Continuing Saga of Kernel Books

Continuing Saga of Kernel Books

[PHOTO/CAPTION: Kenneth Jernigan]

The Continuing Saga of the Kernel Books

by Kenneth Jernigan

During the 1990's the Kernel Books have been at

the very heart of our program of public education, and 1998 is no exception. This year, as

in the past, we are publishing two new volumes. The first will be available at this

convention, and the second will be released this fall.

Today, as on previous occasions, I want to give

you the introductions to the two books, as well as the first article in each. As you know,

I edit these books, and I also usually write the first article. So here is my Editor's

Introduction to the book that will be available to you at this convention:

Editor's Introduction

This is the fourteenth volume in the Kernel Book

series. Its title, Gray Pancakes and Gold Horses, is taken from the first two stories and

symbolizes the theme of the book.

How do blind children learn the details of the

hundreds of small daily acts that sighted children pick up without ever even knowing they

have done it? A blind boy sits in a farm house on a summer night and wonders which way to

shake his head to mean yes and no. He guesses and loses, and his mother's feelings are

hurt. I know, for I was that boy.

A blind father cooks for his two sighted

children, and the pancakes are gray, causing the children to reject them. Small incidents,

things of no great moment. Yet the stuff of daily living, the patterns and realities of

life.

This Kernel Book is much like those that have

gone before it. It contains first-person real-life stories, told by those who have lived

them. It talks about going to school, communicating with others, and living from day to

day. I know the people who appear in its pages. They are friends of mine. Some have been

my students.

The one thing all of us who appear in this book

have in common is our shared participation in the work of the National Federation of the

Blind, the organization which has been the strongest single factor in making life better

for the blind of this country during the twentieth century. With more than 50,000 members

the National Federation of the Blind is primarily composed of blind people, who are trying

to make life better for themselves and other blind people, while at the same time making

the world a better place in which to live for everybody.

We who are blind have a major job on our hands in

trying to get members of the general public to see us for what we are—not especially

blessed or especially cursed but just ordinary people, exactly like you. The only

difference is that we don't have eyesight, which is not as big a factor in our daily lives

as most people think it is.

So how do we get the job done? How do we get

people to see us for what we are and not just what they have always thought we are? One of

the most important ways is through the Kernel Books. This is why we write and publish

them. They must be entertaining enough that people will read them, but they must do more

than that. They must carry the message of what blindness truly is, and what it isn't.

We hope you will enjoy this book and that it will

give you new insights about blindness. Since more than 50,000 people become blind in this

country each year, the information you get from these pages may be useful to you in a

personal way at some future time—and if not for you, then for a family member or

friend.

As you read, remember that we who are blind have

more hope today than ever before in history. We believe that, when we can, we should do

for ourselves before calling on others for assistance, but we also recognize the value of

the help which a growing number of sighted friends and associates give us. We want to live

the full lives of free, participating citizens, and we know that we can.

All of this you will see reflected in the pages

of this book. We hope you will find it of interest and that it will cause you to rethink

some of your notions about blindness.

Kenneth Jernigan

Baltimore, Maryland

1998

There you have the introduction to Kernel Book

fourteen. Now, here is my opening article. It is entitled "The Barrier of the Visible

Difference."

The Barrier of the Visible Difference

Catchy titles and clever phrases are the stuff of

big business. As every advertising agency knows, fortunes are made or lost by the way the

public reacts to a jingle or a slogan.

Once I heard a liquor distributor say that his

company had a thoroughly mediocre wine that was going nowhere, and then somebody got the

bright idea of giving it a sparkly name (I think it was Wild Irish Rose). After that he

said they couldn't make enough to meet the demand, operating three shifts a day.

Whether that story is true or false, the

underlying message is right on target. It is not just what a thing is but how it sounds

and feels that sets the tone and gives the value.

When most of us come across the term

"visible difference," we think of the trademark of the beauty expert and

cosmetics manufacturer Elizabeth Arden. "Visible Difference" is the brand name

of moisturizers, lotions, and other products. But for the blind the term means something

else. It represents a barrier and a hurdle to be surmounted. Let me illustrate.

When I was a boy of about four, my mother and I

were sitting in the front bedroom of our home. Even though more than sixty-five years have

passed, I still remember every detail. It was a summer evening just after dark. My father

and brother were sitting on the porch, and the night sounds (the frogs and crickets) were

coming into full chorus. It was oppressively hot with a lot of dust in the air.

