either we go up together, or we go down together.

Let us develop a kind of dangerous unselfishness. One day a man came to Jesus, and he wanted to raise some questions about some vital matters of life. At points he wanted to trick Jesus, and show him that he knew a little more than Jesus knew and throw him off base....
Now that question could have easily ended up in a philosophical and theological debate. But Jesus immediately pulled that question from mid-air, and placed it on a dangerous curve between Jerusalem and Jericho. And he talked about a certain man, who fell among thieves. You remember that a Levite and a priest passed by on the other side. They didn't stop to help him. And finally a man of another race came by. He got down from his beast, decided not to be compassionate by proxy. But he got down with him, administered first aid, and helped the man in need. Jesus ended up saying, this was the good man, this was the great man, because he had the capacity to project the "I" into the "thou," and to be concerned about his brother.
Now you know, we use our imagination a great deal to try to determine why the priest and the Levite didn't stop. At times we say they were busy going to a church meeting, an ecclesiastical gathering, and they had to get on down to Jerusalem so they wouldn't be late for their meeting. At other times we would speculate that there was a religious law that "One who was engaged in religious ceremonials was not to touch a human body twenty-four hours before the ceremony." And every now and then we begin to wonder whether maybe they were not going down to Jerusalem -- or down to Jericho, rather to organize a "Jericho Road Improvement Association." That's a possibility. Maybe they felt that it was better to deal with the problem from the causal root, rather than to get bogged down with an individual effect.
But I'm going to tell you what my imagination tells me. It's possible that those men were afraid. You see, the Jericho road is a dangerous road. I remember when Mrs. King and I were first in Jerusalem. We rented a car and drove from Jerusalem down to Jericho. And as soon as we got on that road, I said to my wife, "I can see why Jesus used this as the setting for his parable." It's a winding, meandering road. It's really conducive for ambushing. You start out in Jerusalem, which is about 1200 miles -- or rather 1200 feet above sea level. And by the time you get down to Jericho, fifteen or twenty minutes later, you're about 2200 feet below sea level. That's a dangerous road. In the days of Jesus it came to be known as the "Bloody Pass." And you know, it's possible that the priest and the Levite looked over that man on the ground and wondered if the robbers were still around. Or it's possible that they felt that the man on the ground was merely faking. And he was acting like he had been robbed and hurt, in order to seize them over there, lure them there for quick and easy seizure. And so the first question that the priest asked -- the first question that the Levite asked was, "If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?" But then the Good Samaritan came by. And he reversed the question: "If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?"
That's the question before you tonight. Not, "If I stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to my job. Not, "If I stop to help the sanitation workers what will happen to all of the hours that I usually spend in my office every day and every week as a pastor?" The question is not, "If I stop to help this man in need, what will happen to me?" The question is, "If I do not stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to them?" That's the question.

Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you.
You know, several years ago, I was in New York City autographing the first book that I had written. And while sitting there autographing books, a demented black woman came up. The only question I heard from her was, "Are you Martin Luther King?" And I was looking down writing, and I said, "Yes." And the next minute I felt something beating on my chest. Before I knew it I had been stabbed by this demented woman. I was rushed to Harlem Hospital. It was a dark Saturday afternoon. And that blade had gone through, and the X-rays revealed that the tip of the blade was on the edge of my aorta, the main artery. And once that's punctured, your drowned in your own blood -- that's the end of you.

It came out in the New York Times the next morning, that if I had merely sneezed, I would have died. Well, about four days later, they allowed me, after the operation, after my chest had been opened, and the blade had been taken out, to move around in the wheel chair in the hospital. They allowed me to read some of the mail that came in, and from all over the states and the world, kind letters came in. I read a few, but one of them I will never forget. I had received one from the President and the Vice-President. I've forgotten what those telegrams said. I'd received a visit and a letter from the Governor of New York, but I've forgotten what that letter said. But there was another letter that came from a little girl, a young girl who was a student at the White Plains High School. And I looked at that letter, and I'll never forget it. It said simply,

Dear Dr. King,
I am a ninth-grade student at the White Plains High School."

And she said,

While it should not matter, I would like to mention that I'm a white girl. I read in the paper of your misfortune, and of your suffering. And I read that if you had sneezed, you would have died. And I'm simply writing you to say that I'm so happy that you didn't sneeze.

And I want to say tonight -- I want to say tonight that I too am happy that I didn't sneeze. Because if I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1960, when students all over the South started sitting-in at lunch counters. And I knew that as they were sitting in, they were really standing up for the best in the American dream, and taking the whole nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.


If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1961, when we decided to take a ride for freedom and ended segregation in inter-state travel.


If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1962, when Negroes in Albany, Georgia, decided to straighten their backs up. And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can't ride your back unless it is bent.


If I had sneezed -- If I had sneezed I wouldn't have been here in 1963, when the black people of Birmingham, Alabama, aroused the conscience of this nation, and brought into being the Civil Rights Bill.


If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have had a chance later that year, in August, to try to tell America about a dream that I had had.


If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been down in Selma, Alabama, to see the great Movement there.


If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been in Memphis to see a community rally around those brothers and sisters who are suffering.


I'm so happy that I didn't sneeze.


And they were telling me --. Now, it doesn't matter, now. It really doesn't matter what happens now. I left Atlanta this morning, and as we got started on the plane, there were six of us. The pilot said over the public address system, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have Dr. Martin Luther King on the plane. And to be sure that all of the bags were checked, and to be sure that nothing would be wrong with on the plane, we had to check out everything carefully. And we've had the plane protected and guarded all night."

And then I got into Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop.


And I don't mind.


Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!
And so I'm happy, tonight.


I'm not worried about anything.

I'm not fearing any man!

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!!

Preeminent MLK historian Dr Clayborne Carson, the man chosen by Coretta Scott King as the founding director of the Dr Martin Luther King Centre for Education and Research, was a guest on the podcast, talking about I Have a Dream and other speeches, including this one.

Source: http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/m...

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Huey Newton, co-founder of the Black Panther Party, has right arm raised next to speaker at lectern.

Huey Newton, co-founder of the Black Panther Party, has right arm raised next to speaker at lectern.

Huey P Newton: 'The women’s liberation front and gay liberation front are our friends', Black Panther rally - 1970

February 16, 2016

15 August 1970, New York City, New York, USA

During the past few years strong movements have developed among women and among homosexuals seeking their liberation. There has been some uncertainty about how to relate to these movements.

Whatever your personal opinions and your insecurities about homosexuality and the various liberation movements among homosexuals and women (and I speak of the homosexuals and women as oppressed groups), we should try to unite with them in a revolutionary fashion.

I say ”whatever your insecurities are” because as we very well know, sometimes our first instinct is to want to hit a homosexual in the mouth, and want a woman to be quiet. We want to hit a homosexual in the mouth because we are afraid that we might be homosexual; and we want to hit the women or shut her up because we are afraid that she might castrate us, or take the nuts that we might not have to start with.

We must gain security in ourselves and therefore have respect and feelings for all oppressed people. We must not use the racist attitude that the white racists use against our people because they are Black and poor. Many times the poorest white person is the most racist because he is afraid that he might lose something, or discover something that he does not have. So you’re some kind of a threat to him. This kind of psychology is in operation when we view oppressed people and we are angry with them because of their particular kind of behavior, or their particular kind of deviation from the established norm.

Remember, we have not established a revolutionary value system; we are only in the process of establishing it. I do not remember our ever constituting any value that said that a revolutionary must say offensive things towards homosexuals, or that a revolutionary should make sure that women do not speak out about their own particular kind of oppression. As a matter of fact, it is just the opposite: we say that we recognize the women’s right to be free. We have not said much about the homosexual at all, but we must relate to the homosexual movement because it is a real thing. And I know through reading, and through my life experience and observations that homosexuals are not given freedom and liberty by anyone in the society. They might be the most oppressed people in the society.

And what made them homosexual? Perhaps it’s a phenomenon that I don’t understand entirely. Some people say that it is the decadence of capitalism. I don’t know if that is the case; I rather doubt it. But whatever the case is, we know that homosexuality is a fact that exists, and we must understand it in its purest form: that is, a person should have the freedom to use his body in whatever way he wants.

That is not endorsing things in homosexuality that we wouldn’t view as revolutionary. But there is nothing to say that a homosexual cannot also be a revolutionary. And maybe I’m now injecting some of my prejudice by saying that “even a homosexual can be a revolutionary.” Quite the contrary, maybe a homosexual could be the most revolutionary.

When we have revolutionary conferences, rallies, and demonstrations, there should be full participation of the gay liberation movement and the women’s liberation movement. Some groups might be more revolutionary than others. We should not use the actions of a few to say that they are all reactionary or counter-revolutionary, because they are not.

We should deal with the factions just as we deal with any other group or party that claims to be revolutionary. We should try to judge, somehow, whether they are operating in a sincere revolutionary fashion and from a really oppressed situation. (And we will grant that if they are women they are probably oppressed.) If they do things that are unrevolutionary or counter-revolutionary, then criticize that action.

If we feel that the group in spirit means to be revolutionary in practice, but they make mistakes in interpretation of the revolutionary philosophy, or they do not understand the dialectics of the social forces in operation, we should criticize that and not criticize them because they are women trying to be free. And the same is true for homosexuals. We should never say a whole movement is dishonest when in fact they are trying to be honest. They are just making honest mistakes. Friends are allowed to make mistakes. The enemy is not allowed to make mistakes because his whole existence is a mistake, and we suffer from it. But the women’s liberation front and gay liberation front are our friends, they are our potential allies, and we need as many allies as possible.

We should be willing to discuss the insecurities that many people have about homosexuality. When I say “insecurities,” I mean the fear that they are some kind of threat to our manhood. I can understand this fear. Because of the long conditioning process which builds insecurity in the American male, homosexuality might produce certain hang-ups in us. I have hang-ups myself about male homosexuality. But on the other hand, I have no hang-up about female homosexuality. And that is a phenomenon in itself. I think it is probably because male homosexuality is a threat to me and female homosexuality is not.

We should be careful about using those terms that might turn our friends off. The terms “faggot” and “punk” should be deleted from our vocabulary, and especially we should not attach names normally designed for homosexuals to men who are enemies of the people, such as [Richard] Nixon or [John] Mitchell. Homosexuals are not enemies of the people.

We should try to form a working coalition with the gay liberation and women’s liberation groups. We must always handle social forces in the most appropriate manner. And this is really a significant part of the population, both women, and the growing number of homosexuals that we have to deal with.

ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE!

 

 

Source: ...

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Bill Cosby: 'Are you not paying attention, people with their hat on backwards, pants down around the crack', NAACP conference - 2004

February 9, 2016

17 May 2004, Constitution Hall, Washington DC, USA

Cosby gave this controversial 'Pound Cake' speech on the 50th anniversary of Brown v Board of Education, at National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People conference. It created a storm for the fact that it criticised parenting in African-American neighbourhoods.

Ladies and gentlemen, I really have to ask you to seriously consider what you've heard, and now this is the end of the evening so to speak. I heard a prize fight manager say to his fellow who was losing badly, “David, listen to me. It's not what's he's doing to you. It's what you're not doing. (laughter).

Ladies and gentlemen, these people set, they opened the doors, they gave us the right, and today, ladies and gentlemen, in our cities and public schools we have fifty percent drop out. In our own neighborhood, we have men in prison. No longer is a person embarrassed because they're pregnant without a husband. (clapping) No longer is a boy considered an embarrassment if he tries to run away from being the father of the unmarried child (clapping)

Ladies and gentlemen, the lower economic and lower middle economic people are [not*] holding their end in this deal. In the neighborhood that most of us grew up in, parenting is not going on. (clapping) In the old days, you couldn't hooky school because every drawn shade was an eye (laughing). And before your mother got off the bus and to the house, she knew exactly where you had gone, who had gone into the house, and where you got on whatever you had one and where you got it from. Parents don't know that today.

I'm talking about these people who cry when their son is standing there in an orange suit. Where were you when he was two? (clapping) Where were you when he was twelve? (clapping) Where were you when he was eighteen, and how come you don't know he had a pistol? (clapping) And where is his father, and why don't you know where he is? And why doesn't the father show up to talk to this boy?

The church is only open on Sunday. And you can't keep asking Jesus to ask doing things for you (clapping). You can't keep asking that God will find a way. God is tired of you (clapping and laughing). God was there when they won all those cases. 50 in a row. That's where God was because these people were doing something. And God said, “I'm going to find a way.” I wasn't there when God said it... I'm making this up (laughter). But it sounds like what God would do (laughter).

We cannot blame white people. White people (clapping) .. white people don't live over there. They close up the shop early. The Korean ones still don't know us as well...they stay open 24 hours (laughter).

