Barack Obama credits Jesse Jackson with inspring change: "We are living in a time when it can be hard to hope"
Former President Barack Obama, speaking at the funeral services for Rev. Jesse Jackson Friday afternoon, credited Jackson's presidential runs in the 1980s with setting the stage for other Black leaders, including his own successful 2009 presidency and re-election.
"The message he sent to a 22-year-old child of a single mother with a funny name, an outsider, was that maybe there wasn't any place or any room where we didn't belong," Obama said. "He paved the road for so many others to follow."
Obama, joined by two other former Democratic presidents, Joe Biden and Bill Clinton, at a celebration of life for Jackson, received the loudest round of applause as the three entered the chamber.
"We are living in a time when it can be hard to hope," Obama said. "Each day we wake up to some new assault to our democratic institutions. Another setback to the idea of the rule of law, an offense to common decency. Every day you wake up to things you just didn't think were possible."
"Each day we are told by folks in high office to fear each other," said Obama, referring to the current Republican leadership in Washington.
Read the full transcript of Barack Obama's tribute to Rev. Jesse Jackson
In the book of Isaiah, God is looking for a messenger to guide a hardened and resistant people. And the Lord asks, "Whom shall I send and who will go with us?" To which Isaiah replies, "Here I am, Lord, send me."
To Mother Jackson and the Jackson family, to President and Mrs. Biden, President and Secretary Clinton, Vice President Harris, Pastor Bates, my old friend, though he looking good, Rev. Meeks, Rev. Jenkins, it is an honor to join you today to celebrate the Rev. Jesse Lewis Jackson, a man who when the poor and the dispossessed needed a champion and a country needed healing, stepped forward again and again and again, and said, "Send me."
Rev. Jackson's immense gifts were apparent at an early age, even if his circumstances conspired to try to hold him back. Born out of wedlock to a teenage mom, growing up under the oppressive cloud of segregation, confined to schools, sports facilities, movie theaters that were separate and unequal. It was a world where, on Thanksgiving, he'd have to wait for his mother to come home on the bus carrying leftovers from the dinner she had to cook for somebody else, a world designed to tell a child that he or she could only go so far, that to think otherwise would be foolish or dangerous, and that wisdom required you to accept your lot In life.
Young Jesse refused to accept that verdict. He was a born leader, an athlete, a talker — knew how to talk — star quarterback, student body president. He could have succeeded within the confines that were determined for him and had a successful life, but like so many of his generation, so many extraordinary civil rights leaders in the late '50s and '60s, that Joshua generation, he instinctively understood that individual success meant nothing unless everybody was free. So he became inspired by the bus boycotts in Montgomery. He led seven black students into the whites-only library, sitting down and getting arrested for reading. Think about that. The library closed, but then it reopened, andwhen it did, it was open to everyone. "Send me," Jesse said, even as a young man, and the world got a little bit better.
By the time Rev. Jackson graduated from college, he attended Chicago Theological Seminary. He knew the nature of his calling, and he became, as everybody knows, the youngest member of SCLC, assigned the lead Operation Bread Basket here in Chicago, right around the time that Isaiah Thomas is talking about. And it was during this period, and especially after Dr. King's death, when when the optimism of the early movement had begun to fade and leadership had begun to fracture, and when the country seemed to have grown bored, gotten weary of the idea of justice and equality and moved on to other concerns, that Rev. Jackson rose above despair and kept that righteous flame alive.
Through Operation PUSH, he led boycotts and challenged corporate policies around hiring and contracting, recognizing that civil rights without economic justice was an empty promise. He backed unions in their organizing efforts and activists in fair wage campaigns, understanding that if the have-nots and the have-little-bits ever learned to make common cause across racial lines, instead of fighting each other over bread crumbs, everybody would benefit.
He helped register millions of voters. He fought against biases in the criminal justice system. He drew attention to local abuses of power and called folks at the national level to account. And by the early '80s, he was delivering that message of change and hope across the globe, freeing hostages from captivity, fighting to end apartheid in South Africa. And then, in 1984, as the powers that be in Washington were rolling back hard-won progress, slashing the social safety net, when more and more folks were getting left behind, and greed was being trumpeted as a virtue (see, we've been there before), he stepped forward once again and said, "Send me." He ran for the presidency of the United States of America.
