One of the things about the presidency is that you're always somewhat apart. You spend a lot of time
going by
too fast in a car someone else is driving, and seeing the people through tinted glass—the parents holding
up a
child, and the wave you saw too late and couldn't return. And so many times I wanted to stop and reach
out from
behind the glass, and connect. Well, rnaybe I can do a little of that tonight.
People ask how I feel about leaving. And, the fact is, "parting is such sweet sorrow." The sweet part is
California, and the ranch and freedom. The sorrow—the good-byes, of course, and leaving this beautiful
place. You
know, down the hall and up the stairs from this office is the part of the White House where the president
and his
family live. There are a few favorite windows I have up there that I like to stand and look out of early in
the
morning. The view is over the grounds here to the Washington Monument, and then the Mall and the
Jefferson
Memorial. But on mornings when the humidity is low, you can see past the Jefferson to the river, the
Potomac, and
the Virginia shore. Someone said that's the view Lincoln had when he saw the smoke rising from the
Battle of Bull
Run. Well, I see more prosaic things: the grass on the banks, the morning traffic as people make their
way to work,
now and then a sailboat on the river.
I've been thinking a bit at that window. I've been reflecting on what the past eight years have meant and
mean.
And the image that comes to mind like a refrain is a nautical one—a small story about a big ship, and a
refugee
and a sailor. It was back in the early eighties, at the height of the boat people. And the sailor was hard at
work on
the carrier Midway, which was patrolling the South China Sea. The sailor, like most American
servicemen, was
young, smart, and fiercely observant. The crew spied on the horizon a leaky little boat. And crammed
inside were
refugees from Indochina hoping to get to America. The Midway sent a small launch to bring them to the
ship and
safety. As the refugees made their way through the choppy seas, one spied the sailor on deck, and stood
up, and
called out to him. He yelled, "Hello, American sailor. Hello, freedom man." A small moment with a big
meaning, a
moment the sailor, who wrote it in a letter, couldn't get out of his mind. And when I saw it, neither could
I.
Because that's what it has to—it was to be an American in the 1980s. We stood, again, for freedom. I
know we
always have, but in the past few years the world again, and in a way, we ourselves—rediscovered it.
It's been quite a journey this decade, and we held together through some stormy seas. And at the end,
together,
we're reaching our destination. The fact is, from Grenada to the Washington and Moscow summits, from
the
recession of '81 to '82, to the expansion that began in late '82 and continues to this day, we've made a
difference.
The way I see it, there were two great triumphs, two things that I'm proudest of. One is the economic
recovery, in
which the people of America created—and filled—19 million new jobs. The other is the recovery of our
morale.
America is respected again in the world and looked to for leadership.
Something that happened to me a few years ago reflects some of this. It was back in 1981, and I was
attending
my first big economic summit, which was held that year in Canada. The meeting place rotates among the
member
countries. The opening meeting was a formal dinner for the heads of government of the seven
industrialized
nations. Well, I sat there like the new kid in school and listened, and it was all Francois this and Helmut
that. They
dropped titles and spoke to one another on a first-name basis. Well, at one point I sort of leaned in and
said, "My
name's Ron. " Well, in that same year, we began the actions we felt would ignite an economic
comeback—cut taxes
and regulation, started to cut spending. And soon the recovery began. Two years later another economic
summit,
with pretty much the same cast. At the big opening meeting we all got together, and all of a sudden, and
just for a
moment, I saw that everyone was just sitting there looking at me. And then one of them broke the silence.
"Tell us
about the American miracle," he said.
Well, back in 1980, when I was running for president, it was all so different. Some pundits said our
programs
would result in a catastrophe. Our views on foreign affairs would cause war. Our plans for the economy
would
cause inflation to soar and bring about economic collapse. I even remember one highly respected
economist saying,
back in 1982, that "The engines of economic growth have shut down here, and they're likely to stay that
way for
years to come." Well, he and the other opinion leaders were wrong. The fact is, what they called "radical"
was
really "right." What they called "dangerous" was just "desperately needed."
And in all of that time I won a nickname, the "Great Communicator. " But I never thought it was my
style or
the words I used that made a difference: it was the content. I wasn't a great communicator, but I
communicated
great things, and they didn't spring full bloom from my brow, they came from the heart of a great
nation—from our
experience, our wisdom, and our belief in the principles that have guided us for two centuries. They
called it the
Reagan revolution. And I'll accept that, but for me it always seemed more like the great rediscovery, a
rediscovery
of our values and our common sense.