I'm looking and I see a man named Kenneth Clark. He and his wife Mamie...Kenneth's still alive. I have to apologize to him for these people because Kenneth said it straight. He said you have to strengthen yourselves...and we've got to have that black doll. And everybody said it. Julian Bond said it. Dick Gregory said it. All these lawyers said it. And you wouldn't know that anybody had done a damned thing.

50 percent drop out rate, I'm telling you, and people in jail, and women having children by five, six different men. Under what excuse, I want somebody to love me, and as soon as you have it, you forget to parent. Grandmother, mother, and great grandmother in the same room, raising children, and the child knows nothing about love or respect of any one of the three of them (clapping). All this child knows is “gimme, gimme, gimme.” These people want to buy the friendship of a child....and the child couldn't care less. Those of us sitting out here who have gone on to some college or whatever we've done, we still fear our parents (clapping and laughter). And these people are not parenting. They're buying things for the kid. $500 sneakers, for what? They won't buy or spend $250 on Hooked on Phonics. (clapping)

Kenneth Clark, somewhere in his home in upstate New York...just looking ahead. Thank God, he doesn't know what's going on, thank God. But these people, the ones up here in the balcony fought so hard. Looking at the incarcerated, these are not political criminals. These are people going around stealing Coca Cola. People getting shot in the back of the head over a piece of pound cake! Then we all run out and are outraged, “The cops shouldn't have shot him” What the hell was he doing with the pound cake in his hand? (laughter and clapping). I wanted a piece of pound cake just as bad as anybody else (laughter) And I looked at it and I had no money. And something called parenting said if get caught with it you're going to embarrass your mother. Not you're going to get your butt kicked. No. You're going to embarrass your mother. You're going to embarrass your family.

If you knock that girl up, you're going to have to run away because it's going to be too embarrassing for your family. In the old days, a girl getting pregnant had to go down South, and then her mother would go down to get her. But the mother had the baby. I said the mother had the baby. The girl didn't have a baby. The mother had the baby in two weeks. (laughter) We are not parenting. Ladies and gentlemen, listen to these people, they are showing you what's wrong. People putting their clothes on backwards. –isn't that a sign of something going on wrong? (laughter)

Are you not paying attention, people with their hat on backwards, pants down around the crack. Isn't that a sign of something, or are you waiting for Jesus to pull his pants up (laughter and clapping ). Isn't it a sign of something when she's got her dress all the way up to the crack...and got all kinds of needles and things going through her body. What part of Africa did this come from? (laughter). We are not Africans. Those people are not Africans, they don't know a damned thing about Africa. With names like Shaniqua, Shaligua, Mohammed and all that crap and all of them are in jail. (When we give these kinds names to our children, we give them the strength and inspiration in the meaning of those names. What's the point of giving them strong names if there is not parenting and values backing it up).

Brown Versus the Board of Education is no longer the white person's problem. We've got to take the neighborhood back (clapping). We've got to go in there. Just forget telling your child to go to the Peace Corps. It's right around the corner. (laughter) It's standing on the corner. It can't speak English. It doesn't want to speak English. I can't even talk the way these people talk. “Why you ain't where you is go, ra,” I don't know who these people are. And I blamed the kid until I heard the mother talk (laughter). Then I heard the father talk. This is all in the house. You used to talk a certain way on the corner and you got into the house and switched to English. Everybody knows it's important to speak English except these knuckleheads. You can't land a plane with “why you ain't...” You can't be a doctor with that kind of crap coming out of your mouth. There is no Bible that has that kind of language. Where did these people get the idea that they're moving ahead on this. Well, they know they're not, they're just hanging out in the same place, five or six generations sitting in the projects when you're just supposed to stay there long enough to get a job and move out.

Now look, I'm telling you. It's not what they're doing to us. It's what we're not doing. 50 percent drop out. Look, we're raising our own ingrown immigrants. These people are fighting hard to be ignorant. There's no English being spoken, and they're walking and they're angry. Oh God, they're angry and they have pistols and they shoot and they do stupid things. And after they kill somebody, they don't have a plan. Just murder somebody. Boom. Over what? A pizza? And then run to the poor cousin's house. They sit there and the cousin says “what are you doing here?” “I just killed somebody, man.” “What?” “I just killed somebody, I've got to stay here.” “No, you don't.” “Well, give me some money, I'll go...” “Where are you going?” “North Carolina.” Everybody wanted to go to North Carolina. But the police know where you're going because your cousin has a record.

Five or six different children, same woman, eight, ten different husbands or whatever, pretty soon you're going to have to have DNA cards so you can tell who you're making love to. You don't who this is. It might be your grandmother. (laughter) I'm telling you, they're young enough. Hey, you have a baby when you're twelve. Your baby turns thirteen and has a baby, how old are you? Huh? Grandmother. By the time you're twelve, you could have sex with your grandmother, you keep those numbers coming. I'm just predicting.

I'm saying Brown Vs. Board of Education. We've got to hit the streets, ladies and gentlemen. I'm winding up, now , no more applause. I'm saying, look at the Black Muslims. There are Black Muslims standing on the street corners and they say so forth and so on, and we'rere laughing at them because they have bean pies and all that, but you don't read “Black Muslim gunned down while chastising drug dealer.” You don't read that. They don't shoot down Black Muslims. You understand me. Muslims tell you to get out of the neighborhood. When you want to clear your neighborhood out, first thing you do is go get the Black Muslims, bean pies and all (laughter). And your neighborhood is then clear. The police can't do it .

I'm telling you Christians, what's wrong with you? Why can't you hit the streets? Why can't you clean it out yourselves? It's our time now, ladies and gentlemen. It is our time (clapping). And I've got good news for you. It's not about money. It's about you doing something ordinarily that we do—get in somebody else's business. It's time for you to not accept the language that these people are speaking, which will take them nowhere. What the hell good is Brown V. Board of Education if nobody wants it?

What is it with young girls getting after some girl who wants to still remain a virgin. Who are these sick black people and where did they come from and why haven't they been parented to shut up? To go up to girls and try to get a club where “you are nobody..,” this is a sickness ladies and gentlemen and we are not paying attention to these children. These are children. They don't know anything. They don't have anything. They're homeless people. All they know how to do is beg. And you give it to them, trying to win their friendship. And what are they good for? And then they stand there in an orange suit and you drop to your knees, “(crying sound) He didn't do anything, he didn't do anything.” Yes, he did do it. And you need to have an orange suit on too (laughter, clapping).

So, ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for the award (big laughter) and giving me an opportunity to speak because, I mean, this is the future, and all of these people who lined up and done..they've got to be wondering what the hell happened. Brown V. Board of Education, these people who marched and were hit in the face with rocks and punched in the face to get an education and we got these knuckleheads walking around who don't want to learn English (clapping) I know that you all know it. I just want to get you as angry that you ought to be. When you walk around the neighborhood and you see this stuff, that stuff's not funny. These people are not funny anymore. And that 's not brother. And that's not my sister. They're faking and they're dragging me way down because the state, the city and all these people have to pick up the tab on them because they don't want to accept that they have to study to get an education.

We have to begin to build in the neighborhood, have restaurants, have cleaners, have pharmacies, have real estate, have medical buildings instead of trying to rob them all. And so, ladies and gentlemen, please, Dorothy Height, where ever she's sitting, she didn't do all that stuff so that she could hear somebody say “I can't stand algebra, I can't stand...and “what you is.” It's horrible.

Basketball players, multimillionaires can't write a paragraph. Football players, multimillionaires, can't read. Yes. Multimillionaires. Well, Brown V Board of Education, where are we today? It's there. They paved the way. What did we do with it. The white man, he's laughing, got to be laughing. 50 percent drop out, rest of them in prison.

You got to tell me that if there was parenting, help me, if there was parenting, he wouldn't have picked up the Coca Cola bottle and walked out with it to get shot in the back of the head. He wouldn't have. Not if he loved his parents. And not if they were parenting! Not if the father would come home. Not if the boy hadn't dropped the sperm cell inside of the girl and the girl had said, “No, you have to come back here and be the father of this child.” Not ..“I don't have to.”

Therefore, you have the pile up of these sweet beautiful things born by nature raised by no one. Give them presents. You're raising pimps. That's what a pimp is. A pimp will act nasty to you so you have to go out and get them something. And then you bring it back and maybe he or she hugs you. And that's why pimp is so famous. They've got a drink called the “Pimp-something.” You all wonder what that's about, don't you? Well, you're probably going to let Jesus figure it out for you (laughter). Well, I've got something to tell you about Jesus. When you go to the church, look at the stained glass things of Jesus. Look at them. Is Jesus smiling? Not in one picture. So, tell your friends. Let's try to do something. Let's try to make Jesus smile. Let's start parenting. Thank you, thank you (clapping, cheers).

Source: http://www.eightcitiesmap.com/transcript_b...

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Bryan Stevenson: 'You cannot create peace, you cannot create justice, by only doing what is comfortable or convenient', Dayton Literary Peace Prize (nonfiction) - 2015

February 4, 2016

 

1 November 2015, Schuster Performing Arts Center, Dayton, Ohio, USA

Thank you. What a special night. Karima, thank for the incredibly beautiful introduction. I'm really overwhelmed to be here, to be in this space with so many extraordinary people, so many extraordinary writers.

My grandmother was the daughter of people who were enslaved. She was born in Bowling Green, Virginia, in the 1880s. Her father was born in slavery in Virginia in the 1840s, and when I was a little boy my grandmother was always in my ear about her experience of growing up enslaved. And my sister's here with me, and our grandmother had a profound impact on us. When I would see my grandmother, as a little boy, she'd come up to me and she'd give me these hugs, and she would squeeze me so tightly I could barely breathe. And then if I saw her an hour later she'd say to me, she'd say, 'Bryan, do you still feel me hugging you?', and if I said no, she'd assault me again, and I quickly learned to tell my grandmother, 'Mamma, I feel you hugging me all the time', and it was just this way that she had about her.

And when we got older, my mother would take my sister and I to Philadelphia, she fled Virginia at the turn of the century because of the lynching, and the trauma, the terror that was ravaging that part of the country, and she'd started her life in Philadelphia, raised my mom there and when I would go and visit her, when we would go and visit her as children, I would always be kind of struck by the city, 'cause we grew up in the country, and as I got older I got more courageous and I would explore different parts of the city and I'd venture farther and farther away from where she lived, and she would keep an eye on me, and every now and then she would warn me about things, and one day I'd been out with some boys I'd met on the street and we'd been kind of gone a long while and she was worried. When I got back, she told me, she said, 'Now you need to watch yourself, because people will judge you by the company you keep. I trust you, but I don't know those other boys, You just need to remember that people will judge you by the company you keep.'

And my greatest regret tonight is that my grandmother is not here, because if she was here, what I'd do is I would point to Gloria Steinem, I would point to Josh (Weil), and I would point to Jeff (Hobbs), and I would point to these amazing writers who have won this award and I would ask my grandmother, 'Mamma, do you still think it's true that people will judge me by the company I keep?'

Because if it is true, then that is prize enough in and of itself, I'm so thrilled, and to become part of this community, to become part of this family of authors and writers and thinkers and believers in the power of literature.

You know I wrote my book because I really think there are four things that we can all do, to create more peace, to create more justice.

I wrote my book because I'm persuaded that we all have to find ways to get proximate to the things that are creating tension, and conflict, and suffering, and inequality.

I believe there is power in proximity, I think when we choose to get closer to the spaces in our community where there's suffering and inequality, when we actually position ourselves in places where there's been abuse of power and we become witnesses, that's the only way we can actually create more peace.

You can't problem solve it from a distance. We get things wrong in politics because we're trying to make up solutions to far away, you hear things when you're up close, you see things when you're up close, there's power in proximity.

I'm the product of someone's choice to get proximate. My sister and I started our education in a 'coloured' school. In a community where black children were not allowed to go to the public schools. Lawyers came into our community and made them open up the public school in compliance with Brown vs. Board of Education. Because of that I got to go to high school, I got to go to college, I got to go to law school. And when I was in law school I got to meet people who were on death row, literally dying for legal assistance and that proximity not only told me that there was work that needed to be done, but it showed me that I had power. Not power rooted in intellect, not power rooted in talent or gift, but power rooted in witness. And when you get proximate, you can become a witness to the tactics, and the strategies and the power of peace. And I believe in proximity, and I think we can all get proximate, we don't have to live in another world, we don't have to be a writer, we can just be proximate in the spaces where there's trouble and discord and unhappiness and suffering.

The second thing that I'm persuaded that we have to do and it's the reason why I wrote this book, is that we have to change the narratives that sustain inequality. Mass incarceration in this country was created by bad policies. We decided to deal with drug dependency as a crime issue rather than a health issue, we let our politicians begin to promote the politics of fear and anger. They've been competing with each other over who can be the toughest on crime. We created mandatory sentences, we did a lot of just damaging things.

