(A) When I was 17, I discovered a wonderful thing. My father and I were sitting on the floor of his study. We were organizing his old papers. Across the carpet I saw a fat paper clip. Its rust dusted the cover sheet of a report of some kind. I picked it up. I started to read. Then I started to cry.
(B) “Daddy,” I said, handing him the pages, “this speech ― how did you ever get permission to give it? And weren’t you scared?” “Well, honey,” he said, “I didn’t ask for permission. I just asked myself, ‘What is the most important challenge facing my generation?’ I knew immediately. Then (a) I asked myself, ‘And if I weren’t afraid, what would I say about it in this speech?’”
(C) It was a speech he had written in 1920, in Tennessee. Then only 17 himself and graduating from high school, he had called for equality for African Americans. (b) I marvelled, proud of him, and wondered how, in 1920, so young, so white, and in the deep South, where the law still separated black from white, (c) he had had the courage to deliver it. I asked him about it.
(D) “I wrote it. And I delivered it. About half way through I looked out to see the entire audience of teachers, students, and parents stand up ― and walk out. Left alone on the stage, (d) I thought to myself, ‘Well, I guess I need to be sure to do only two things with my life: keep thinking for myself, and not get killed.’” He handed the speech back to me, and smiled. “(e) You seem to have done both,” I said.