Common sense told us that when you put a big tax on something, the people will produce less of it. So,
we cut
the people's tax rates, and the people produced more than ever before. The economy bloomed like a plant
that had
been cut back and could now grow quicker and stronger. Our economic program brought about the
longest
peacetime expansion in our history: real family income up, the poverty rate down, entrepreneurship
booming, and
an explosion in research and new technology. We're exporting more than ever because American industry
became
more competitive and at the same time, we summoned the national will to knock down protectionist
walls abroad
instead of erecting them at home.
Common sense also told us that to preserve the peace, we'd have to become strong again after years of
weakness
and confusion. So, we rebuilt our defenses, and this New Year we toasted the new peacefulness around
the globe.
Not only have the superpowers actually begun to reduce their stockpiles of nuclear weapons—and hope
for even
more progress is bright—but the regional conflicts that rack the globe are also beginning to cease. The
Persian
Gulf is no 1onger a war zone. The Soviets are leaving Afghanistan. The Vietnamese are preparing to pull
out of
Cambodia, and an American-mediated accord will soon send 50,000 Cuban troops home from Angola.
The lesson of all this was, of course, that because we're a great nation, our challenges seem complex. It
will
always be this way. But as long as we remember our first principles and believe in ourselves, the future
will always
be ours. And something else we learned: once you begin a great movement, there's no telling where it
will end. We
meant to change a nation, and instead, we changed a world. Countries across the globe are turning to free
markets
and free speech, and turning away from ideologies of the past. For them, the great rediscovery of the
1980s has
been that, lo and behold, the moral way of government is the practical way of government: democracy,
the
profoundly good, is also the profoundly productive.
When you've got to the point when you can celebrate the anniversaries of your thirty-ninth birthday, you
can sit
back sometimes, review your life, and see it flowing before you. For me there was a fork in the river, and
it was
right in the middle of my life. I never meant to go into politics. [It] wasn't my intention when I was
young. But I
was raised to believe you had to pay your way for the blessings bestowed on you. I was happy with my
career in the
entertainment world, but I ultirnately went into politics because I wanted to protect something precious.
Ours was the first revolution in the history of mankind that truly reversed the course of government, and
with
three little words: "We the People." "We the People" tell the government what to do, it doesn't tell us.
"We the
People" are the driver, the government is the car. And we decide where it should go, and by what route,
and how
fast. Almost all the world's constitutions are documents in which governments tell the people what their
privileges
are. Our Constitution is a document in which "We the People" tell the government what it is allowed to
do. "We
the People" are free. This belief has been the underlying basis for everything I've tried to do these past
eight years.
But back in the 1960s, when I began, it seemed to me that we'd begun reversing the order of things—that
through more and more rules and regulations and confiscatory taxes, the government was taking more of
our
money, more of our options, and more of our freedom. I went into politics in part to put up my hand and
say,
"Stop." I was a citizen politician, and it seemed the right thing for a citizen to do. I think we have stopped
a lot of
what needed stopping. And I hope we have once again reminded people that man is not free unless
government is
limited. There's a clear cause and effect here that is as neat and predictable as a law of physics: as
government
expands, liberty contracts.
Nothing is less free than pure communism, and yet we have, the past few years, forged a satisfying new
closeness with the Soviet Union. I've been asked if this isn't a gamble, and my answer is no because we're
basing
our actions not on words but deeds. The détente of the 1970s was based not on actions but promises.
They'd
promised to treat their own people and the people of the world better. But the gulag was still the gulag,
and the
state was still expansionist, and they still waged proxy wars in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Well,
this time, so
far, it's different. President Gorbachev has brought about some internal democratic reforms and begun the
withdrawal from Afghanistan. He has also freed prisoners whose names I've given him every time we've
met.
But life has a way of reminding you of big things through small incidents. Once, during the heady days of
the
Moscow summit, Nancy and I decided to break off from the entourage one afternoon to visit the shops on
Rabat
Street—that's a little street just off Moscow's main shopping area. Even though our visit was a surprise,
every
Russian there immediately recognized us and called out our names, and reached for our hands. We were
just about
swept away by the warmth. You could almost feel the possibilities in all that joy. But within seconds, a
KGB detail
pushed their way toward us and began pushing and shoving the people in the crowd. It was an interesting
moment.
It reminded me that while the man on the street in the Soviet Union yearns for peace, the government is
Communist. And those who run it are Communists, and that means we and they view such issues as
freedom and
human rights very differently.
