Hello Chicago. Sweet home Chicago. Please have a seat. Thank you Pun for that outstanding introduction. President and Mrs. Bush, President Secretary Clinton, thank you for being with us today and for your devotion to our country. And President and Dr. Biden, thank you for your steadfast partnership for eight years. Joe, we started as running mates and ended as family and we would not be here without you and we are grateful to our amazing foundation staff and our amazing board. To Governor Pritsker, Mayor Johnson, thank you for making this center possible. To congressional leaders and foreign dignitaries who’ve made the trip, I cherish our partnership together and all we got accomplished together. Thank you. To Michelle. Oh, yeah. She did me wrong. She wouldn’t let me see her speech. She knew she was going to mess me up and she did it anyway. But she’s always made me better. And I could not be more grateful. And to Sasha and Malia, what can I say? You mean everything to me.
More than 40 years ago, on a late summer afternoon in 1985, I arrived here in Chicago, entering the city through the very spot where this center now stands. I can still picture myself heading down what was then Cornell Drive in a janky used car that I’d bought in New York with all my worldly possessions stuffed in the trunk and the back seat. So, I really couldn’t see out of the rearview mirror and I was a safety hazard. I was 23 years old. I had just been hired by a group of churches on the south side to help organize a part of the city that had been battered by steel plant closings and chronic neglect. I didn’t have much organizing experience. I didn’t know anybody in Chicago, but I had been inspired by the civil rights movement and I knew I wanted to make a difference. And although I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to do that, I was possessed with this abiding faith that if we could give people more of a say in the forces that govern their lives, if we could bridge some of the differences that drove us apart, then we could build an America where everyone counts, everyone has a fair shot, and everyone belongs—even a mixed race kid with a weird backstory and a name nobody could pronounce.
It was here in this city, a city of broad shoulders, that I found what I was looking for. Day by day, block by block, I got to know the people who lived here, their hopes, their dreams, their tragedies, and their triumphs. I witnessed their resilience in the face of hardship and the quiet heroism of a single mom raising her kids and sending them to college on a secretary salary. Or the priest electing to stay in the city and open his doors to at-risk youth even as most of his flock had fled to the suburbs. I learned that leadership has less to do with titles or rank or chasing attention than with helping others find their voice, reaching their potential, and sitting around people’s kitchen tables or on their back porches, spending time in church basements and barber shops. I was reminded that everyone has a story to tell if you just care to listen. Sacred stories full of courage and humor and grace, and that each of those stories in some way connected to my own. In other words, I found my purpose here, I fortified my faith here, and I found my community here—friendships that would last a lifetime. And I found a girl from the south side who has been my greatest blessing.
Michelle and I, our wedding reception was over at Southshore Cultural Center; you could walk from here. Our daughters were born right down the street. This is where we bought our first home. This is where our kids took their first steps. This is where I launched my candidacy for the Illinois State Senate over at the Ramada Inn on Lakeshore Drive, serving pretzels and soda, embarking on the path that ultimately and improbably led to this day. So for me, this center could not be any place else. It’s an expression of thanks, an acknowledgement that so much of what I hold most dear, I owe to the people of this city and the people of these surrounding neighborhoods. And it’s why we designed the center not to be some lifeless mausoleum—I am too young for that—or just a place to see Michelle’s dresses, although I understand that will be the top attraction. We wanted it to be a vibrant living celebration of community where we can learn together and share the joys of art and music and sport and play. Because it’s in those moments that we’re reminded of our common humanity and strengthen the bonds of trust that not only make our lives richer but make our democracy stronger.
Now, we also wanted this center to be a celebration of the extraordinary public servants, many of whom are here today, that made this journey possible. Some of you helped get me elected. Some of you I had to talk into joining my administration. Some of you were seasoned veterans who helped show a rookie president the ropes, but a lot of you were younger than I was when I first drove into this city. We’re all a bit older now; many of you have children of your own, even grandchildren. But the passage of time has only deepened my admiration for your talent, your dedication, and your skill. It’s only deepened my gratitude for how much you and your families sacrificed to make this country better. So when you visit this center today or in days to come, I hope you see yourselves and your hard work reflected in every exhibit. And I hope you take pride in what we accomplished together. You made that happen.
Now, of course, we did not accomplish everything we set out to do. No administration does. Some of the exhibits reflect unfinished business. In some cases, my own shortcomings and mistakes. In some cases, because as a sign I kept on the resolute desk read, “Hard things are hard.” And that’s especially true in a big, rockus, diverse, argumentative democracy like the United States of America. Everybody’s got an opinion. And that means getting stuff done involves reconciling the demands of a couple of hundred million people. Democracy can be frustrating. It can be slow. It can be inefficient. And yet, more than anything, I hope this center will serve as an affirmation of just how special, how precious our democracy truly is and remind us what we can achieve when we embrace our shared responsibilities as citizens.
Since we’re a few weeks away from America’s 250th birthday, it is worth remembering just how radical the whole idea of self-government really was back in 1776. To that point, human history was a tale of conquest and caste and rigid hierarchies. A world where the strong dominated the weak, where power and wealth and status flowed through lineage, and the many were ruled by the few. But out of the fire and steel of a revolution, a different story took flight. On this continent, a declaration that we are all created equal, endowed by our creator with certain unalienable rights, and that in the newly independent United States, there will be no kings or lords, no serfs or subjects, but only citizens. Each of us free to pursue our own version of happiness and able to determine our collective fate through an elected representative government. It had not been done.