In those days we didn't have electricity, so my

mother had just lit the oil lamp. The smell of the burning kerosene began to blend with

the regular odors of food and plant life that permeated the four-room house. Of course,

all of the doors and windows were open.

When my mother finished lighting the lamp and

adjusting the wick, she sat down and put her arm around me. Then she kissed me on the left

side of my face. Since she was sitting on my left, this was a natural (almost an

automatic) gesture. Then she said:

"Do you like for mother to kiss you?"

Now this put me into a real dilemma—for I very much liked for mother to kiss me, but

I felt shy and embarrassed to say it.

Hunting a way out, I thought perhaps I could say

yes by shaking my head. From conversations I had heard, I knew that other people shook

their heads to mean yes or no, but I didn't know which way the head should move to

indicate which meaning. It had never before occurred to me to wonder about the matter

since I had never needed to know. My mother or anybody else around the house would

undoubtedly have been perfectly willing to tell me if I had asked, but that didn't help in

the situation I was then facing.

Using the best logic I could muster, I thought

that since my mother was sitting on my left, maybe if I moved my head that way, it would

indicate yes. Unfortunately it didn't, and my mother (not understanding my embarrassment

and lack of knowledge) thought I was saying no. She was hurt and cried, and I didn't know

how to explain.

So what is the moral of that little story, that

minor tragedy of childhood? It is not that blind people are less competent than others of

their age and circumstance. It is not that blind persons are slow learners or inept. It is

that sometimes something that can be seen at a glance must be learned a different way by a

blind person. The learning can be just as quick and just as effective, but it won't happen

unless somebody thinks to explain, to help the blind child cross the barrier of the

visible difference. There is no great problem in knowing how to shake one's head or in

doing a hundred other things that sighted children learn without ever knowing that they

have done it. It is only that the blind child must either be unusually persistent and

inquisitive or have somebody constantly at hand who thinks to give information. Otherwise

insignificant details will multiply to major deficits.

And this is not just a matter of childhood. After

seventy years I keep learning new things about the barrier of the visible difference.

Recently, when I told a blind friend of mine who is a lawyer about my head-shaking

episode, he asked if I knew how you are supposed to hold your hand in a court when you are

told to raise your right hand. I said that I had never thought about it but had always

assumed that you simply raise your hand above your head, which is what would seem logical

in the circumstances.

"No," he told me, "that isn't the

way it is done. You raise your hand to shoulder level with the palm out." He went on

to tell me that when he was being sworn in to be admitted to the Bar, he had raised his

hand above his head and that later one of his classmates had told him how the customary

ritual is performed.

It is important to understand the significance of

this incident. There is nothing better about raising the hand to the shoulder than over

the head. It doesn't make one a better lawyer or a better witness in court. My friend is

an excellent attorney, and I have testified in court on more than one occasion. We are

simply dealing with a custom of society, a visible difference.

More than anything else (at least, unless one is

aware of it and thinks about it) meaningless visible differences can lead to confusion and

misunderstanding, and sometimes even to misplaced feelings of superiority or inadequacy. A

thing that looks beautiful to the eye, for instance, can feel ugly and dirty to the touch.

Again let me illustrate. Once, when I was four or five, my mother and father took me to

the county fair. This was a big event.

We lived about fourteen miles from the county

seat, and we didn't have a car. Very few people did in those days, so friends and

neighbors pooled their transportation and helped each other with rides.

On this particular occasion my mother and I were

standing at one of the booths at the fair. In retrospect it must have been one of those

places that give prizes for throwing darts, tossing rings, or something of the sort.

Regardless of that, the woman in charge gave me a small statue of a horse. As I think back

on it, she may have done it because I was blind, or simply because she thought I was a

cute kid. For purposes of my story it doesn't matter.

The horse must have been quite pretty, for both

the woman and my mother kept exclaiming about it. It was apparently covered with some sort

of sparkly gold paint. To the eye I assume that it was extremely attractive, but to me it

just felt dirty and grungy.

Now, I had never before had a small gold horse

or, for that matter, any other kind of horse, or very many nice toys of any kind—so I

was pleased and ecstatic with my treasure. But I thought I ought to clean it up and try to

make it look nice.