But the real threat is the narrative, that idea that we should stay angry, that we should stay afraid, and I will tell you whenever a country, whenever a community makes decisions rooted in fear and anger, you will abuse other people. Fear and anger are the enemies of peace, and we have to fight against fear, we have to fight against this judgement that is rooted in anger and bigotry, and that narrative has to change.

I also think we have to change the narrative in this country about race. We've all been infected by a disease, this disease rooted in a narrative of racial difference. For me, the great evil of so much of what we are dealing with is this narrative and we have to change that narrative, we have to talk about the things we haven't talked about. I love Margaret's book because I believe we have to talk about slavery in America. We never had the conversation we should have had a hundred years ago, fifty years ago, because of it we are still burdened by this legacy that slavery has created. The great evil of American slavery for me was not involuntary servitude, was not forced labour. The great evil of American slavery was the narrative of racial difference, we created. The ideology of white supremacy we created to legitimate slavery. And we never did anything about that.

If you read the 13th Amendment, there's nothing in there about the narrative of racial difference. There's nothing in there about the ideology of racial - of white supremacy. And because of it, I don't believe that slavery ended in 1865. I think it just evolved. It turned into decades of racial hierarchy, and terrorism, and it resulted in lynchings and terrorism. Older people of colour come up to me sometimes and said, 'Mr. Stevenson ...' I get angry. When I hear somebody on TV talking about how we're dealing with terrorism in the first time in our nation's history after 9/11.

We grew up with terror, we to worry about being bombed and lynched every day of our lives. The demographic of geography of this state, of this nation was shaped by terror. The African Americans in Dayton and Cincinnati, and Cleveland, and Chicago, and Detroit, in Boston and New York did not come to these communities as immigrants looking for opportunities, they came to these communities as refugees and exiles from terror, and we haven't told that story.

Even civil rights, I get worried, I hear people talking about the civil rights, and we're so celebratory. And I worry about that, because we haven't dealt with the fact that for decades in this country we humiliated people of colour, we burdened people, we battered people, we excluded people. My parents were humiliated every day of their lives. Every time they had to see that sign that said 'white' and 'colour' there was an injury. We told black people you're not good enough to vote, you're not good enough to go to the schools with us, and we haven't dealt with that.

I think we needed truth and reconciliation at the end of the civil rights movement and we didn't do it. And because of that we are now burdened with the presumption of guilt that follows too many people. it's why that young man was shot and killed in a Walmart. It's why there is such angst and insecurity and we have to change the narrative. We can't get to peace until we understand the narratives of bigotry and exclusion.

But, the third thing for me is hope. I wrote this book because I'm ultimately persuaded that we have to be more hopeful about what we can do. I believe things I haven't seen, I have to. I believe that we've got to find ways to resurrect our hope. I am persuaded that hopelessness is the enemy of peace. It is the enemy of justice. Injustice prevails where hopelessness persists, and if we don't find ways to stay hopeful – the society that is most dangerous is the society made up of people who don't think that things can get better, who don't believe that they have the power to make a difference. That is the recipe for abuse of power.

And I wrote this book because I am persuaded, if we can get people to choose to get proximate, change narratives, and do hopeful things, we can create more peace.

But the final thing, the fourth thing that I wrote this book about is because I believe that if we really want to create more peace, if we really want to create more justice, we can't just get proximate, we can't just change narratives, we can't just be hopeful, we've got to do uncomfortable things, that the fourth thing

You cannot create peace, you cannot create justice, by only doing what is comfortable or convenient. I've read, I've studied, I've looked all over the world to find instances where oppression ended, where inequality ended, and every time I've read and studied, it ended when someone chose to do something uncomfortable. Doing difficult things is hard. I know it. But, I believe it's necessary and what a great community like this can do, when it chooses to do it, is change the world. I think there's a different metric system for those of who really believe in peace, who believe in the power of literature to sustain peace, and it was taught to me by this older man, I'll end with this.

This older man, I was giving a talk in a church some years ago, and this older man came into the church and he was sitting in a wheelchair, staring at me the whole time I was talking, he had this very stern, angry look on his face. And I, and I was worried about him, because he looked at me so intensely, he had me a little unnerved. And I was trying to get through my talk, but he kept staring at me. And I got through the talk and people came up and they were very nice, they were very appropriate, but that man kept staring at me. And when everybody else left, he got a little boy to wheel him up to me in the middle of this church. And this older black man in this wheelchair came up the isle of that church with this stern, almost angry look on his face, and when he got in front of me he put his hand up and he said, 'Do you know what you're doin'?' And I just stood there. And he asked me again, he said, 'Do you know what you're doin'?' And I stepped back and I mumbled something. I don't even remember what I said, and he asked me one last time, he said, 'Do you know what you're doin?', and then he looked at me and he says, 'I'm gonna tell you what you're doin'.' And that older black man looked at me, he said, 'You're beating the drum for justice. You keep beating the drum for justice.' And I was so moved, I was also really relieved, 'cause I just didn't know.

Then he grabbed me by my jacket and he pulled me into his wheelchair, he said, 'C'me here, c'me here, c'me here, I wanna show you something.' And this older man turned his head, he said, 'You see the scar behind my right ear?', he said, 'I got that scar in Green County, Alabama in 1963 trying to register people to vote.' He turned his head, he said, 'You see this cut I have down the bottom of my neck? I got that cut in Philadelphia, Mississippi, 1964, trying to register people to vote.' He turned his head, he said, 'You see this dark spot, see that bruise? I got my bruise in Birmingham, Alabama, 1965, trying to register people to vote.' And then he looked at me, and says, 'I'm gonna tell you something, young man,', he said, 'People look at me, they think I'm some old man, sittin' in a wheelchair, covered in cuts and bruises, and scars', he says, 'but I'm gonna tell you something. These aren't my cuts, these aren't my bruises, these aren't my scars,' he said, 'These are my medals of honour'.

And I will tell you something, that I believe that when we do the things that are necessary, when we get proximate, when we change narratives, when we stay hopeful, when we do uncomfortable things, we'll get nicked a little bit, we'll get cut, but, that's how we create peace. I believe in really simple things. I believe that each person is more than the worst thing they've ever done. I think of someone who tells a lie, they're not just a liar. I think of someone who takes something, they're not just a thief. I think even if you kill somebody, you're not just a killer. And the other things you are, is what a just society must find.

I also am persuaded that the opposite of poverty is not wealth, we talk too much about money in America. I believe that in this country and in communities like this, the opposite of poverty is not wealth. I believe the opposite of poverty is justice.

And finally, I believe that when I come to Dayton, and when I come to Ohio, when I go anywhere in this country, we can't really measure how we're doing, our character, our commitment to justice, our commitment to peace, by looking at how we treat the rich, and the powerful and the privileged.

I think you have to judge a community, it's character, it's commitment to justice, by looking at how it treats the poor, the incarcerated, and the condemned. And tonight, by shining this wonderfully warm, restorative light that you have created here in Dayton with me, tonight by embracing me and the kind of work that I do, you've made me believe that the times I've been nicked, the times I've been cut, the times I've been scarred have not been times that have been wasted, but you've made me believe that through your light, and yes, maybe through your embrace and through your love, those nicks and cuts and scars can be turned into something that is truly honourable.

And for that, I cannot tell you how grateful I am, I cannot tell you how honoured I am, and I cannot tell you I appreciate this moment and this recognition. Thank you all very, very much.

 

Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_P7VF4qPU...

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Bryan Stevenson: 'We need to talk about an injustice' TED Talk - 2012

February 3, 2016

1 March 2012, TED2012, Long Beach, California, USA

Well this is a really extraordinary honor for me. I spend most of my time in jails, in prisons, on death row. I spend most of my time in very low-income communities in the projects and places where there's a great deal of hopelessness. And being here at TED and seeing the stimulation, hearing it, has been very, very energizing to me. And one of the things that's emerged in my short time here is that TED has an identity. And you can actually say things here that have impacts around the world. And sometimes when it comes through TED, it has meaning and power that it doesn't have when it doesn't.

And I mention that because I think identity is really important. And we've had some fantastic presentations. And I think what we've learned is that, if you're a teacher your words can be meaningful, but if you're a compassionate teacher, they can be especially meaningful. If you're a doctor you can do some good things, but if you're a caring doctor you can do some other things. And so I want to talk about the power of identity. And I didn't learn about this actually practicing law and doing the work that I do. I actually learned about this from my grandmother.

I grew up in a house that was the traditional African-American home that was dominated by a matriarch, and that matriarch was my grandmother. She was tough, she was strong, she was powerful. She was the end of every argument in our family. She was the beginning of a lot of arguments in our family. She was the daughter of people who were actually enslaved. Her parents were born in slavery in Virginia in the 1840's. She was born in the 1880's and the experience of slavery very much shaped the way she saw the world.

And my grandmother was tough, but she was also loving. When I would see her as a little boy, she'd come up to me and she'd give me these hugs. And she'd squeeze me so tight I could barely breathe and then she'd let me go. And an hour or two later, if I saw her, she'd come over to me and she'd say, "Bryan, do you still feel me hugging you?" And if I said, "No," she'd assault me again, and if I said, "Yes," she'd leave me alone. And she just had this quality that you always wanted to be near her. And the only challenge was that she had 10 children. My mom was the youngest of her 10 kids. And sometimes when I would go and spend time with her, it would be difficult to get her time and attention. My cousins would be running around everywhere.

And I remember, when I was about eight or nine years old, waking up one morning, going into the living room, and all of my cousins were running around. And my grandmother was sitting across the room staring at me. And at first I thought we were playing a game. And I would look at her and I'd smile, but she was very serious. And after about 15 or 20 minutes of this, she got up and she came across the room and she took me by the hand and she said, "Come on, Bryan. You and I are going to have a talk." And I remember this just like it happened yesterday. I never will forget it.

She took me out back and she said, "Bryan, I'm going to tell you something, but you don't tell anybody what I tell you." I said, "Okay, Mama." She said, "Now you make sure you don't do that." I said, "Sure." Then she sat me down and she looked at me and she said, "I want you to know I've been watching you." And she said, "I think you're special." She said, "I think you can do anything you want to do." I will never forget it.

And then she said, "I just need you to promise me three things, Bryan." I said, "Okay, Mama." She said, "The first thing I want you to promise me is that you'll always love your mom." She said, "That's my baby girl, and you have to promise me now you'll always take care of her." Well I adored my mom, so I said, "Yes, Mama. I'll do that." Then she said, "The second thing I want you to promise me is that you'll always do the right thing even when the right thing is the hard thing." And I thought about it and I said, "Yes, Mama. I'll do that." Then finally she said, "The third thing I want you to promise me is that you'll never drink alcohol." (Laughter) Well I was nine years old, so I said, "Yes, Mama. I'll do that."

I grew up in the country in the rural South, and I have a brother a year older than me and a sister a year younger. When I was about 14 or 15, one day my brother came home and he had this six-pack of beer -- I don't know where he got it -- and he grabbed me and my sister and we went out in the woods. And we were kind of just out there doing the stuff we crazily did. And he had a sip of this beer and he gave some to my sister and she had some, and they offered it to me. I said, "No, no, no. That's okay. You all go ahead. I'm not going to have any beer." My brother said, "Come on. We're doing this today; you always do what we do. I had some, your sister had some. Have some beer." I said, "No, I don't feel right about that. Y'all go ahead. Y'all go ahead." And then my brother started staring at me. He said, "What's wrong with you? Have some beer." Then he looked at me real hard and he said, "Oh, I hope you're not still hung up on that conversation Mama had with you." (Laughter) I said, "Well, what are you talking about?" He said, "Oh, Mama tells all the grandkids that they're special." (Laughter) I was devastated.

(Laughter)

And I'm going to admit something to you. I'm going to tell you something I probably shouldn't. I know this might be broadcast broadly. But I'm 52 years old, and I'm going to admit to you that I've never had a drop of alcohol. (Applause) I don't say that because I think that's virtuous; I say that because there is power in identity. When we create the right kind of identity, we can say things to the world around us that they don't actually believe makes sense. We can get them to do things that they don't think they can do. When I thought about my grandmother, of course she would think all her grandkids were special. My grandfather was in prison during prohibition. My male uncles died of alcohol-related diseases. And these were the things she thought we needed to commit to.

Well I've been trying to say something about our criminal justice system. This country is very different today than it was 40 years ago. In 1972, there were 300,000 people in jails and prisons. Today, there are 2.3 million. The United States now has the highest rate of incarceration in the world. We have seven million people on probation and parole. And mass incarceration, in my judgment, has fundamentally changed our world. In poor communities, in communities of color there is this despair, there is this hopelessness, that is being shaped by these outcomes. One out of three black men between the ages of 18 and 30 is in jail, in prison, on probation or parole. In urban communities across this country -- Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington -- 50 to 60 percent of all young men of color are in jail or prison or on probation or parole.

