Tag Archives: racism

Full video and text of Martin Luther King Jr’s I Have a Dream speech. I would love to have him as president instead of Obama the racist

That’s the full video. The following is the full text. But first, just to say, MLKJr, who was pro-life, is everything that Obama is not. Only racists want the vast majority of abortion clinics in black neighborhoods as a method of genocide, and that’s what Obama the racist is all about. Instead, MLKJr, had this to say:

* * *

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the “unalienable Rights” of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.”

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: “For Whites Only.” We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until “justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest — quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of “interposition” and “nullification” — one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.”

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day — this will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

[N.B. There seems to be some sort of copyright dispute about this. Whatever it is, I'm not selling this blog post. In fact, I may well make some enemies by putting it up. I put this up on the blog just because I think it's pretty cool. Whoever thinks they own the copyright can ask me to take it down, and I certainly will do so immediately. I would just like to let his words ring out. That's all.]

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Obama the genocidal racist

Perhaps some might think I should be arrested for this.

Instead, think of it this way.

Obama supports Planned Parenthood’s placement of abortion mills in poor, black neighborhoods, guaranteeing the elimination of the black population.

Remember this post: http://holysoulshermitage.com/2012/05/04/black-genocide-president-obama-vs-pastor-clenard-howard-childress-jr/

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Black Genocide: President Obama vs. Pastor Clenard Howard Childress, Jr.

Click on the picture! Yikes!

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Handsome little rooster! The ladies will be happy to have him around! (Plus a post-Mardigras rant on racist militia in praise of the Green Beret. Double-Yikes!)

Shrove Tuesday, a day on which to be shriven, was a great day for this hermit: Mass, confession, and so much more. Our Lord is very good and very kind. Ancient of days, “T.K.”, beloved volunteer at the soup kitchen, wasn’t around the past couple of weeks, so I’ve had the joy of doing his Tuesday deliveries to the elderly shut-ins. 37 plates all told. This is a favorite “hermit” thing for me to do. Usually, it’s just Thursdays that I head down the mountains for such a joy.

Mardigras, a name with a more secular emphasis – a Tuesday on which to get fat before the rigors of Ash-Wednesday and Lent begin in full force – was also wonderful. I cooked up some pasta with onion and tomato on the woodstove. I even threw in a couple of fresh free-range eggs. What an appelation! Imagine eggs ranging freely about for spiders and such… Mmm, mmm good!

In some regions, chickens have a lot to do with Mardigras. This year, for me, was pretty special. I got a rooster for the hens! As you can see from the picture above, it’s a Barred Rock rooster, though crossed with a Rhode Island Red somewhere back in his lineage. You can see some speckles of red in the feathers. The Reds are very close to the breed of the hens I have. So, that’s all very good.

As I let “Rocky” go in the coop, the ladies really commented up a storm among themselves. I don’t know what they were saying as I don’t know chicken-speak, yet. He checked out all the nooks and crannies of the coop, the water, the feed, the roost, and then took a gander at the ladies. The hen at the top of the pecking order presented herself and he immediately made it clear that he was not going to be a hen-pecked husband. They were all happy with that. You just have to set the ground rules from the beginning. After some minutes, he felt at home with them and they with him. So he started crowing. He loves his new home. He doesn’t sing very well, but that’s O.K. He makes up for it by beating his wings in the air louder than any Ruffed Grouse could dream of drumming up a storm. Never seen or heard anything like it. Quite impressive, really.

I might ask you to say a prayer for the fellow who sold me the rooster. He and his wife are great Catholics. He’s been terribly sick the past month. He gave me a great deal on this fellow. Hail Mary…

Spending some minutes with the chickens as I unleashed the rooster among them, and all this on Mardigras, reminded me of some rather wild experiences on one particular Mardigras, but such stories are best saved for a possible autobiography. I just would not let my priesthood be compromised. Yikes! Many Mardigras-ers were terribly underwhelmed at my decision, an understatement if there ever was one.

O.K., I can’t resist. Here’s just one itsy-bitsy anecdote of another Mardigras in that same parish, which only came full circle some months later. Early in the day — and at least this was on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, and not in Lent itself – some of the Mardigras-ers were stealing chickens from all around the countryside. They were to be prepared for the huge Mardigras meal later that night. They always say that it’s just a cultural thing to “steal” the chickens, and that they’ll be given back later. Probably they just use store-bought chickens for the meal. At least that’s the story.

Some of the Mardigras-ers belonged to one of the three fully armed, rebelliously minded, not “theatrically motivated” militia in the territory of my parish. This was nothing new to law enforcement. In this tiniest, littlest of country towns, there were always, 24/7, at least three F.B.I. agents surveiling the situation. Rather expensive, though necessary. Anyway, these particular Mardigras-ers, all of them ”white”, also on an ideological level, made the mistake of not returning the chickens of one of the local ”black” retired hobby-farmers, who wasn’t ideological anything, just an honest to goodness American and… and… heavily decorated Green Beret, who had served in some of the rougher parts of Southeast Asia back in the day. You have to know that the Green Beret, the U.S. Army Special Forces, are — every one of them – like Jack Bauer and Chuck Norris rolled into one, and much more sure of themselves than any Rambo, and rightly so.

Tired of waiting for the chickens to be returned — with now a few months having gone by – the old veteran jumped into his old truck and drove for some miles down some narrow winding back roads until he came to an open field. He knew the knuckleheads would be there. He had no weapons. He got out and walked right into the middle of the field, and quickly had guns pointed at him from all directions. They moved in and made it clear that he would be riddled with bullets unless he had a very good explanation for being there.

“Give me my chickens,” he said, ever so quietly, locked into a staring contest with the leader of this pitiful band of cowards. “Say… what?” was the incredulous, though nervous response. “The chickens…” said our hero, it being unclear whether he was now referring to the fowl or to the “men” surrounding him. They made the mistake of moving in closer, so that the barrels of their rifles were almost touching him. The leader knew this was a stupid move on the part of his sycophants. “…Or you’re all dead,” continued the old Green Beret, not breaking the stare.

The leader of the militia saw the old fellow tensing up a bit, knowing that he was  watching for any signal he might give to his “men” to open fire, even with his eyes. He knew that with a single lightning quick move on the part of the old man — so terribly easy in these circumstances — he would be the first to die, only to be joined by his “men” within seconds.

A seeming eternity of seconds went by… Still in an unblinking staring contest… with life and death in the balance… but then the militia leader quietly said, “Get the chickens.”

Hah! This was a region where lynchings and house-burnings and forcing-out-of-the-area activities had taken place within the living memory of even — at the time — the younger-middle-aged population. As one racist said to me: “Oh Father, we’re not racist here at all. We’re very good. We treat them n*ggers just as if they were real people.” Double-Yikes!

I’ve got to hand it to this old fellow — very likely passed away as I write this so very many years later — for in that one act of bravery (which, mind youwasn’t in the least about any stupid chickens), he single-handedly did more to break the spirit of the local white-supremacists and get things back on track than pretty much everyone else had been able to do on so many other levels over a number of decades in that entire region. Having said that, don’t try this at home! These were quite unrepeatable circumstances and this fellow was extraordinarily talented. Double-Yikes! again.

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