Therefore, while my mother and the woman were

talking, I busily scratched all of the rough-feeling gold paint off of it. It was quite a

job. By the time I had finished, my horse felt clean and attractive. I was proud of it.

Imagine, then, my disappointment and chagrin when my mother and the woman noticed what I

had done and were absolutely dismayed. I couldn't understand why they were unhappy, and

they couldn't understand why I felt that the horse was better for my effort. Again I had

bumped head-on into the barrier of the visible difference.

Unlike the head-shaking incident, this was not

exactly a matter of learning correct information. If a thing looks better to the eye and

feels worse to the touch, that doesn't make it better or worse. It simply means a

different point of view, a visible difference.

I thoroughly understand that we live in a world

that is structured for the sighted, so if a blind person intends to get along and compete

in society, he or she must learn how the sighted feel and what they think is beautiful and

attractive. But this has nothing to do with innate loveliness or quality. It is simply a

visible difference.

As a matter of fact, although I wouldn't scratch

the paint off of it if I met it today, that horse of my childhood would feel just as dirty

to me now as it did then. A few years ago, when I went to Athens, I was invited (no,

urged) to handle a variety of sculptures. They may have looked beautiful, and I have no

doubt that they did; but they didn't feel beautiful—at least, not to me. They felt

dirty, and I wanted a good hand-washing after feeling them. Hopefully this does not mean

that I am either a barbarian or a boor, only that my way of appreciating beauty may have

something to do with the fact that I touch instead of look.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that it is

only the blind who get stuck on the barrier of the visible difference. The sighted do it,

too—repeatedly, every day. Recently when I was in the hospital, I was being taken to

the x-ray department for tests. On the way I had to stop to go to the bathroom. As I came

out, a hospital official (I think she was a nurse) saw me and exclaimed, in what I can

only describe as panic:

"Catch him! He's going to fall. His eyes are

closed."

My wife explained to her that I am blind and that

my eyes are usually closed. It made no difference.

"It doesn't matter," she said.

"Hold him. His eyes are closed. He will fall." This woman is not abnormal or

unusually jumpy, nor (at least, as far as I can tell) is she stupid. She is simply so

accustomed to the fact that sighted people look about them to keep their bearings that she

cannot imagine that sight and balance have nothing to do with each other. If I had thought

it wouldn't have upset her, I would have asked her if she believed she would be unable to

stand up in a totally dark room.

During that same hospital stay, when I stepped

into another bathroom, the nurse turned the light on for me even though I told her in a

light and pleasant tone that I didn't need it. She said she would turn it on anyway. It

was clear that she felt uncomfortable to have me in the bathroom in the dark. Obviously

this is not a major matter. It simply shows that we feel uneasy when something violates

(even benignly) our routine patterns.

And these are not isolated instances. Every day

letters and articles come to my attention to prove it. A journalist from Ohio writes to

say that the blind need special fishing facilities—and he will lobby the government

to help make it happen. He doesn't say why we can't fish in the regular way like everybody

else, which many of us do all of the time.

A locksmith from Wisconsin believes the blind

would benefit from specially shaped door knobs (oval and textured, he thinks), and he is

willing to design them. A pilot from Pennsylvania thinks we should solve any problems we

have with the airlines by setting up an airline of our own, and he will help fly the

planes.

A man from Minnesota believes that blind

alcoholics cannot benefit from regular programs used by the sighted and suggests separate

services. Some years ago the Manchester Union Leader, one of New Hampshire's most

prominent newspapers, said that the governor of the state was so bad that only the deaf,

the dumb, and the blind could believe he was competent.

These few illustrations are not a complete list,

of course, but only a sampling. Moreover, I am not talking about all of the sighted. An

increasing number are coming to understand and work with us. They give us some of our

strongest support.

Nor am I saying that the sighted are hostile

toward us. Quite the contrary. Overwhelmingly the members of the sighted public wish us

well and have good will toward us. It is simply that they are used to doing things with

visual techniques, and when they look at a blind person, they see something to which they

are not accustomed—what I call the barrier of the visible difference.

Most sighted people take it for granted that

doing something with eyesight is better than doing it some other way. Visual techniques

are sometimes superior to non-visual techniques, and sometimes not. Sometimes the

non-visual way of doing a thing is better. Usually, however, it isn't a matter of better

or worse but just difference.

