Thank you so much for those kind words of introduction. I must tell you that I'm delighted, very pleased, and really happy to be here. You look good! The weather is good, the rain stayed away. I'm happy. It's good to see each and every one of you.
Fellows of Harvard University, members of the Board of Overseers, members of the Alumni Board, distinguished deans, guests, faculty, and all of the students, all of the wonderful graduates — and Madam President, thank you. Thank you for your leadership. Thank you for getting in good trouble — necessary trouble — to lead this great university.
I want to take just a moment to honor the tenure of a great leader who, through her courage and vision, worked to lead this historic university to even higher heights. Madam President, thank you for being a friend, but more importantly, thank you for using your office to move Harvard toward a more all-inclusive institution.
Somewhere along the way, you realized that the brilliant mind is not confined to one discipline or one way of thinking. In fact, true genius sees connections and relationships across barriers, to build a new understanding of the world around us.
Creating One Harvard is much like the work I dedicated my life to. Ever since, as a young girl, you wrote a letter to President Eisenhower, you have been responding to the cry for human dignity that rings out in our world. You used your vision and your talent. You used the great resources of this university to respond to that call, and I thank you. Thank you for your contribution to human unity in our world today.
I say to each and every one of you who graduated from this university: You must lead. You're never too young to lead. You're never too old to lead. We need your leadership now more than ever before. We need it! We must save our country. We must save it. We must save our democracy. There are forces in America today and around the world trying to take us to some other place.
Our foremothers and forefathers brought us to this place. Maybe our foremothers and our forefathers all came to this great country in different ships, but as the late, great A. Philip Randolph said, "We are all in the same boat now." And we must look out for each other and care for each other.
You're never too young or too old to lead — to speak up, speak out, and get in good trouble, necessary trouble. You cannot afford to stand on the sidelines. Another generation of young people, and people not so young, are inspired to get in the way. Students from Harvard and Dr. Cole, whom I have known for many years, came to Mississippi, came to the South, and gave everything they had.
During the Sixties, young men that I knew — Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner, and James Chaney — gave their lives while they were helping people to register to vote.
The vote is precious. It is almost sacred. It is the most powerful nonviolent instrument or tool we have in a democratic society, and we must use it. If we fail to use it, we will lose it.
So during this election year, I urge you, I plead with you, to do what you can to save and rescue America — to do what you can to save the planet, save this spaceship we call Earth, and leave it a little cleaner, a little greener, and a little more peaceful for generations yet unborn.
We have a mission and a mandate to go out there and play a role, and play it so well — as Dr. King would say — that no one else can play it any better.
You have heard me say from time to time that I grew up in rural Alabama on a farm, picking cotton, gathering peanuts, gathering corn. Sometimes I would be out there working and my mother would say, "Boy, you're falling behind! You need to catch up." And I would say, "This is hard work." And she said, "Hard work never killed anybody." And I said, "It's about to kill me!"
We need to work hard. There is work to be done. These smart graduates will lead us. High school students will lead us. And guys, I say to you, if you're not mindful, the women are going to lead us! It is my belief, it is my feeling, as a traveler of America, that the women and young people — high school students, elementary school students, and college students — will lead us as part of a nonviolent revolution. We will create an America that is better, a little more humane, and no one, but no one, can deny us of that.
I just want to say one or two words to the graduates. Take a deep breath and take it all in. But tomorrow, I hope you roll up your sleeves, because the world is waiting for talented men and women to lead it to a better place. During the Sixties, people literally put their bodies on the line. Many came from this university, came from Cambridge, from Boston, throughout the state, and throughout America.
Just think: a few short years ago, black people and white people couldn't be seated together on a Greyhound bus or Trailways bus leaving Washington, D.C., to travel through Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi. We were on our way to New Orleans to test a decision of the United States Supreme Court. We were beaten, arrested, and more than 400 of us were jailed. My seatmate was a young white gentleman from Connecticut. We arrived in a small town in South Carolina. We were beaten, left bloody. This was May 1961, the same year that Barack Obama was born.
But many years later, one of the guys that beat us came to my office in Washington. He got information from a local reporter. He was in his seventies; his son came with him, in his forties. He said, "Mr. Lewis, I'm one of the people that beat you, beat your seatmate. I've been a member of the Klan. Will you forgive me? I want to apologize. Will you accept my apology? Will you forgive me?" His son started crying. He started crying. And I said, "I forgive you. I accept your apology." They hugged me, I hugged them back, and I cried with them.
It is the power of the way of peace, the power of love. It is the power of the philosophy and discipline of nonviolence. We need to create a society where we can be reconciled and lay down the burden of hate, for hate is too heavy a burden to bear.
Fifty years ago, the man that I admired, the man that was like a brother — Martin Luther King, Jr. — was taken from us. When we heard that Dr. King had been assassinated, I was in Indianapolis, Indiana, campaigning with Bobby Kennedy. I cried. I stopped crying and I said to myself, "We still have Bobby." Two months later, Bobby Kennedy was gone, and I cried some more.
Today, we've got to get rid of our tears and not be down and not get lost in the sea of despair. We've got to be hopeful, keep the faith, and turn the ship around. We can do it, and we must do it!
Here at Harvard, you've been well trained. You must lead. You must get out there and, as Dr. King would say, be a headlight, not a taillight. It's your time. It's your calling. During the Sixties, I got arrested a few times — 40 times. And since I've been in Congress, another five times. And I'm probably going to get arrested again. My philosophy is very simple: When you see something that is not right, not fair, not just, stand up, say something, speak up and speak out.
When I was growing up as a young boy in rural Alabama, 50 miles from Montgomery, I had an aunt by the name of Seneva, and my aunt lived in a shotgun house. Here at Harvard, you've never seen a shotgun house. You don't even know what I'm talking about. One way in, one way out. What is a shotgun house? An old house, dirt yard. Sometimes my Aunt Seneva would go out on the weekend, Friday or Saturday, and take a brush broom made from dogwood branches and sweep the yard very clean.
One Saturday afternoon, a few of my brothers and sisters, cousins — about 15 of us, young children — were playing in her dirt yard, and an unbelievable storm came up. The wind started blowing, the thunder started rolling, and the lightning started flashing, and she told us to come in. We went in. The wind continued to blow, the thunder continued to roll, the lightning continued to flash, and the rain continued to beat on this old tin roof of the shotgun house. And we cried and cried.
And when one corner of the old house appeared to be lifting up, my aunt walked over to that side to hold the house down with her body. When the other corner appeared to be lifting, she had us walk to that corner. We were children walking with the wind, but we never, ever left the house.
I say to each of you, each and every one of us: The wind may blow, the thunder may roll, the lightning may flash, and the rain may beat down on an old house — call it the house of Harvard, call it the house of Cambridge, call it the house of Gloucester, call it the house of Washington, or Alabama, or Georgia — we all live in the same house. We all must hold our little house down.
So I say to you: Walk with the wind. Let the spirit of history be your guide. Thank you very much.