Our system isn't just being shaped in these ways that seem to be distorting around race, they're also distorted by poverty. We have a system of justice in this country that treats you much better if you're rich and guilty than if you're poor and innocent. Wealth, not culpability, shapes outcomes. And yet, we seem to be very comfortable. The politics of fear and anger have made us believe that these are problems that are not our problems. We've been disconnected.

It's interesting to me. We're looking at some very interesting developments in our work. My state of Alabama, like a number of states, actually permanently disenfranchises you if you have a criminal conviction. Right now in Alabama 34 percent of the black male population has permanently lost the right to vote. We're actually projecting in another 10 years the level of disenfranchisement will be as high as it's been since prior to the passage of the Voting Rights Act. And there is this stunning silence.

I represent children. A lot of my clients are very young. The United States is the only country in the world where we sentence 13-year-old children to die in prison. We have life imprisonment without parole for kids in this country. And we're actually doing some litigation. The only country in the world.

I represent people on death row. It's interesting, this question of the death penalty. In many ways, we've been taught to think that the real question is, do people deserve to die for the crimes they've committed? And that's a very sensible question. But there's another way of thinking about where we are in our identity. The other way of thinking about it is not, do people deserve to die for the crimes they commit, but do we deserve to kill? I mean, it's fascinating.

Death penalty in America is defined by error. For every nine people who have been executed, we've actually identified one innocent person who's been exonerated and released from death row. A kind of astonishing error rate -- one out of nine people innocent. I mean, it's fascinating. In aviation, we would never let people fly on airplanes if for every nine planes that took off one would crash. But somehow we can insulate ourselves from this problem. It's not our problem. It's not our burden. It's not our struggle.

I talk a lot about these issues. I talk about race and this question of whether we deserve to kill. And it's interesting, when I teach my students about African-American history, I tell them about slavery. I tell them about terrorism, the era that began at the end of reconstruction that went on to World War II. We don't really know very much about it. But for African-Americans in this country, that was an era defined by terror. In many communities, people had to worry about being lynched. They had to worry about being bombed. It was the threat of terror that shaped their lives. And these older people come up to me now and they say, "Mr. Stevenson, you give talks, you make speeches, you tell people to stop saying we're dealing with terrorism for the first time in our nation's history after 9/11." They tell me to say, "No, tell them that we grew up with that." And that era of terrorism, of course, was followed by segregation and decades of racial subordination and apartheid.

And yet, we have in this country this dynamic where we really don't like to talk about our problems. We don't like to talk about our history. And because of that, we really haven't understood what it's meant to do the things we've done historically. We're constantly running into each other. We're constantly creating tensions and conflicts. We have a hard time talking about race, and I believe it's because we are unwilling to commit ourselves to a process of truth and reconciliation. In South Africa, people understood that we couldn't overcome apartheid without a commitment to truth and reconciliation. In Rwanda, even after the genocide, there was this commitment, but in this country we haven't done that.

I was giving some lectures in Germany about the death penalty. It was fascinating because one of the scholars stood up after the presentation and said, "Well you know it's deeply troubling to hear what you're talking about." He said, "We don't have the death penalty in Germany. And of course, we can never have the death penalty in Germany." And the room got very quiet, and this woman said, "There's no way, with our history, we could ever engage in the systematic killing of human beings. It would be unconscionable for us to, in an intentional and deliberate way, set about executing people." And I thought about that. What would it feel like to be living in a world where the nation state of Germany was executing people, especially if they were disproportionately Jewish? I couldn't bear it. It would be unconscionable.

And yet, in this country, in the states of the Old South, we execute people -- where you're 11 times more likely to get the death penalty if the victim is white than if the victim is black, 22 times more likely to get it if the defendant is black and the victim is white -- in the very states where there are buried in the ground the bodies of people who were lynched. And yet, there is this disconnect.

Well I believe that our identity is at risk. That when we actually don't care about these difficult things, the positive and wonderful things are nonetheless implicated. We love innovation. We love technology. We love creativity. We love entertainment. But ultimately, those realities are shadowed by suffering, abuse, degradation, marginalization. And for me, it becomes necessary to integrate the two. Because ultimately we are talking about a need to be more hopeful, more committed, more dedicated to the basic challenges of living in a complex world. And for me that means spending time thinking and talking about the poor, the disadvantaged, those who will never get to TED. But thinking about them in a way that is integrated in our own lives.

You know ultimately, we all have to believe things we haven't seen. We do. As rational as we are, as committed to intellect as we are. Innovation, creativity, development comes not from the ideas in our mind alone. They come from the ideas in our mind that are also fueled by some conviction in our heart. And it's that mind-heart connection that I believe compels us to not just be attentive to all the bright and dazzly things, but also the dark and difficult things. Vaclav Havel, the great Czech leader, talked about this. He said, "When we were in Eastern Europe and dealing with oppression, we wanted all kinds of things, but mostly what we needed was hope, an orientation of the spirit, a willingness to sometimes be in hopeless places and be a witness."

Well that orientation of the spirit is very much at the core of what I believe even TED communities have to be engaged in. There is no disconnect around technology and design that will allow us to be fully human until we pay attention to suffering, to poverty, to exclusion, to unfairness, to injustice. Now I will warn you that this kind of identity is a much more challenging identity than ones that don't pay attention to this. It will get to you.

I had the great privilege, when I was a young lawyer, of meeting Rosa Parks. And Ms. Parks used to come back to Montgomery every now and then, and she would get together with two of her dearest friends, these older women, Johnnie Carr who was the organizer of the Montgomery bus boycott -- amazing African-American woman -- and Virginia Durr, a white woman, whose husband, Clifford Durr, represented Dr. King. And these women would get together and just talk.

And every now and then Ms. Carr would call me, and she'd say, "Bryan, Ms. Parks is coming to town. We're going to get together and talk. Do you want to come over and listen?" And I'd say, "Yes, Ma'am, I do." And she'd say, "Well what are you going to do when you get here?" I said, "I'm going to listen." And I'd go over there and I would, I would just listen. It would be so energizing and so empowering.

And one time I was over there listening to these women talk, and after a couple of hours Ms. Parks turned to me and she said, "Now Bryan, tell me what the Equal Justice Initiative is. Tell me what you're trying to do." And I began giving her my rap. I said, "Well we're trying to challenge injustice. We're trying to help people who have been wrongly convicted. We're trying to confront bias and discrimination in the administration of criminal justice. We're trying to end life without parole sentences for children. We're trying to do something about the death penalty. We're trying to reduce the prison population. We're trying to end mass incarceration."

I gave her my whole rap, and when I finished she looked at me and she said, "Mmm mmm mmm." She said, "That's going to make you tired, tired, tired." (Laughter) And that's when Ms. Carr leaned forward, she put her finger in my face, she said, "That's why you've got to be brave, brave, brave."

And I actually believe that the TED community needs to be more courageous. We need to find ways to embrace these challenges, these problems, the suffering. Because ultimately, our humanity depends on everyone's humanity. I've learned very simple things doing the work that I do. It's just taught me very simple things. I've come to understand and to believe that each of us is more than the worst thing we've ever done. I believe that for every person on the planet. I think if somebody tells a lie, they're not just a liar. I think if somebody takes something that doesn't belong to them, they're not just a thief. I think even if you kill someone, you're not just a killer. And because of that there's this basic human dignity that must be respected by law. I also believe that in many parts of this country, and certainly in many parts of this globe, that the opposite of poverty is not wealth. I don't believe that. I actually think, in too many places, the opposite of poverty is justice.

And finally, I believe that, despite the fact that it is so dramatic and so beautiful and so inspiring and so stimulating, we will ultimately not be judged by our technology, we won't be judged by our design, we won't be judged by our intellect and reason. Ultimately, you judge the character of a society, not by how they treat their rich and the powerful and the privileged, but by how they treat the poor, the condemned, the incarcerated. Because it's in that nexus that we actually begin to understand truly profound things about who we are.

I sometimes get out of balance. I'll end with this story. I sometimes push too hard. I do get tired, as we all do. Sometimes those ideas get ahead of our thinking in ways that are important. And I've been representing these kids who have been sentenced to do these very harsh sentences. And I go to the jail and I see my client who's 13 and 14, and he's been certified to stand trial as an adult. I start thinking, well, how did that happen? How can a judge turn you into something that you're not? And the judge has certified him as an adult, but I see this kid.

And I was up too late one night and I starting thinking, well gosh, if the judge can turn you into something that you're not, the judge must have magic power. Yeah, Bryan, the judge has some magic power. You should ask for some of that. And because I was up too late, wasn't thinking real straight, I started working on a motion. And I had a client who was 14 years old, a young, poor black kid. And I started working on this motion, and the head of the motion was: "Motion to try my poor, 14-year-old black male client like a privileged, white 75-year-old corporate executive."

(Applause)

And I put in my motion that there was prosecutorial misconduct and police misconduct and judicial misconduct. There was a crazy line in there about how there's no conduct in this county, it's all misconduct. And the next morning, I woke up and I thought, now did I dream that crazy motion, or did I actually write it? And to my horror, not only had I written it, but I had sent it to court.

(Applause)

A couple months went by, and I had just forgotten all about it. And I finally decided, oh gosh, I've got to go to the court and do this crazy case. And I got into my car and I was feeling really overwhelmed -- overwhelmed. And I got in my car and I went to this courthouse. And I was thinking, this is going to be so difficult, so painful. And I finally got out of the car and I started walking up to the courthouse.

And as I was walking up the steps of this courthouse, there was an older black man who was the janitor in this courthouse. When this man saw me, he came over to me and he said, "Who are you?" I said, "I'm a lawyer." He said, "You're a lawyer?" I said, "Yes, sir." And this man came over to me and he hugged me. And he whispered in my ear. He said, "I'm so proud of you." And I have to tell you, it was energizing. It connected deeply with something in me about identity, about the capacity of every person to contribute to a community, to a perspective that is hopeful.

Well I went into the courtroom. And as soon as I walked inside, the judge saw me coming in. He said, "Mr. Stevenson, did you write this crazy motion?" I said, "Yes, sir. I did." And we started arguing. And people started coming in because they were just outraged. I had written these crazy things. And police officers were coming in and assistant prosecutors and clerk workers. And before I knew it, the courtroom was filled with people angry that we were talking about race, that we were talking about poverty, that we were talking about inequality.

And out of the corner of my eye, I could see this janitor pacing back and forth. And he kept looking through the window, and he could hear all of this holler. He kept pacing back and forth. And finally, this older black man with this very worried look on his face came into the courtroom and sat down behind me, almost at counsel table. About 10 minutes later the judge said we would take a break. And during the break there was a deputy sheriff who was offended that the janitor had come into court. And this deputy jumped up and he ran over to this older black man. He said, "Jimmy, what are you doing in this courtroom?" And this older black man stood up and he looked at that deputy and he looked at me and he said, "I came into this courtroom to tell this young man, keep your eyes on the prize, hold on."

I've come to TED because I believe that many of you understand that the moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice. That we cannot be full evolved human beings until we care about human rights and basic dignity. That all of our survival is tied to the survival of everyone. That our visions of technology and design and entertainment and creativity have to be married with visions of humanity, compassion and justice. And more than anything, for those of you who share that, I've simply come to tell you to keep your eyes on the prize, hold on.

Thank you very much.

 

C

Source: https://www.ted.com/talks/bryan_stevenson_...

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Bryan Stevenson (right) holding his Carnegie Medal for non fiction

Bryan Stevenson (right) holding his Carnegie Medal for non fiction

Bryan Stevenson: "We don't want anybody talking about race", Carnegie Medal acceptance - 2015

February 3, 2016

27 June 2015, American Library Association conference, San Francisco, USA

Thank you. I'm pretty overwhelmed by this...I really want to thank all of you for creating a space where something like this could happen to somebody like me. I'm really, really grateful to the selection committee, to all of you.

I had a very close relationship with my grandmother. My grandmother was the daughter of people who were enslaved. Her parents were born into slavery in Virginia in the 1840s. She was born in the 1880s, and the only thing that my grandmother insisted that I know about her enslaved father is that he learned to read before emancipation, and that reading is a pathway to survival and success. So I learned to read. I put books and words in my head and in my heart, so that I could get to the places that she needed me to go.