This brings me to my experience with the National

Federation of the Blind. I first became acquainted with the Federation almost fifty years

ago, and it has done more than anything else in my life to help me gain balance and

perspective—to understand that the barrier of the visible difference need not be a

major obstacle, either for me or for my sighted associates.

With more than fifty thousand active members

throughout the nation, the National Federation of the Blind is leading the way in making

it possible for blind people to have normal, everyday lives. We of the Federation seek out

parents and help them understand that their blind children can grow up to be productive

citizens. We work with blind college students, giving scholarships and providing

successful role models. Blind seniors make up an important part of the organization,

helping and encouraging each other and exchanging ideas and information. We develop new

technology for the blind and assist blind persons in finding jobs.

All of this is what we of the National Federation

of the Blind do to help ourselves and each other, but the chief value of the organization

is the way it helps us look at our blindness and the way it helps sighted people

understand and accept. We who are blind know that with reasonable opportunity and training

we can earn our own way in the world, compete on terms of equality with others, and lead

ordinary, worthwhile lives. We do not feel that we are victims, or that society owes us a

living or is responsible for our problems. We believe that we ought to do for ourselves

and that we also should help others. These attitudes are the heart and soul of the

National Federation of the Blind. They constitute its core beliefs and reason for being.

We go to meet the future with joy and hope, but

we recognize that we need help from our sighted friends. If we do our part, we are

confident that the needed help will be forthcoming. We also know that both we and the

sighted can surmount the barrier of the visible difference and reduce it to the level of a

mere inconvenience.

There you have the Editor's Introduction and the

first article in volume fourteen of the Kernel Book series. Here is the Editor's

Introduction to book fifteen, which will be released this fall:

Editor's Introduction

This is the fifteenth volume in the Kernel Book

series. Its title, To Touch the Untouchable Dream, comes from the article by Ed and Toni

Eames, who recently went to South Africa. They tell of their visit to a game preserve and

the techniques they used to experience the wonder of it.

The first of the Kernel Books was issued almost

eight years ago, and since that time more than three million have been put into

circulation. If generalizations were effective, we could have saved a lot of paper, space,

and time by writing a single paragraph or two to convey our message. It would probably go

something like this:

Being blind is not what almost everybody thinks

it is. Contrary to popular belief, the real problem of blindness is not the lack of

eyesight but the misconceptions and misunderstandings which exist— misconceptions and

misunderstandings by the public at large and also, unfortunately, sometimes by many of the

blind themselves. However, we are learning new ways of thought about blindness, and every

day our situation is improving. This is true because we have established our own

nationwide self-help organization, the National Federation of the Blind, and because more

and more sighted friends are doing what they can to help us.

We know that with proper training and opportunity

the average blind person can do the average job in the average place of business and do it

as well as a sighted person similarly situated. We know that blind children can

successfully live and compete with sighted children, that blind seniors can function as

well as sighted seniors, and that there is almost no job that some blind person is not

competently doing. In short, through the work of the National Federation of the Blind and

of our sighted friends and associates we are changing what it means to be blind.

If generalizations were effective, we could, as I

have said, have saved a great deal of effort by simply writing and distributing these two

paragraphs. But generalizations are not effective. They don't convey a sense of reality,

so we give details and write the Kernel Books. The present volume is part of the process.

What happens when a blind man who has been an

outdoorsman goes camping and climbs a tall tree while a passing tourist stops to watch?

You will learn in this book, and I think you will find the interchange interesting. At

least I did since I was on hand to observe it.

And what happens when a blind father, waiting for

his wife, is holding his baby in his arms and is approached by a sighted bystander, who

believes that the blind are not competent to do such things? Then there is the blind

person who teaches another blind person to operate a chain saw, and the blind woman who

talks about baking bread. These and other true-life, first-person stories appear in this

volume.

This is not the stuff of high drama. Rather, it

is an account of the ordinary routine of daily life, the detailing of how average human

beings live and work and play—perhaps as compelling in the long run as the most

graphic international news story. I know the people who appear in these pages. They are

friends and colleagues of mine.

Besides blindness we have at least one other

thing in common. We give our time and effort to the work of the National Federation of the

Blind. We do this because the organization is the focal point for improving the quality of

life for the blind of this country. Life has been good to us, and we feel the need to give

something back—to help the newly blind, blind children, blind job seekers, blind

seniors, and each other. We feel strongly that we must contribute as well as take, but we

also realize that, if we are to go the rest of the way to real equality, we will need help

from sighted friends. These are our core beliefs, and we feel great hope and confidence in

the future.