Because it hadn’t been done before, the success of this experiment was never a given. In forming our union, the founders fell terribly short of the declaration’s promise, leaving slavery intact, allowing states to restrict the franchise to white men who owned property. But in drafting a Constitution and a Bill of Rights, they did have the foresight, the genius, to provide us with a framework that allows each generation to make our union more perfect. And over more than two centuries, through petitions and protests, marches and strikes, moral appeals from the pulpit and conversations at the family dinner table, men and women from all walks of life, of every color, every faith, every region, took up the cause of democracy and made it their own, until we the people came to include not just some of us, but all of us.
That’s why the story we tell in this building begins not with Michelle’s origins or my origins, but with our nation’s—with a founding era print of the Declaration of Independence, and a pen and ink stand used by Frederick Douglas, Lincoln’s Bible, and a pamphlet by Ida B. Wells, suffragist buttons, and a hard hat worn by FDR’s labor secretary, Frances Perkins. And it’s why the exhibits here focus not just on policies, but on the shared values that make democracy possible: a belief in the intrinsic dignity and worth of all people and that no one is above the law or beneath its protection; a belief in checks and balances in our government and an accountability that comes with an independent judiciary and a robust free press; a belief that our military and law enforcement owe allegiance not to any president or political party, but to the people and our Constitution; a belief in the peaceful transfer of power after the people have spoken in fair and free elections; and a belief that qualities of character—honesty, integrity, kindness, compassion, a sense of duty and honor—matter in our public dealings just as they do in our private lives. These are the values and traditions I believe in. They are not Republican or Democratic values; they are American values we can all share regardless of party. Values every president here today has tried our best to uphold. Values that John McCain and Mitt Romney believed in no less than I did. It is our greatest inheritance, the story of America at its best, because it reflects a basic faith in the decency of our fellow citizens and the possibility that despite all of our differences, we can see each other and understand one another and make common cause together.
That’s what I hope every visitor to this center takes away. If you come for a day and you don’t have time to see everything, I would urge you to skip the clips of my speeches—you have heard them all before—in favor of the stories of those ordinary citizens who helped make that change happen. The cancer survivor who feared rising premiums would force her out of her home and was brave enough to speak out about it; the small business owner trying to keep the lights on; the teenage girl who told me she was worried her dad might lose his job in the auto crisis; the wounded warrior overcoming debilitating injuries; the gay Air Force major serving her country even when forced to hide who she was. They are why we worked to end “don’t ask, don’t tell” and care for those who’ve worn our country’s uniform. It’s their voices that led to our successes. While going through the exhibits, I’d also ask you to listen to the voices of people around the world who’ve been inspired by American ideas. Yes, America has made its share of foreign policy mistakes. Our actions have not always matched our rhetoric. We’ve learned that we can’t solve every conflict or stop every atrocity. But at our best, the United States has been an undeniable force for good in the world. When we champion human rights and democracy, when we take the lead in eradicating disease and feeding the hungry, and when we encourage cooperation between nations instead of trying to bully and squeeze every advantage, the world gets a little bit brighter.
I recognize it’s been almost a decade since I left office. In that time, we have lived through more war, a terrible pandemic, economic disruptions, mass protests, and political conflicts that have shaken the very foundation of our democracy. We’ve witnessed a technological revolution that promises remarkable discoveries but is also accelerating inequality, putting information in the palm of our hands while making it harder to tell a truth from a lie, connecting us instantly while making us more distrustful, fearful, and isolated. The future feels uncertain, the ground unstable beneath our feet. As algorithms keep feeding us a steady stream of distraction and outrage, fanning our prejudices, it’s tempting to give in to cynicism and despair. We start thinking that appeals to democracy are corny or naive, and that working for the common good is a sucker’s bet. I am not immune to anger or doubt. But I do know this: when we lose faith in each other, when we stop believing that voting matters, that citizenship matters, we give away our power to decide our own futures and open the door to those who see government as nothing more than a way to divvy up the spoils and punish enemies.
I do not believe that is the story of America that prevails in the end. For us to give in now to cynicism and division would be a betrayal of our founding ideas. I remain convinced that the overwhelming majority of Americans are looking for fairness, common sense, and mutual respect. I believe this because I’ve seen it across our country—in cities that have reclaimed their streets, in rural communities that have rebuilt their economy, and in ordinary people who stand shoulder-to-shoulder to look out for their neighbors. I’ve seen it in a new generation of leaders like Pun and Addison, and Obama Foundation leaders like Hannah, George, or Zuzanna. There are hundreds of thousands of these young people out there making a difference right now, and this center is devoted to lifting up their stories.
For while our work is nonpartisan, we are not value-neutral. We have a point of view. The exhibits in the center are not meant to evoke nostalgia for some gauzy bygone era. They’re meant to remind us of who we can be, to remind us of what’s possible so we can forge ahead, clear-eyed and confident, and do the work that still needs to be done. America’s story isn’t frozen in the past; it has chapters yet to be written, not by one person, but by all of us. One of the things a lot of presidential libraries have in common is a replica of the Oval Office. If you take a peek at the one inside this building, you will see some objects that carried special meaning for me, like a program from the 1963 March on Washington, a Norman Rockwell painting of the Statue of Liberty, and words from some of America’s greatest leaders, including a quote that inspired the arch outside: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” That quote, often invoked by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., originally comes from a Boston minister, Reverend Theodore Parker, in a sermon more than 170 years ago. At the time, the abolitionist cause seemed lost. But his words offered a declaration of faith, a defiant call not to abandon hope or give way to fear, but to stay true to our better selves and to keep fighting to fulfill the promise of this nation.
It is that spirit that we open this center today. The same spirit that inspired generations of Americans to meet the challenges of their time. There is a new generation out there ready to write the next chapter of our story. We intend to help them do it, and we ask that you join us. Thank you. God bless you. God bless the United States of America.