I'm thinking about my grandmother tonight, because she had these qualities about her. She was like lots of African American matriarchs. She was the real force in our family. She was the end of every argument. She was also the beginning of a lot of arguments! She was tough, and she was strong but she was also kind and loving. When I was a little boy, she'd give me these hugs, she'd squeeze me so tightly I could barely breathe. And then she'd see me an hour later and she'd say, "Bryan, do you still feel me hugging you?" And if I said no, she would assault me again!

She left Virginia at the turn of the century, like millions of African Americans who were fleeing terrorism and lynching and racial violence, and she moved to Philadelphia. Because I still lived in the country and grew up in the country, she worried about me when I would come and spend time with her, because there were so many people she didn't know. I would go outside and make new friends, and every now and then she'd be really critical about some of the people I was hanging out with. She'd say, "Now Bryan, be careful about the people you hang out with. Be careful of who you spend time with because people will judge you by the company you keep."

Being here, among these amazing writers, extraordinary writers, being here with my childhood idol, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, being here in a room full of librarians who do such great work, I hope my grandmother is watching. I can say to her, "Mama, please, I hope they judge me by the company that I keep."

I think there's a phenomenon that's really changed this country, such that I couldn't help but be compelled to write about it. It's been my life's work. The United States is a very different country today than it was 40 years ago. In 1972, we had 300,000 people in jails and prisons. Today we have 2.3 million. The U.S. now has the highest rate of incarceration in the world. There are six million people on probation and parole. There are 70 million people with criminal arrest records, which means when they apply for a job or try to get a loan, they're going to be disfavored.

The percentage of women going to prison has increased 640% in the last 20 years. 70% of these women are single parents with minor children. When they go to jails and prisons, their kids are scattered. And you are much more likely to go to prison if you're a child of an incarcerated parent.

And we've done some horrific things in poor and minority communities through a misguided war on drugs and our criminal justice policies. Today, the Bureau of Justice reports that 1 in 3 black male babies born in this country is expected to go to jail or prison. That was not true when we were born in the 20th Century. It was not true in the 19th century. It became true in the 21st Century. Children have been condemned to die in prison. There are15 states with no minimum age for trying children as adults. We’ve created a world where there is despair, where people are living on the margins of our society.

I wrote this book because I was persuaded that if people saw what I see, they would insist on something different. And that's what's powerful about books. That's what great about the library. Getting people closer to worlds and situations that they can't otherwise know and understand. I think there's real power in that. And that's what books can do.

I'm a product of the Civil Rights Movement. I grew up in a community where black children couldn't go to the public school system. I started my education in a colored school. And then lawyers came into our community and made them open up the public schools and because of that, I got to go to high school and I got to go to college. There were no high schools for black kids in my county when my dad was a teenager. So proximity means something to me. I want to get people closer to this world, where there is a lot of suffering. Where there's a lot of despair.

The other thing that books do is that they change the narrative. And for me that's what's great about writing, that I have an opportunity to change some of these narratives. I want to change the narrative in this country about mass incarceration as excessive punishment. I'm persuaded that a just society, a healthy society, a good society, can't be judged by how it treats the rich and the powerful and the privileged. I think we have to judge ourselves by how we treat the poor, the incarcerated. And I think literature has the ability to accomplish that narrative shift.

Our system has been corrupted by the politics of fear and anger. We've had politicians competing with each other over who can be toughest on the crime for 40 years and the consequences of that have been absolutely devastating.

I go into communities and talk with 13 and 14 year old kids who tell me that they don't believe that they're going to be free or alive by the time they're 29. And that's not because of something they've seen on TV, but because of what they see that happening every day in their lives and their families and their communities. That despair has to be changed.

We need to change the narrative in this country about race, and poverty. We're a country that has a difficult time dealing with our shame, our mistakes. We don't do shame very well in America, and because of that we allow a lot of horrific things to go unaddressed.

I don't think we actually understand what the legacy of slavery did to this country. The great evil of American slavery for me was not involuntary servitude. It was not forced labor. The great evil of American slavery was the narrative of racial difference we created to justify that institution—the ideology of white supremacy.

We made up these things about people of color, and we use them to legitimate an institution. The Emancipation Proclamation and the 13th Amendment did not deal with that narrative. And that's why slavery didn't end in 1865. It just evolved. It turned into decades where we had terrorism, and lynching, and that lynching and terrorism has had a huge impact on this country.

The demographic geography of America was shaped by lynching and terror. You've got African Americans in the Bay Area of Oakland and Los Angeles, and Cleveland, and Chicago, Detroit, Boston, New York, and they did not come to these communities as immigrants looking for new opportunities. They came to these communities as refugees and exiles from terror. If you know anything about the needs of refugees, you know there are issues you have to address if you're going to create opportunity, and hopefulness. And we're not doing that . Because the narrative hasn't evolved.

Even when we talk about Civil Rights—I'll be honest—I'm critical of the way we're dealing with it. We're celebrating the 50th Anniversary of the Civil Rights Movement. And we're too celebratory. I think we're too superficial. I hear people talking about the Civil Rights Movement, and it sounds like a three-day carnival. On Day one, Rosa Parks didn't give up her seat on the bus. On Day two, Dr. King led the march on Washington. And on Day three, we just changed all these laws.

If that were true, it would be a great story. But it's not true. The truth is, for decades we have humiliated people of color in this country. For decades we excluded people from voting. We denied people the opportunity to get an education. We belittled them. We burdened them. My parents were humiliated every single day of their lives. Every time they saw "colored" signs. And we have to talk about that. I don't think we'll get where we're trying to go until we change that narrative.

Truth, and reconciliation. If you go to South Africa, you can't go very far without hearing somebody talk about the process of truth and reconciliation. Go to Rwanda, and they will tell you that genocide will not be overcome without truth and reconciliation. Go to Germany, and in Berlin, you can't go 100 meters without seeing the stones that mark the places where Jewish families were abducted and taken to the concentration camps. They want you to reflect solely on the history of the Holocaust.

In this country, we want the opposite. We don't want anybody talking about race. We don't want anybody talking about inequality. We don't want anybody talking about poverty. And that legacy has created a world of mass incarceration and excessive punishment.

Another thing for me, is that the books I've written have made me be hopeful. They've made me believe things that I could not otherwise see. And that's the great gift that I think all of you give people by opening up libraries and spaces where children can dream. I'm absolutely persuaded that you have to believe in things that you can't see. I never met a lawyer until I got to law school. I never imagined I would be an author. But it's happened because there is something fundamentally compelling about believing in things that we know to be decent and true.

I believe in really simple things. I believe that each person is more than the worst thing that they've ever done. I think that for you. I think that for my clients. I think that for everybody. Even the people jailed and in prison. I think if you tell a lie, you're not just a liar. I think if you take something that doesn't belong to you, you're not just a thief. I think even if you kill somebody, you're not just a killer. And the other things you are have to be recognized, and addressed, and discussed.

I also don't believe that the opposite of poverty is wealth. I think we talk too much about money in America. I believe that the opposite of poverty is justice. And until we learn more about what justice requires, we won't actually do the things we need to do.

I'm excited and really gratified to accept this award. I'm humbled to be in this space. I'm actually encouraged that there's a metric system out there for people like me where somebody like me, who does what I do, can be encouraged and affirmed. It's been incredibly moving. I can't tell you what you've done for me tonight.

I'll end with this story. I actually have been thinking a lot about the metric systems we use to reward the things that we care most about. I was nurtured by a community of people who were activists, and who believed in things, even though they didn't have very much. And they taught me that if I stay true to that metric system, good things will happen. At times, I have doubted that. But tonight I feel it.

Someone who taught me this lesson more than anybody else was an older man at a church where I was giving this talk. He was in a wheelchair. And he came to the back of the church, and he was just staring at me while I spoke. I didn't know him. But he was staring at me with this very harsh look on his face. He just kept glaring at me. I couldn't figure out why he was looking at me so sternly.

I got through the talk and when I was finished, people were very nice, very polite. But that man kept staring at me. Finally, after everybody left, he got a little kid to wheel him up to me. And this older man, in his wheelchair, got right in my face and put his hand up and he said, "Do you know what you're doing?"

I didn't know how to respond. He asked me again. "Do you know what you're doing?" I stepped back and started mumbling something. One last time, he said: "Do you know what you're doing?" I just stood there. And then he said, "I'm going to tell you what you're doing. You're beating the drum for justice."

I was so moved. I was also really relieved!

And then he said: "You keep beating the drum for justice." And he grabbed me by the jacket and pulled me into his wheelchair. “I want to show you something," he said.

He turned his head. “You see this scar behind my right ear? I got that scar in Green County, Alabama, in 1963, trying to register people to vote."

He turned his head again. “You see this cut down here at the bottom of my neck? I got that in Philadelphia, Mississippi, 1964, trying to register people to vote."

He turned his head one more time. "You see this dark spot? That's my bruise. I got my bruise in Birmingham, Alabama, 1965, trying to register people to vote."

Then he looked at me and said, "Let me tell you something, young man. People look at me, they think I'm some old man sitting in a wheelchair covered with cuts and bruises and scars. I'm going to tell you something. These aren't my cuts. These aren't my bruises. These aren't my scars. These are my Medals of Honor."

I never, ever, ever imagined that going to Death Row, spending time with the condemned, representing children who had been crushed and broken by suffering and trauma, going into poor communities, day in, day out, that the cuts and scars and bruises that I was getting would turn into a medal of honor. But tonight you've made that real. And I'm very grateful. Thank you

Buy Bryan Stevenson's amazing book here.

JUST MERCY.JPG


Source: http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topi...

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Lowitja O'Donoghue: 'Since the 1967 referendum, Australia has been living a lie', opening National Congress of Australia's First People - 2011

January 27, 2016

8 June 2011, Homebush, New South Wales, Australia

Brothers and sisters, let me begin with acknowledgement, thanks, commendation and congratulations. This gathering is, indeed, cause for celebration.

Firstly, I wish to acknowledge this place as Aboriginal land – always was, always
will be.

I thank Norma Ingram, Chicka Madden and the performers for their welcome. Such protocols are important to me – indeed, I’m sure, to all of us here today. They're about basic respect for people and place. They fit together. They are a part of what the Pitjantjatjara people – my mob – call ngapartji ngapartji. In other words ‘you give, I give…we share’.

I also thank the National Congress Co-Chairs Sam Jeffries and Josephine Bourne for their invitation to speak to you here today. I am honoured to be giving this opening address. I know you will also hear from many other speakers over the course of this gathering and I’m delighted to be in their company.

I take this opportunity to commend all of those whose efforts have brought us to this place today – the selfless women and men who spoke up for a national voice for our people, who shaped this National Congress, and have held it in their capable hands until now: the Steering Committee, the Ethics Council and the inaugural National Executive, including Co-Chairs Sam, Josephine and, earlier, Kerry Arabena.


Lastly, I congratulate all of you selected as delegates for this first national gathering, charged with taking the National Congress forward. This has not been by chance. It has been through a rigorous process that required you to ‘buy in’ and ‘step up’. A process that found you ready, willing and able to meet the challenges ahead.


As I look around the room, I see many familiar faces and friends. While I know that this speech may be reported in the media, I want you to know that it is not to them but to you – my people – that I speak today. You, whose individual and collective greatness is entirely capable of moving me to tears.


In a year or two, I will turn 80 years of age – a milestone that, shamefully, too few of our people reach. In terms of our average life span, this old girl’s odometer clicked over for a second run more than a decade ago.


During my lifetime, I have been bestowed with numerous honours and received many accolades. I have a string of letters after my name that, while I never se tout to acquire them, give me a certain amount of satisfaction – especially when I remember a particular matron back at Colebrook Children’s Home who never missed an opportunity to tell me that I would ‘never amount to anything’.

Little would make me more proud, however, than to see the National Congress succeed and for one of its first achievements to be helping to achieve true and lasting recognition of and protection for our people.

But more on that later. For now, let me focus on the National Congress and what it means to me. Far more than a shiny piece of plastic nestling in my purse – yes, I am a proud member, number 1865 – it means that our people have new reason to hope. Much of my message to you here today revolves around something that I fear has become unfashionable, perhaps even a dirty word, to some in our community. In our desire to have our diversity understood and accepted, some of us have forgotten that unity matters.


About 15 years ago, while still the Chairperson of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC), I was interviewed at length for the Australian Biography projecti. I had been talking about even earlier times, the heady days of the Federal Council for the Advancement of Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders (FCAATSI) in the lead-up to the 1967 Referendum.

I spoke of the way we came together for a common purpose of improving the conditions for our people everywhere. I recalled that, back then, there was little federal funding for Aboriginal affairs so we financed this fight ourselves, also drawing upon the goodwill and donations of good-hearted non-Aboriginal people. To get to our meetings, we hitchhiked and pooled our money with a tarpaulin or blanket muster. We stayed in caravan parks or, if somebody was fortunate enough to have enough money to pay for a hotel room, we all camped in there together. In Canberra, that was often at Brassey House, now known as the
Brassey Hotel, where the staff kindly turned a blind eye to the fact that the numbers in the breakfast room of a morning often far outnumbered the number of guests they had registered!