I hope you will find this book, the fifteenth in

the series, both interesting and entertaining. If you do, we will have achieved our

purpose and come one step closer to touching the untouchable dream.

Kenneth Jernigan

Baltimore, Maryland

1998

My opening article in book fifteen is called

"Even I." Here it is:

Even I

Words play a more important part in our daily

lives than we sometimes think. They allow us to communicate with each other with wonderful

precision, and they are one of the principal features that distinguish humans from

animals. It is not that words make us human but that they enhance our humanity.

For the blind certain words have a special

meaning. As an example, when I was a boy growing up on the farm in Tennessee, I learned

early on of the significance of the words "Even I" used by my family and sighted

neighbors.

As a case in point consider the game of checkers.

In those days (when none of us in that part of the country had either telephones or radios

and when books and magazines were not part of the daily routine), the men and boys often

entertained themselves by playing checkers. I wanted to play, too, but one or another of

my family would invariably explain to me that I had to understand my limitations as a

blind person. Eventually they would get around to saying something like this, "Even I

find it difficult to play checkers."

The implication was that, because they could see

and I couldn't, I was obviously at a disadvantage, not only in checkers but in everything

else. This, of course, was just plain foolishness. All I needed was some way to feel the

squares on the checkerboard, a problem I solved by stretching a string across the squares

and tacking it down at both ends. The job took only a few minutes, and my checker playing

was not impaired by my blindness. However, in the face of all of the negatives, it took me

a while to put the system into place. The "Even I" was a definite drawback.

And this attitude of believing that sight is

always the deciding factor is not just a matter of fifty years ago or some isolated corner

of rural America. In the 1950's, when I was a teacher at the California Training Center

for the Blind, we had a student who had always been an outdoorsman. He was now in his

forties, had just become blind, and had come to us for training.

One day a number of us went to a wooded area for

an overnight camping trip, and while we were there, the new student (feeling energetic in

the fresh air) decided to climb a tree. He went up the tree with ease. A passing tourist

stopped and marveled.

"That is amazing," he said. "Even

I would have trouble climbing that tree, and I can see."

As best I could determine, the tourist was

probably in his late sixties, and he was extremely overweight. I doubt that he could have

climbed the tree if his life had depended on it, but he thought only in terms of sight and

blindness. Of course, in the circumstances blindness had nothing to do with the matter.

The "Even I" was totally irrelevant.

Later, when I was director of programs for the

blind in the state of Iowa, I was traveling to one of our district offices and stopped at

a service station to get a Coca-Cola. While I was drinking it, a man who had just come in

said:

"I can understand some of your problems, for

I am handicapped, too. My handicap is not as bad as yours, but even I have trouble getting

along."

After I left the service station and was

continuing my trip, I thought about what he had said. So far as I could tell, he had at

least three handicaps that would limit him in the competition of daily life. He had a

speech impediment, which I think was what he was talking about when he said he had a

handicap; he had a very limited education; and his intelligence did not appear to be very

high.

I think his speech impediment was the least of

his handicaps, but I am sure that he didn't see it that way. I suspect that I was much

more employable than he and much better able to participate in the rough and tumble of the

competitive world. But to him, because he could see and I could not, the edge was all in

his favor. As he said, "Even I have trouble getting along."

In the early 1980's I appeared one night on the

"Larry King Program." In those days it was entirely radio, and the studio was

about nineteen floors up from street level in a downtown Washington, D.C., building. It

was a lively program, and when we finished at midnight, my driver and I went out into the

hall to take the elevator to ground level.

The problem was that the elevator wouldn't come.

This seemed mightily upsetting to both Larry King and his assistant. I pointed out to them

that there was a fire stair immediately next to the elevator and that there would be no

problem in simply walking down to the street. It is no exaggeration to say that Larry

King's assistant was shocked. Apparently it had never occurred to him that a blind person

might take the stairs.

"Even I would not like to walk down those

nineteen flights," he said, "and I am sighted."

What sight had to do with it was more than I

could understand, but after a few minutes of trying to soothe him down and of waiting for

an elevator that persistently refused to come, we took the stairs over his protest and

walked without incident to the street.

