On this next to last day of Poetry Month (April) and the birthday of Edward Kennedy “ Duke” Ellington born April 29, 1899. Donald Trump pushes silliness on a fearful conscious 70 years later with insulting orchestration of sterotypes utilized when many struggled to survive. This text was offered into the breathe of our souls some seventy years ago yet media melts logic with freedom of speech. We move in chorus or not at all…let the kids sing their songs empowered by generations of courage…

Insulting innuendos slung by Americans
divided from themselves,
weathering opportunities to turn up
the frequencies of race and class relations.
Graduate students on the cusp of kindness.
Unaware of the undergraduate worship
at the throne of exclusion and punishment,
open your song
to a place of passion and possibilities,
TRUMP class-ism with respect,
TRUMP contempt with connection
as the universe reaches to powers
to breathe alignment dormant far too long.
Media masses containing centuries of unjust,
crossing classes troubled alliances values vary in charming mistrust,
fling fantasies of trickle down lead astray
by lust obsessive crimes of money management
function as the American Dream.
by Jacqueline Shackelford

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I reprint the text of his speech We, Too Sing America given on Annual Lincoln Day Services in Los Angeles, CA 1941 and published as speech of the week in the California Eagle Feb. 13, 1941. The title glossed the line of Langston Hughes text I, Too Sing America in the epilogue of The Weary Blues (1926).

Except of Duke Ellington’s speech

First of all, I should like to extend my sincere appreciation to the Rev. Karl Downs for the opportunity to appear on this very fine program and express myself in a manner not often at my disposal. Music is my business, my profession and my life…but, even though it means so much to me, I often feel that I’d like to have my say, on some of the burning issues confronting us, in another language…in words of mouth.
There is a good deal of talk in the world today. Some view that as a bad sign. One of the Persian poets, lamenting the great activity of men’s tongues, cautioned them to be silent with the reminder that, “In much of your talking, thinking is half murdered” his is true no doubt. Yet in the day when men are silent because they are afraid to speak, indeed, have been forbidden to speak, I view the volubility of unrestricted with great satisfaction. Here in America, the silence of Europe, silent that is except for the harsh echoes of the dictators voices, has made us conscious of our privileges of free speech, and like a dumb suddenly given tongue, or a the tongue tied eased with restraint, we babble and bay to beat the band. Singly, as individuals, we don’t say much of consequence perhaps, but put together, heard in chorus, the blustering half truths, the lame and halting logic, the painfully- sincere convictions of Joe and Mary Doaks…compose a powerful symphony which like a small boy’s brave whistle in the dark, serves notice on the hobgoblins that we are not asleep, not prey to unchallenged attack. And, so it is, with the idea in mind of adding my bit to the meaningful chorus, that I address you briefly this evening.

In the poem, Mr. Hughes argues the case for democratic recognition of the Negro on the basis of the Negro contribution to America, a contribution of labor, valor and culture. One hears that argument repeated frequently in the Race press, from the pulpit and rostrum. America is reminded of the feats of Crispus Attacks, Peter Salem, black armies in the Revolution, the War of 1812. the Civil War, the Spanish America War, the World War. Further, forgetful America is reminded that we sing without false notes, as borne out by the fact that there are no records of black traitors in the archives of American history. That is all well and good, but I believe it to be only half the story.
We play more than a minority role, in singing “America.” Although numerically but 10 percent of the mammoth chorus that today, with an eye overseas, sings America with fervor and thanksgiving. I say our 10 percent is the very heart of the chorus: the sopranos, so to speak, carrying the melody, the rhythm section of the band, the violins, pointing the way.

I contend that the Negro is the creative voice of America, is creative America, and it was a happy day in America when the first unhappy slave landed on its shores. There in our tortured induction into this “ land of liberty, ” we built its most graceful civilization. Its wealth, its flowering fields and handsome homes.

Its pretty traditions, its guarded leisure and its music, were all our creations.
We stirred in our shackles and our unrest awakened Justice in our hearts of a courageous few, and we recreated in America the desire for true democracy,

freedom for all, the brotherhood of man, principles on which the country has been founded. We were freed and as before, we fought America’s wars, provided her labor, gave her music, kept alive her flickering conscience, prodded her on toward the yet unachieved goal, democracy – until we became more than a part of America! We – this kicking, yelling, touchy, sensitive, scrupulously – demanding minority – are the personification of the ideal begun by the Pilgrims almost 350 years ago.
It is our voice that sang “America” when America grew too lazy, satisfied and confident to sing…before the dark threats and fire-lined clouds of destruction frightened it into a thin, panicky quaver.
We are more than a few isolated instances of courage, valor, and achievement. We’re the injection, the shot in the arm, that kept America and its forgotten principles alive in the fat and corrupt years intervening between our divine and near tragic present.