I had just graduated from college during that first campaign, and I was living in New York at the time, I was working to pay off my student loans, eating a lot of tuna fish and Cambell's soup, and if I went to a diner, I'd grab some extra crackers to put in my pocket. And I was inspired by the civil rights movement, and I had my mind to work for social justice. But even though I was full of good intentions, I was uncertain of how to serve and fighting off self-doubt. And I remember how at the time, plenty of people, including I'm sorry, plenty of Black folks, were dismissing Jesse's chances, suggesting he just wants attention, he can only get black votes.
But then I remember one night sitting in my janky apartment, and I got an old black-and-white TV with the rabbit ears, and I'm kind of jiggering around, and it's about this big — I know young people can't imagine, but TV was about this big — and I'm watching the Democratic primary debate between him and Walter Mondale and Gary Hart. And I remember how when that debate was over, I turned off that TV and and I thought the same thing that I know a lot of people thought that night, even if they didn't want to admit it: that in his ideas, in his platform, in his analysis, in his intelligence, in his insight, Jesse hadn't just held his own. He had owned that stage. He wasn't an intruder, he wasn't a pretender. He belonged on that stage. And the message he sent to a 22-year-old child of a single mother with a funny name, an outsider, was that maybe there wasn't any place, any room, where we didn't belong.
And that message of fairness and dignity, of justice and hope, that's what the Rainbow Coalition was all about.
In 1984, and then again in 1988, Jesse didn't just speak to black folks. He spoke to white folks and Latinos and Asian Americans and the First Americans. He spoke to family farmers and environmentalists. He spoke to gay rights activists when nobody was talking to gay rights activists, and blue-collar workers. And he gave them the same message: that they mattered, that their voices and their votes counted. He invited them to believe. He invited us to believe in our own power to change America for the better.
By the delegate count, Jesse's two candidacies ultimately came up short, but he paved the road for so many others to follow. Doug Wilder became the first elected Black governor. Carol Moseley Braun went to the U.S. Senate. Because of Jesse, the Democratic Party changed its rules, ending the winner-take-all distribution of delegates during presidential primaries, which meant underdogs and outsiders like Bill Clinton or Bernie Sanders could stay competitive and build momentum instead of getting knocked out early. And it was because of that path that he had laid, because of his courage, his audacity, that two decades later, a young black senator from Chicago's South Side would even be taken seriously as a candidate for the presidential nomination.
I still credit that first run of justice and Harold Washington's campaign for drawing me to Chicago, and I didn't know anybody when I first arrived. I was working as a community organizer, as it so happens in neighborhoods right around here: Roseland, Woodlawn, Oakdale, West Pullman. And I mean, these, these, these young preachers, like, like Meeks and some crazy priest named Pfleger. And I guess Jenkins was running around, but he's kind of young. He came a little bit later. But so I'm I'm going to churches, and I'm listening to all these amazing preachers and and it was hard work, and half the time I didn't know what I was doing, and progress was slow, and I definitely didn't know how I was going to survive these Chicago winters, because I grew up in Hawaii. But I do remember heading to the PUSH headquarters some Saturday mornings to listen and learn from Rev. Jackson.
And y'all remember how on some mornings that there was a major issue going on, the room would be packed to the rafters, and sometimes some celebrity just wanders in, and then some mornings it was kind of low key. Either way though, that the announcements would be made, and father would say a prayer, and Jesse would sit there. And then finally, he gather himself up and stand. And he'd start kind of slow, you know, and sometimes he talked kind of low, so he couldn't quite catch what he was saying. So everybody would lean in. And over time, it was that that same boundless energy that would emerge and and that same passion and that same insight, and he'd offer you a master class in economics on a on a Saturday morning, and he'd give you a seminar on American history and American politics, and he'd make complicated things plain, and he'd tell stories that would make you laugh one minute and cry the next. And whether you were a bus driver or a teacher or a business leader or a young organizer, you came away from those meetings with a better understanding of how the world worked, how power worked, and more importantly, he made you believe that if we came together, we could make the world work better.