This sort of thing happens every day, but it is

not limited to the sighted. Let me go back to my teaching experience at the training

center in California. In those days (1953 to 1958) I had not learned to sign my name. My

students told me that I was creating a bad image of blindness because of this shortcoming

and that I should get with it and learn to make a readable signature.

I argued that I rarely needed to sign my name,

that I didn't need to learn how in order to improve my self-esteem, and that I could and

would take an hour or two and learn to sign my name if the time came when I thought it

would be useful to do so.

In fact, when I became director of Iowa's

programs for the blind in 1958, I did just that. One evening as we were driving across the

country from California to Iowa, my sighted wife worked with me for an hour, and I learned

to sign my name. It is not the most elegant signature in the world, but it is legible and

serves my purposes. Incidentally, as director of the Iowa programs for the blind, I did

not sign my name as often as I thought I would, delegating routine paperwork and

signatures to a deputy. However, the fact remains that I learned to sign my name in an

evening and that I now do it without thought whenever I need to.

Yet that does not end the matter. As I have

thought about it through the years, my students were right, and I was wrong. I, who was

teaching them that blindness need not mean inferiority, was not proving up. As later

events would show, it would have been a simple matter to learn to sign my name.

So why didn't I do it? Reluctantly I conclude

that it probably had to do with "Even I." From childhood I had been told in

hundreds of ways everyday that sight meant superiority. In the circumstances it would have

been surprising if I had not absorbed and been affected by some of the mistaken notions.

Therefore, when I am tempted to be impatient or annoyed with sighted people who say

"Even I," let me remember my own experience in learning to sign my name. What we

need is not bad temper or blame but understanding and education.

This brings me to the National Federation of the

Blind, the organization which has done more than any other single thing to make life

better for blind people during the past century. The National Federation of the Blind has

local chapters in every state and almost every community of any size. These state and

local chapters come together to make up the national body.

Although we have sighted members, most of us in

the Federation are blind. We give our time and devotion because we have seen what the

National Federation of the Blind does in helping blind people lead normal, regular lives.

Through its work with parents of blind children, with seniors, with blind college

students, and with blind persons seeking employment, the National Federation of the Blind

touches every aspect of the daily lives of the blind of the nation.

We in the Federation believe that we should stand

on our own feet and do for ourselves before asking others for assistance, but we also know

that our road to independence cannot be successfully traveled without help from our

sighted friends and associates. And we have faith that this help will be forthcoming if it

is reasonably requested and wisely used.

In fact, the future looks bright for those of us

who are blind. We go into the new century with hope and confidence, and an ever-growing

number of the sighted are moving with us as part of our cause. "Even I" is still

one of our greatest problems—but that, too, is diminishing and fading into the past.

There you have the introductions and opening

articles of this year's Kernel Books. When the National Federation of the Blind came into

being in 1940, the problems we faced were overwhelming, but the most urgent and pressing

of them was to find a way to relieve the immediate distress of poverty faced by most of

the blind. After that (and it took years) we turned our attention to rehabilitation and

jobs. Then it was a question of dignity and civil rights—and although all three of

those problems are still to some extent with us, we have now moved to a fourth stage of

emphasis, that of public education.

For ultimately confrontation and legislation will

not solve our problems. To some extent both confrontation and legislation will always be

necessary, and we must certainly not forget how to do either. But in the final analysis we

cannot force people to accept us as equals, and I think we don't need to if we give them

the facts. As somebody once said, it is not necessary to be loved, but it is extremely

desirable not to be hated—and an overdose of confrontation and legislation can create

backlash and hatred.

On the other hand, education properly done brings

only good will and support. This is why we continue to invest the time and resources to

produce and distribute the Kernel Books, and the results have richly justified our faith.

We know that we are capable of living on terms of equality with the sighted and that the

sighted are capable of accepting us as such—and for the most part they want to. All

we need to do is present the facts in understandable terms.

Of course the Kernel Books are no magic bullet.

They will not solve all of our problems, and nobody thinks that they will. Certainly I

don't. As I have already said, we must retain the option of confrontation and legislation,

but these should be used sparingly and only when absolutely necessary. The better and more

productive road is education.

As we move toward the next century, we as a

movement are stronger and more confident than we have ever been. We choose peace and

harmony if we can have it, but we will do what we have to do to go the rest of the way to

equality. I have said it to you on previous occasions, and I will say it again now. The

future is ours. We know who we are, and we will never go back.