These were interesting and exciting times – hard too – but times of real unity and solidarity amongst our people. The Australian Biography interviewer remarked that I seemed wistful, nostalgic. It was an insightful observation. To this day, I don’t believe we’ve ever recaptured that unity. Just what accounts for that leaching of something so fundamental and good, I can’t say. But I’ll be frank with you: I am placing considerable hope in this National Congress to help recapture it. Not for the sake of a placard or slogan but because, through unity, we will achieve much greater outcomes.


So many good things are happening in our communities. We are kicking goals, opening doors and breaking through the glass and brown ceilings. And, yet, the times when we wholeheartedly and unanimously celebrate these achievements are relatively few.

Sometimes, unfathomably, we gloss over the good. Or we snipe or think to ourselves ‘who do they think they are?’ Sometimes we let personal insecurities cloud our judgement. When honourable, hard-working people amongst us make mistakes, we’re quick to crucify them and slow to forget. Perhaps we do this unconsciously but the effect is just the same. It undermines
and disheartens worthy individuals and destabilises our organisations and communities. It dishonours the work of our heroes, past and present. They didn’t build what they did for us to tear it down. We’re better than that. Let it stop now, let us consciously decide that we will celebrate, nurture and support each other instead.


In some ways, this is a cautionary tale directed at each of you. Already, the National Congress has its detractors. Even before it was out of the showroom and on the road, there were those who made it clear that they’d like to see it in the scrap yard.


I am not talking about those who have legitimate, thoughtful suggestions on ways the National Congress model could be improved. I have no doubt at all that it can, should and will be improved in all kinds of ways over time; we should expect the third or even second National Congress to be considerably different to this one.


I am talking about a tide of naysayers who are standing by, waiting and even hoping for this organisation to fail. Their reasons are varied; some quite benign, others more disturbing. Old-fashioned racism may factor, and arrogance too. Some may view the National Congress as a threat to old status quos or new ones that have emerged since ATSIC disappeared. Sadly, others may be so beaten down by life’s challenges or past disappointments that their ability to
comprehend real potential and promise has atrophied.


To all of these people, I say simply: Think again. In my opinion, the reasons why the National Congress could fail are far outweighed by the reasons why it should succeed. There are many such reasons here at this gathering. Some elements of the media have led a brazen and destructive charge against the National Congress. How ironic that some of those for whom this organisation has the least application might feel so threatened by it.


I appeal to such detractors to give the National Congress a fair go. In fact, I challenge them: Would you have the courage to submit to the same rigorous process as those involved in the National Congress? How would you fare? And do you, too, have what it takes to be a builder, not a wrecker? To sacrifice a front-page story or political point for thoughtful analysis, debate and collaboration.


The National Congress, as it stands today, is the result of extensive nationwide consultations. A maker inevitably leaves his or her mark on their creation. Our people have spoken and our fingerprints are all over the National Congress. Wecan expect to be judged on our part in its creation and its success or otherwise.


As a result, this is an organisation that:
* Is a company, limited by guarantee, at arms length from government.
* Has built-in gender equity at all levels of representation.
* Sets new levels of excellence and expectation (unrivalled in Australian society, whether in government or the public, private or community sectors); and
* Has a structure interwoven with the golden threads of our communities; talented individuals and representative organisations across all spheres.


Some people regard me as a radical, others see me as quite conservative. I would say I’m both, as well as a pretty open book. My mixed feelings about the demise of ATSIC – for example, my belief that it was an organisation set up to fail, as well as my disappointment in some people and events of the past – are on the public record and I see no need to re-hash them here. Suffice to say that over the past six years, I have despaired over the absence of a national
Indigenous voice, a vehicle for our self-determination.

I will concede that, as the National Congress was being fashioned, I wondered at times whether our community had the goods when it came to electing the best people. Then, when the notion of an Ethics Council emerged, I questioned what right anyone had to judge any of us by standards not applicable anywhere else. I asked myself if the imposition of gender balance was really necessary. And when the proposed multi-tiered structure was revealed, I found it complicated.


Having now had time to metabolise all of these things, I have arrived at a point where I am comfortable with the National Congress as a working model. I venture that it is, as my friend Paul Keating last week described the national Native Title Act 1993, ‘necessarily complex’ but nonetheless inspired.

I am excited, for example, to see what emerges from the blending of individuals - many of you leaders in your fields – with representatives of sectoral, state and territory and national organisations constituted in various ways. And I have no doubt that gender balance would not have been achieved organically any time soon. Let it be declared, here and now, that the old ‘Boy’s Club’ is officially dead – in this forum at least. I thank my brothers for supporting our sisters in this. I think we can be proud that, together, we’ve done something that no-one else has had the guts to do.


I would like now to make a few humble suggestions and issue a few challenges to you as delegates. Some are borne from my own experience; others are just common sense. I say that you should expect the going to be tough and, regrettably, for things to get personal from time to time.

The path you have chosen is not for the fainthearted. Some of your biggest critics will be your own people, so steel yourselves.

A people’s movement will necessarily take time to build. I hope you will encourage membership of the National Congress – both within your own families and communities but also far beyond them.

Of course, an organisation with 100,000 inactive members may as well have none. It is not enough to say blithely, ‘I’m a member of the National Congress’ and do no more. That is having one foot inside the camp and the other foot out, ready to cut and run when the going gets tough. Every one of our people needs to decide: Are you out or are you in? And if you’re out, run your own race and let the rest of us run ours.

I am not the first person, nor will I be the last, to observe that the National Congress will only ever be as good, energetic, dynamic, staunch and fearless as all of its people – elected representatives, delegates such as yourselves, members and staff. And none of us should wait for the administration to do all of the heavy lifting.

Others have their roles to play too, including governments, opposition parties and
public servants.

The Federal Government has said that it will work with the National Congress, including on measures to close the gap in Indigenous life outcomes and opportunities. The National Congress must also work with governments of all persuasions on this, and everything else on our agenda. Common features of all of ATSIC’s successful negotiations with Government –
yes, there were some – were the ability to sensibly argue our position, hold our ground and maintain a good measure of diplomacy (even when it was hard to do). These will also hold the National Congress in good stead, especially when governments – themselves facing challenges – begin looking for easy ways out.

Don’t give them those outs. Send a message that the National Congress is here to stay.
One of the criticisms I have made of ATSIC is that, on a few occasions, it got too close to Government – for example, where Australia was represented as a country at international forums. We dealt with this at the Working Group on Indigenous Populations (WGIP) in Geneva by asking for and securing separate seats for ATSIC representatives, apart from Government and public servants.

Yesterday, I got the feeling that some people were a little afraid to mention ATSIC. I’m not one of them, because I know that lessons unlearned are opportunities lost. The National Congress can learn much from the experiences of ATSIC and others. In the international context, for example, it must always remember that it exists to advocate for our people, not for Australia per se. While taking a strategic and constructive approach, the National Congress must not be afraid to flex its muscles of independence where required.


For all of the talking that will take place here this week, I also hope there’ll be a great deal of listening. You have much to learn from each other. It is important that you come with ideas but none set in concrete, and without personal hobbyhorses that will achieve little for the greater good. After sharing and listening, you will be in a position to decide what issues are truly critical and should be addressed first.


Which brings me to my own personal number one priority – one in which I sincerely hope the National Congress will play a major role. It is something that can underpin the full plethora of other issues that the National Congress will be concerned with. I am talking about advancing constitutional reform, specifically recognising Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in the Australian Constitution.

The Expert Panel on Constitutional Recognition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples will advise the Federal Government on this before the end of the year, with a view to a referendum on the subject being held before the next federal election.


Since the 1967 Referendum, Australia has been living a lie. It has patted itself on the back as a fair country, one that treats its citizens equally and, especially, protects the vulnerable.
Don’t get me wrong. I am proud to have helped to secure the ‘Yes’ vote that recognised us as citizens and more than mere flora and fauna. It was important. But it also pains me to know that the Constitution still contains a potential discriminatory power, which can be used by the Commonwealth against our people or, indeed, any other race. And that it still lacks any explicit recognition of us or our place as the First Australians.


Of course, our founding document was framed in a different era. Many say we cannot judge it by today’s standards. Perhaps not but we can bring it into line with those standards. This would be good not only for our own heads and our hearts, as per advice from the Royal Australian and New Zealand College of Psychiatrists (RANZCP)iii, but also for the nation’s soul.


In order to succeed, we need political bipartisanship, which thankfully we have at present. And we need to secure the agreement of the Australian people. A national majority of voters, and a majority of voters in a majority of states – a Herculean task, and one that has seen many more referenda fail than succeed in the past.


Recent debate has swirled around how far we can push the issue of constitutional recognition, where the line is between success and failure? Does it limit matters to mere mention in a preamble that might be inserted in the Constitution? Or can we move beyond relative tokenism to something more meaningful?

I strongly hope for the latter. These will not be easy questions to answer but make no mistake – this is truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make things right for our country. This is
something around which the National Congress could play a valuable role; informing and encouraging our people to become actively involved and fully engaged. I hope that today’s various sessions on constitutional reform will help us all arrive at a better understanding of the mechanics, realities and possibilities of what lies ahead. In order to move beyond superficialities in a unified way, we first need to have an informed and robust discussion amongst ourselves.

I spoke earlier about doing justice to our heroes. I would like to leave you with words from a couple of my personal heroes, and some others who seem destined to be. They all go to some of what I have raised for the National Congress here today – pride, responsibility, strategy, the constructive role we can all play, and seizing the day.


First, two quotes from a great friend of our people, South Africa’s Archbishop Desmond Tutu. As he said: 'My father always used to say, ‘Don't raise your voice. Improve your argument’. Good sense does not always lie with the loudest shouters, nor can we say that a large, unruly crowd is always the best arbiter of what is right, and
Do your little bit of good where you are; it's those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.


And, finally, some wisdom from two sources from closer to home. Coincidentally, they’re both musical in origin but those who know me well know that I love a good singalong.


The first comes from the Colli Crew, talented youngsters from north-western New South Wales, whose rap song ‘Talk of the town’ I’m reliably informed is a hit on YouTube:

Think about the choices that you make.
Take control of your wheel, have no shame.
When you play the game, screw your head on straight.
Step up the plate, step up the plate.
Don’t wait til it’s too late.

And, one of my personal favourites – certainly more my own speed – Troy Cassar-Daley from his beautiful song ‘I love this place’


The world outside is a changing thing
One moment you’re out, next you’re in
I’ve got a good feeling that we’re going to win
If we don’t look back on the things that make us sorry
On the road ahead, I can see the sun is shining on your face
I love this place


Today, I’ve got a good feeling too. Thank you.
 

Source: http://nationalcongress.com.au/lowitja-odo...

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Tom Calma: 'Still Riding for Freedom', Charles Perkins Oration - 2008

January 27, 2016

23 October 2008, University of Sydney, Australia

Tom Calma s a Kungarakan elder and Iwaidja man from the Northern Territory who delivered this during his tenure as Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner at theAustralian Human Rights Commission

I acknowledge the traditional owners of the land where we are meeting tonight, the Gadigal peoples of the Eora nation. I pay my respects to your elders and to those who have come before us. And thank you to Chicka Madden for your generous welcome to country. Chicka and I spent a term together on the Board of Aboriginal Hostels.

Can I also acknowledge the Perkins family (Eileen, Hetti, Rachel and Adam), and thank Sydney University and the Koori Centre for the great honour and privilege of being invited to address you this evening in memory of a truly great Aboriginal leader and great Australian.

Can I also pay my respects to all of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students who will graduate tonight. I am also honoured to share this stage with you as we recognise your achievements.

There can be no more fitting legacy for Dr Perkins than to see – every year – an increasing number of our Indigenous brothers and sisters graduate from this esteemed university. We have certainly come a long way from 1965, when Charles Perkins was the lone Aboriginal student graduation ceremony. Thankfully, the graduation of Aboriginal men and women is not such a rarity these days – although I would still like to see a lot more of you!

Some reflections:

We have gathered in this Great Hall tonight to honour and remember Charles Perkins, a man who had the courage to bring Australians together in a quest for equality.

As I considered what I might say about Charlie tonight, it immediately became clear to me that no few well chosen words could sum up his life and his legacy.

Charlie was a proud Arrente man, a scholar, an avid sports fan and footballer, a bureaucrat, an agitator, and a human rights champion.

And if we look back at each of the major developments in Indigenous policy since the 1960s – Charlie was always there. Sometimes he was an outsider breaking down walls and fighting for justice for Aboriginal people. And other times he worked from within the system – but with much the same approach, and almost always with some results.