Now we've been talking about Jesse telling us we are somebody, "I am somebody." And he wasn't just talking to young Black boys like Isaiah, though he loved them fiercely. He wasn't just talking to young Black girls to help them believe, though he believed in them. He was talking about everyone who was left out, everyone who was forgotten, everyone who was unseen, everyone who was unheard. And in that sense, he was expressing the very essence of what our democracy should be, the ideals at the very heart of the American experiment, the belief that regardless of what we look like or how we worship, regardless of where our ancestors come from or how much money we got, we're all part of the American family. We're all endowed with the same inalienable rights to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We're all obligated to answer the call and step forward and take responsibility for making wrongs right and for caring for our neighbors, and bringing the reality of America a step closer to its glorious ideals.
And answering that call isn't always easy, and Rev. Jackson and his family knew that better than most. To do what he did, he would endure all kinds of hatred and setbacks and betrayals and doubters and death threats. He would sacrifice, as Jim Randall pointed out, the leisure and comfort of what was available to him as a far more financially secure life. And those sacrifices were not his alone. They were shared by his wife and his children, and they bore that burden with grace and strength.
I got to know the reverend his family over the years, and as I watched his children follow his example of service, I came to appreciate the conviction that drove him, that he had passed on, the faith that guided him and that he had passed on, and it was a faith that didn't waver, a flame that burned bright, even as his body began to fail. The last time he and I had a chance to visit in person, he was already ailing. It was getting difficult for him to stand, difficult for him to speak. We were in Hyde Park, in a hotel room, embraced him and figured we'd just have a low-key visit. Maybe he'd need some rest. And he starts coming up with this project and this initiative and issues I needed to look into. And here's some commentary that he would suggest and some phrasing that he thought might work. And maybe we might co-write an article.
And listening to him, I couldn't help smiling, because it took me back, and I started reminiscing with him about those Saturday mornings at PUSH and the breakfast that he'd host, you know, away from the full meeting. And I didn't get a chance to go to that until I was a state senator, and probably Meeks invited me. So I was like, you know, I was tagging along with Meeks. And he'd pull out a piece of paper, you know, he'd scribbled some stuff, and he started passing out assignments and pulling together working groups and asking for updates on the latest campaign. And I'll admit, let's face it, those sessions could run a little long and did not always follow Robert's rules of order, but when Jesse called your name and acknowledged you in that room — especially if you were young, especially if you were just coming up, especially if you weren't sure you could pull off what you you thought you might be able to do, especially when you needed help — when he did that, you stood up a little straighter. You knew you'd been seen by this giant, he'd laid hands on you and let you know you had a contribution to make. And so that day, I told him how much that meant to me and how much it meant to so many lives that he impacted. And I told him, thank you, because I'd always be grateful for that legacy of hope.
I know I've gone long. It was going to be much shorter until Isaiah spoke. I figure if a Detroit Piston can take up this much time ... it was beautiful, and I mean that. Love me some Isaiah.
We are living in a time when it can be hard to hope. Each day we wake up to some new assault on our democratic institutions, another setback to the idea of the rule of law, an offense to common decency. Every day you wake up to things you just didn't think were possible. Each day, we're told by those in high office to fear each other and to turn on each other, and that some Americans count more than others, and that some don't even count at all. Everywhere we see greed and bigotry being celebrated and bullying and mockery masquerading as strength, we see science and expertise denigrated while ignorance and dishonesty and cruelty and corruption are reaping untold rewards. Every single day we see that, and it's hard to hope in those moments. So it may be tempting to get discouraged, to give into cynicism. It may be tempting for some to compromise with power, and grab what you can, or even for good people to maybe just put your head down and wait for the storm to pass.
But this man, Rev. Jesse Lewis Jackson, inspires us to take a harder path. His voice calls on each of us to be heralds of change, to be messengers of hope, to step forward and say, "Send me." Wherever we have a chance to make an impact, whether it's in our school or our workplaces or our neighborhoods or our cities, not for fame, not for glory, or because success is guaranteed, but because it gives our life purpose, because it aligns with what our faith tells us God demands, and because if we don't step up, no one else will.
How fortunate we were that Jesse Jackson answered that call. What a great debt we owe to him. May God bless Rev. Jackson, may he rest in eternal peace.