Be it the freedom ride and the fight for people’s rights to swim at the local pool or to go the movies without being cordoned off like second class citizens – right through to the 1967 Referendum, the land rights movement, the building of major institutions such as the Aboriginal Development Commission, the NAC, ATSIC and the Council for Aboriginal Reconciliation – Charlie was there, and always had plenty to say.

If there was injustice – he didn’t shy away from it, even if the issue was controversial, or difficult for the majority of Australians to face up to.

In the 2007 documentary ‘Vote Yes for Aborigines’, Warren Mundine remembered the Charles Perkins of 1967 as an immaculately groomed campaigner – polite, well spoken, dressed in a suit with a thin tie, and ‘the shiniest black shoes you’ve ever seen’.

Yet many people would also clearly remember the anger and passion that Charles brought to so much of his dealings with government throughout his life – from the early years on the freedom ride campaign, to being suspended from his role as a senior public servant for calling the actions of a state government racist, to furiously yelling at John Howard about his refusal to acknowledge the existence of, and apologise to, the Stolen Generations at the Opera House shortly before his passing in the year 2000.

There is no shortage of public achievements by which we can remember Charles Perkins.

But to relegate Charlie’s achievements to these memories would fail to capture another important part of his legacy. For Charles was also a role model to all of us, as well as a son, a husband, a father, and a grandfather.

And I think that everyone that has involvement with the Perkins family will know that they all embody Charlie’s strength of character and determination. Over the past few weeks, I’m sure that many of you will have been watching Charlie’s daughter Rachel’s excellent series “The First Australians” - and will agree that the Perkins family continues, today, to contribute powerfully to efforts to change the way that mainstream Australia thinks about the Indigenous peoples of this nation.

Charlie had a tireless dedication to human rights and social justice for Indigenous Australians. And I speak to these issues tonight in his memory.

How far have we come?

In the introduction to Charlie’s autobiography ‘A Bastard Like Me’, Ted Noffs argued that ‘it is not too much to say that Charles Perkins is to the Aboriginal population in Australia what Martin Luther King Jr was to black people in the United States’.

And like King, at all times, Perkins’ vision was one of equality of rights, equality of access, and freedom from discrimination.

But perhaps more than ever, at this time in history, the comparison of King to Perkins is a telling one.

In just two weeks, we may well see the first black candidate elected to the presidency of the United States of America. Today, in the United States, King’s dream - that one day a man might be judged not by the colour of his skin, but by the content of his character, seems one step closer to realisation.

But when we look closer to home, and reflect on our own progress in Australia, we see a markedly different picture.

As was the case in America, powerful calls for equal rights were heard in Australia in the 1960s. But despite the gains that we have made, we have hardly any formal human rights protection mechanisms at all.

What I want to do in my remarks tonight, is indicate to you that the gaps in our legal system around human rights protection have a real effect on the opportunities and life chances that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples have in Australia today.

In my view, one of the most perverse developments over the past decade has been the bad press that human rights have consistently received in public debate within Australia.

And according to some, it is time to ‘get serious’ and face up to ‘practical issues’ facing Indigenous peoples like ‘addressing disadvantage’ rather than concerning ourselves with issues such as human rights for Indigenous peoples - which after all, are really only symbolic.

But let me put this question to you: is our democracy really working so well for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples in the year 2008?

Unlike all other western democracies, in Australia we have no Charter of Rights – not for Aboriginal people, and not for anyone! And as the Northern Territory intervention demonstrates, the commitments that we do have across our society to non-discrimination and to equal treatment for Indigenous peoples are such that many in our society deem it acceptable to simply ‘switch off’ the protection from racial discrimination when it is expedient to do so.

Unlike Canada, we have no constitutional recognition of the rights and status of our First Nations peoples. In fact, we are distinguished, (and I use that word advisedly!) as perhaps the only country which has a Constitution that permits discrimination against its indigenous peoples on the basis of our race.

Unlike New Zealand, we still have no treaty, or permanent mechanism for the ongoing resolution of land claims through a process of self-determination.

And unlike the vast majority of member states of the United Nations, we have not yet endorsed the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Now, if human rights were only symbolic, maybe none of these things would matter very much. If things were fine just the way they were, and we had a system of government where we were well represented, well serviced, and well protected, then maybe we could forget conversations about human rights for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples.

But let’s look at the reality.

Today in Australia, we see a federal parliament which has no Indigenous members.

We see a system of service delivery to Indigenous peoples – by governments at both the federal and state levels – that struggles to deliver the most basic of services for the benefit of Indigenous peoples.

We see a system with too many bureaucrats who do not see themselves as accountable to Indigenous peoples or as having responsibilities to ensure that Indigenous peoples benefit from their efforts.

We see a system in which the likelihood of an Indigenous person rising to the top of the bureaucracy – like Charlie and his niece Pat Turner did – is unlikely to occur anytime soon - except for a very small number of senior Indigenous bureaucrats in our federal and state governments.

And we see limited engagement with Indigenous peoples in the setting of policy and programs, with no formal mechanism for Indigenous national representation at present, or a formal commitment to self-determination.

I suspect Charlie would have had a lot to say about what we’ve got in 2008.

But it should be clear to all of us tonight, even without Charlie with us, that we should not be content simply resting on our laurels, and celebrating the gains that we have won.

Tonight, I will argue that there remains a pressing need to question inequality in Australian society, and to question how we protect the most vulnerable among us. And that is why I have titled this oration, ‘Still riding for freedom: An Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Human Rights Agenda for the Twenty-First Century’.

I see the next few years as critical in our continued struggle for equality and the recognition of the rights of Indigenous peoples.

There are a few reasons for this.

First, we are at a time of rapid advance in the recognition of Indigenous peoples rights at the international level. The passage of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples has provided much momentum throughout the UN system to strive to improve how Indigenous peoples’ rights are protected. We can expect that over time this increased focus will place greater expectations and scrutiny on our approach here in Australia – be this through reporting to human rights treaty committees, the universal periodic review processes of the UN Human Rights Council or through changes to global practices for development cooperation.

And second, we have the prospect of renewal with a new federal government that has signalled its intention to enter into genuine partnerships with Indigenous peoples. This has been a central feature of commitments made to Close the Gap in Indigenous health inequality and was very strongly articulated by the Prime Minister in his Apology speech back in February this year.

Of course, the actions are still needed to match the rhetoric of the new government.

So tonight, I want to consider the following main elements of a human rights agenda for Indigenous peoples in Australia:

  • Changing how we conceive of poverty so it is treated as a human rights issue;
  • Addressing the lack of formal legal protection of human rights in our legal system; and
  • Providing due recognition to the First Nations status of Indigenous Australians.

Conceptualising poverty as a human right

As the starting point, let me start with a deceptively complex issue that I see as one of the most profound challenges that we face in Australia today. This is the challenge of redefining how we conceive of poverty so it is squarely addressed as a human rights challenge.

For too long now, we have heard it argued that a focus on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples rights takes away from a focus on addressing Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples disadvantage.

This approach, is in my view, seriously flawed for a number of reasons. It represents a false dichotomy - as if poorer standards of health, lack of access to housing, lower attainment in education and higher unemployment are not human rights issues or somehow they don’t relate to the cultural circumstances of Indigenous peoples.

And it also makes it too easy to disguise any causal relationship between the actions of government and any outcomes, and therefore limits the accountability and responsibilities of government.

In contrast, human rights give Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples a means for expressing their legitimate claims to equal goods, services, and most importantly, the protections of the law – and a standard that government is required to measure up to.

The focus on ‘practical measures’ was exemplified by the emphasis the previous federal government placed on the ‘record levels of expenditure’ annually on Indigenous issues.

As I have previously asked, since when did the size of the input become more important than the intended outcomes? The Howard government never explained what the point of the record expenditure argument was – or what achievements were made.

Bland commitments to practical reconciliation have hidden the human tragedy of families divided by unacceptably high rates of imprisonment, and of too many children dying in circumstances that don’t exist for the rest of the Australian community.

And the fact is that there has been no simple way of being able to decide whether the progress made through ‘record expenditure’ has been ‘good enough’. So the ‘practical’ approach to these issues has lacked any accountability whatsoever.

It has also dampened any expectation that things should improve from among the broader community. And so we have accepted as inevitable horror statistics of premature death, under-achievement and destroyed lives.

I am sure history will show that this past decade was one of significant under-achievement in addressing Indigenous disadvantage – and quite inexplicably, under-achievement at a time of unrivalled prosperity for our nation.

If we look back over the past five years in particular, since the demise of ATSIC, we can also see that a ‘practical’ approach to issues has allowed governments to devise a whole series of policies and programs without engaging with Indigenous peoples in any serious manner. I have previously described this as the ‘fundamental flaw’ of the federal government’s efforts over the past five years. That is, government policy that is applied to Indigenous peoples as passive recipients.

Our challenge now is to redefine and understand these issues as human rights issues.

We face a major challenge in ‘skilling up’ government and the bureaucracy so that they are capable of utilising human rights as a tool for best practice policy development and as an accountability mechanism.

We have started to see some change with the Close the Gap process. As you may know, the Rudd government, and all Australian Governments through COAG, have agreed to a series of targets to be achieved over the next five to ten years to start the process to close the gap in health status and ultimately in life expectancy, as well as across a range of other measures.
In March this year, the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition, Ministers for Health and Indigenous Affairs, every major Indigenous and non-Indigenous peak health body and others signed a Statement of Intent to close the gap in health inequality which set out how this commitment would be met. It commits all of these organisations and government, among other things, to:

  • develop a long-term plan of action, that is targeted to need, evidence-based and capable of addressing the existing inequities in health services, in order to achieve equality of health status and life expectancy between Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and non- Indigenous Australians by 2030.
  • ensure the full participation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and their representative bodies in all aspects of addressing their health needs.
  • work collectively to systematically address the social determinants that impact on achieving health equality for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples.
  • respect and promote the rights of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, and
  • measure, monitor, and report on our joint efforts, in accordance with benchmarks and targets, to ensure that we are progressively realising our shared ambitions.

These commitments were made in relation to Indigenous health issues but they form a template for the type of approach that is needed across all areas of poverty, marginalisation and disadvantage experienced by Indigenous peoples.

They provide the basis for the cultural shift necessary in how we conceptualise human rights in this country. Issues of entrenched and ongoing poverty and marginalisation of Indigenous peoples are human rights challenges. And we need to lift our expectations of what needs to be done to address these issues and of what constitutes sufficient progress to address these issues in the shortest possible timeframe so that we can realise a vision of an equal society.

This will be deceptively hard to achieve and it will take a generation. But it is a vital part of the human rights challenge for all Australians.

Addressing the lack of formal legal protection of human rights in our legal system

A different but no less formidable or important challenge is addressing the lack of formal protection of human rights in our legal system.

There are two main challenges here – first, is the lack of protection provided for many basic human rights; and the second, is the vulnerability of the protection that does exist.

Many people are surprised when they learn that we have endorsed and supported human rights standards for over forty years in the international arena, and yet have failed to give practical meaning and protection to many of them in our domestic legal system.

This isn’t simply a failure that sits at the international level. It is a failure to deliver on commitments to the Australian public about the basic standards of treatment that they can expect at all times.

We have parked most human rights at the door, leaving Australian citizens in the unenviable position that in relation to the majority of rights, we don’t have any formal mechanisms for considering how laws and policies impact on people’s rights or for providing redress where rights are abused.

As an example, we have very limited enshrinement in our legal system of the rights contained in the two main international human rights treaties, on economic, social and cultural rights and civil and political rights.

This is an issue that ultimately affects all Australians. Although usually, the consequences of such a lack of protection impacts the most on those who are the most vulnerable and marginalised in our society – such as Indigenous peoples.

The end result is a legal system that offers minimal protection to human rights and a system of government that treats human rights as marginal to the day to day challenges that we face.

We need better protection of human rights in our legal system as well as mechanisms to ensure that the courts, the executive and the Cabinet have human rights at the forefront of their thinking at all times.

Accordingly, I strongly endorse the calls for a Charter of Rights that can provide comprehensive recognition of human rights consistent with our international obligations as well as remedies where rights have been abused.

I see another equally important role for a Charter in our society.

A Charter of Rights can play a vital role in improving the accountability of government by requiring a greater focus and concentration on identifying the human rights implications of policies and legislation when they are formulated. This is through mechanisms such as statements of compatibility and human rights analyses of proposed new laws.

By putting human rights issues front and centre and making bureaucrats and politicians explicitly consider what the human rights impacts of their laws and policies are, a Charter of Rights can have a transformative effect in improving the decision making process. It would also hopefully prevent many human rights violations from occurring in the first place.

We have lacked appropriate coverage and protection of human rights for too long, and a Charter of Rights is long overdue. This will be a key issue for debate in the coming year and so I hope that we will finally take this important step and close the ‘protection gap’ that currently exists for all Australians.

But there is a second aspect to our current system of legal protection that also needs to be addressed. This is an issue that has very acutely impacted on Indigenous Australians.

That is the vulnerability of the human rights protections that do exist in our legal system.

On three occasions in the past twelve years we have seen racial discrimination protections removed solely for Aboriginal people by the federal government. This has been in relation to the exemption from heritage protection laws of the Hindmarsh Island bridge in South Australia; the Wik ten point plan amendments to the Native Title Act – provisions that remain in breach of our international treaty obligations I might add – and the exemption from the Racial Discrimination Act of the NT intervention legislation.

Our existing system works like this.

States and territories are bound by the protections of the Racial Discrimination Act (or RDA) by virtue of the Australian Constitution. This provides that state and territory laws will be invalid to the extent that they are inconsistent with a valid law of the federal Parliament – such as the RDA.

In both the Hindmarsh Island and Wik situations, the federal Parliament authorised state and territory governments to introduce discriminatory laws against Indigenous peoples. Because this was authorised by a federal law that was more recent than the RDA, the more recent law prevailed and the discrimination was legally valid. The fact that it was legally valid does not change the fact that it is in breach of our international obligations so you then also have an inconsistency between our domestic legal system and international obligations.

Notably, if the state or territory levels of government initiated such discriminatory provisions themselves then they would be found to be constitutionally invalid – as happened in Queensland in 1985 when they sought to prevent Eddie Mabo from pursuing his claims of native title by acquiring all native title rights for the Crown, and in Western Australia in 1995 when the WA government similarly sought to extinguish all native title rights across the state and replace it with a lesser right. So the states and territories cannot initiate racially discriminatory actions themselves.

The Wik ten point plan amendments also involved the Commonwealth discriminating against Indigenous peoples themselves – not just through the states and territories. As the RDA is an ordinary enactment of the federal parliament the principle of parliamentary sovereignty applies to it – meaning that laws that are made at a later time will override the RDA to the extent of any inconsistency.

So the states and territories must comply with the RDA, unless the federal Parliament exempts them. But the federal Parliament is not so bound and may legally discriminate against Indigenous peoples if it so chooses - so long as it does so through the passage of a law that the Parliament has the constitutional power to enact in the first place.
And this is where some of you may also be very surprised. For our Constitution permits the federal Parliament to enact laws that racially discriminate against Indigenous peoples – and indeed against any other group based on race.

This is how. Section 51(26) of the Constitution – the very provision that Charlie and others fought so hard to amend through the 1967 Referendum – enables the federal Parliament to make special laws for the peoples of a particular race. This has been interpreted by the High Court as meaning any special laws – including ones that are discriminatory. Surely this is a perversion of the intention of the 1967 referendum.

We need to revise the scope of Section 51(26) of the Constitution – the so-called ‘races power’ so that we clarify that it only permits the making of laws that are for the benefit of people of a particular race. There is no place in modern day Australia for legalised discrimination.

But I also see a need for constitutional reform to go further than this.

For example we could consider inserting into the Constitution a new provision that unequivocally provides for equality before the law and non-discrimination. Article 26 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights provides a starting point for what such protection might say. It reads:

All persons are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to the equal protection of the law. In this respect, the law shall prohibit any discrimination and guarantee to all persons equal and effective protection against discrimination on any ground such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status.

It is arguable that this protection would have addressed the serious deficiencies of the NT intervention upfront and ensured that actions were more fairly and better targeted from the outset.

I would also support a new preamble for the Constitution that recognises Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples within the fabric of the nation. However, I must say that the preamble is secondary to the above issues and should not be used as an alternative to efforts to ensure that one day we have a Constitution that does not permit racial discrimination.

So a major challenge that we face is how we ensure that our commitment to non-discrimination and equality, and to human rights more generally, is not something that is swept aside whenever it gets difficult or inconvenient or when it is expedient to simply override this protection.

And on that note, let me comment briefly on the NT intervention.

I have been a strong critic of aspects of the intervention – particularly the way that it has resorted to racially discriminatory measures to achieve its purposes. This is something that I have said from day one will undermine all the positive efforts being undertaken. I also firmly believe that measures to protect children can and should be undertaken, but that they can be achieved without discrimination.

I think that the Review Team on the intervention was spot on in identifying the fundamental flaw of the intervention when they state in their report that:

There is intense hurt and anger at being isolated on the basis of race and subjected to collective measures that would never be applied to other Australians. The Intervention was received with a sense of betrayal and disbelief. Resistance to its imposition undercut the potential effectiveness of its substantive measures.

Measures that deny people basic dignity will never work. As the NT Review report notes, it is this singular problem that has undermined the effectiveness of the intervention and has broken down the trust and relationship between government and Indigenous peoples across the Territory.

Now I was very interested to read the editorial in The Australian this past weekend. It read:

You would have to search hard in today's Australia to find anyone who does not support the broad principles of equality before the law or who does not abhor racial discrimination...
At the time (the intervention was introduced), The Weekend Australian supported the suspension on the grounds that the rights of Aboriginal children to a decent life free of fear trumped every other consideration...
It is now clear, however, that the (Racial Discrimination) act can be safely reinstated without hindering the intervention. The reinstatement of the act deserves bipartisan support.

My Social Justice Report 2007 provides a ten point plan on how to achieve this. That plan also shows how the Minister for Indigenous Affairs could today remove a significant portion of the discriminatory provisions of the intervention legislation through using her existing administrative powers – without recourse to Parliament.

The Rudd government must act decisively on this issue to ensure that the intervention legislation is consistent with human rights and is non-discriminatory. A failure to do so will fundamentally contradict the commitments that the government has made – including those to Close to Gap and to work in genuine partnership with Indigenous communities.

But there are two comments by The Australian that I think illustrate this deeper problem of human rights protection in Australia that I have been discussing.

The first is the suggestion that you can ‘turn on’ and ‘turn off’ protection against racial discrimination whenever it suits. And the second is that the only way children could be protected in the NT when the intervention was introduced was by racially discriminating against them and against their families and communities.

I am deeply troubled by the suggestion that there may be circumstances where protections against racial discrimination can be removed for some ‘greater good’. It raises the unsettling question of who decides what the greater good is? Misplaced best intentions have been something Indigenous peoples have suffered for a long time in this country.

I also reject totally the suggestion that resort to discrimination was necessary in order to protect children. I also totally reject any suggestion that at the time of the intervention we faced a crossroads of choosing between either racially discriminating or protecting women and children. This was a choice that was set up by design and it was, and still is, avoidable. The only sound policy choice is one where children are protected and are not discriminated against as well.

The Convention on the Rights of the Child itself is explicit in Article 2 that discriminatory measures can never be justified on the basis that they further other human rights and that there needs to be a consistent approach in how all human rights are applied.

Nevertheless, the recommendations of the Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER) Review Report now provide an opportunity to refocus the Federal Government’s efforts from an emergency to community development approach in improving the lives of Northern Territory Aboriginal children.

There is a major challenge for communities across the Northern Territory, and Australia, to demonstrate that they understand and accept that women and children have rights to be safe and free from violence. And there are many examples that show that this is in fact the view of Indigenous people in the NT.

For example, in July there was a major men’s health summit on the lands of Charlie’s people – the Arrente – which provided clear leadership from Indigenous men about addressing violence and abuse. The outcomes of that Summit are contained in the Inteyerrkwe Statement. It reads:

We the Aboriginal males... gathered... to develop strategies to ensure our future roles as grandfathers, fathers, uncles, nephews, brothers, grandsons, and sons in caring for our children in a safe family environment that will lead to a happier, longer life that reflects opportunities experienced by the wider community.
We acknowledge and say sorry for the hurt, pain and suffering caused by Aboriginal males to our wives, to our children, to our mothers, to our grandmothers, to our granddaughters, to our aunties, to our nieces and to our sisters.
We also acknowledge that we need the love and support of our Aboriginal women to help us move forward.

To assist, the men also called for community based violence prevention programs that are specifically targeted at men; the establishment of places for healing for Aboriginal men; resources for rehabilitation services for alcohol and drug problems; and better support for literacy and numeracy for Aboriginal men and linking of education to local employment opportunities. I am unaware whether there has been any response to this call - despite the request that there be so by September 2008.

I have every confidence that Indigenous communities – supported by government – can own the problems that exist in their communities and more so, that they want to own the problems.

For governments, you have to stop seeing Indigenous people as problems and recognise our role as the solution brokers to the problems that debilitate us.

For Aboriginal communities the challenges is to seize back your role in determining your futures; determine what measures are needed in your community to ensure the basic functioning of the community.

Recognising the first nations status of Indigenous Australians

Finally, the other piece of the puzzle to ensure adequate human rights protection in Australia revolves around the recognition of the status of Indigenous Australians as the first peoples of this land.

We have never come to terms with what this means in a comprehensive or holistic manner. Instead, we have dealt with those aspects of our shared history that have emerged from time to time – such as native title – by treating them as impediments and seeking to overcome them.

In the coming years we will jointly face other major challenges that threaten our way of life as Australians – such as access to water resources and dealing with the impacts of climate change. The traditional knowledge of Indigenous peoples and the traditional lands and waters and custodianship practices of our peoples will have a key role to play in dealing with these issues. So they provide another opportunity to consider the important place of Indigenous peoples within our society.

We should address these issues alongside outstanding issues relating to the colonisation of the country and outstanding issues of land justice, reparations and addressing the entrenched inter-generational poverty and trauma that still exists.

The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples will provide us with an important tool in how we could move forward in this way.

The Declaration highlights that we have failed Indigenous peoples for centuries and that one of the contributing factors for this has been the lack of support for Indigenous peoples’ collective characteristics. This is not about special status, it is about maintenance of identity and ensuring that cultures that – in most countries – are vulnerable to exploitation and are marginalised, are not lost with the full human tragedy that goes with that loss.

It is a very positive, aspirational document that sets out ambitions for a new partnership and relationship between Indigenous peoples and the nation states in which they live. For example:

It affirms that indigenous peoples make a unique contribution to the diversity and richness of civilizations and cultures, and promotes cultural diversity and understanding.

It explicitly encourages harmonious and cooperative relations between States and indigenous peoples, as well as mechanisms to support this at the international and national levels.

It is based upon principles of partnership, consultation and cooperation between indigenous peoples and States. So for example, Article 46 requires that every provision of the Declaration will be interpreted consistent with the principles of justice, democracy, respect for human rights, non-discrimination and good faith.

I don’t recall seeing any public discussion of the Declaration that talks about it in this positive light or that recognises that it is fundamentally a document about partnership. Instead, the public discussion has been much more alarmist and negative in its tone.

Over the coming months and year we will see the government take two important steps for appropriate recognition of Indigenous peoples. First, they will formally endorse the UN Declaration as an appropriate framework to guide the relationship with Indigenous Australians. And second, they will support the establishment of a national Indigenous representative body.

Both will provide impetus to reconfiguring the relationship with Indigenous peoples based on respect for our cultures and with a view to entering genuine partnerships with us. This will challenge many Australians. And it will provide the opportunity for us to deal with longstanding, unfinished business.

Conclusion

I have offered my comments tonight to both provoke and to stimulate. And hope that I have offered them constructively and in a spirit of reconciliation – and to honour the legacy of the great Charlie Perkins.

When asked about his legacy in 1994, Charles Perkins said:

I'm here today, gone tomorrow, and I've only just played a small role like other Aboriginal leaders do, but we're only passing, you know: ships in the night really. And where the answer lies, is with the mass of Aboriginal people, not with the individuals.

Addressing the continuing non-recognition of our rights, and dealing with the consequences that flow from that non-recognition, is the true challenge of our age. And I urge you tonight to recognise that the journey that Charlie undertook, that great ride to Freedom, still continues today.

Please remember, from self respect comes dignity, and from dignity comes hope.

Thank you

Source: https://www.humanrights.gov.au/news/speech...

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In EQUALITY Tags TOM CALMA, SOCIAL JUSTICE COMMISSIONER, ABORIGINAL RIGHT, INDIGENOUS RIGHTS, CHARTER OF RIGHTS
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Charlie Munger: 'The Psychology of Human Misjudgment', Harvard University - 1995
Lawrence O'Donnell: 'The original sin of this country is that we invaders shot and murdered our way across the land killing every Native American that we could', The Last Word, 'Dakota' - 2016
Lawrence O'Donnell: 'The original sin of this country is that we invaders shot and murdered our way across the land killing every Native American that we could', The Last Word, 'Dakota' - 2016