We must keep up our guard, but we must also continue to work together to lessen and eliminate tension
and
mistrust. My view is that President Gorbachev is different from previous Soviet leaders. I think he knows
some of
the things wrong with his society and is trying to fix them. We wish him well. And we'll continue to work
to make
sure that the Soviet Union that eventually emerges from this process is a less threatening one. What it all
boils
down to is this. I want the new closeness to continue. And it will, as long as we make it clear that we will
continue
to act in a certain way as long as they continue to act in a helpful manner. If and when they don't, at first
pull your
punches. If they persist, pull the plug. It's still trust but verify. It's still play, but cut the cards. It's still
watch
closely. And don't be afraid to see what you see.
I've been asked if I have any regrets. Well, I do. The deficit is one. I've been talking a great deal about
that
lately, but tonight isn't for arguments. And I'm going to hold my tongue. But an observation: I've had my
share of
victories in the Congress, but what few people noticed is that I never won anything you didn't win for me.
They
never saw my troops; they never saw Reagan's regiments, the American people. You won every battle
with every
call you made and letter you wrote demanding action. Well, action is still needed. If we're to finish the
job of
Reagan's regiments, [they] will have to become the Bush brigades. Soon he'll be the chief, and he'll need
you every
bit as much as I did.
Finally, there is a great tradition of warnings in presidential farewells, and I've got one that's been on my
mind
for some time. But oddly enough it starts with one of the things I'm proudest of in the past eight years:
the
resurgence of national pride that I called the new patriotism. This national feeling is good, but it won't
count for
much, and it won't last unless it's grounded in thoughtfulness and knowledge.
An informed patriotism is what we want. And are we doing a good enough job teaching our children what
America is and what she represents in the long history of our world? Those of us who are over 35 or so
years of age
grew up in a different America. We were taught, very directly, what it means to be an American. And we
absorbed,
almost in the air, a cove of country and an appreciation of its institutions. If you didn't get these things
from your
family, you got them from the neighborhood, from the father down the street who fought in Korea or the
family
who lost someone at Anzio. Or you could get a sense of patriotism from school. And if all else failed, you
could get
a sense of patriotism from the popular culture. The movies celebrated democratic values and implicitly
reinforced
the idea that America was special. TV was like that, too, through the mid-sixties.
But now, we're about to enter the nineties, and some things have changed. Younger parents aren't sure
that an
unambivalent appreciation of America is the right thing to teach modern children. And as for those who
create the
popular culture, well-grounded patriotism is no longer the style. Our spirit is back, but we haven't
reinstitutionalized it. We've got to do a better job of getting across that America is freedom—freedom of
speech,
freedom of religion, freedom of enterprise. And freedom is special and rare. It's fragile; it needs
production
[protection].
So, we've got to teach history based not on what's in fashion but what's important: why the Pilgrims came
here,
who Jimmy Doolittle was, and what those 30 seconds over Tokyo meant. You know, four years ago, on
the 40th
anniversary of D-Day, I read a letter from a young woman writing of her late father, who'd fought on
Omaha
Beach. Her name was Lisa Zanatta Henn, and she said, "we will always remember, we will never forget
what the
boys of Normandy did." Well, let's help her keep her word. If we forget what we did, we won't know who
we are.
I'm warning of an eradication of that—of the American memory that could result, ultimately, in an
erosion of the
American spirit. Let's start with some basics: more attention to American history and a greater emphasis
on civic
ritual. And let me offer lesson number one about America: all great change in America begins at the
dinner table.
So, tomorrow night in the kitchen I hope the talking begins. And children, if your parents haven't been
teaching
you what it means to be an American, let 'em know and nail 'em on it. That would be a very American
thing to do.
And that's about all I have to say tonight. Except for one thing. The past few days when I've been at that
window upstairs, I've thought a bit of the "shining city upon a hill. " The phrase comes from John
Winthrop, who
wrote it to describe the America he imagined. What he imagined was important because he was an early
Pilgrim,
an early freedom man. He journeyed here on what today we'd call a little wooden boat; and like the other
Pilgrims,
he was looking for a home that would be free.
I've spoken of the shining city all my political life, but I don't know if I ever quite communicated what I
saw
when I said it. But in my mind it was a tall proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, wind-swept,
God-
blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace, a city with free ports that
hummed with
commerce and creativity, and if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to
anyone
with the will and the heart to get here. That's how I saw it, and see it still.
And how stands the city on this winter night? More prosperous, more secure, and happier than it was
eight
years ago. But more than that; after 200 years, two centuries, she still stands strong and true on the
granite ridge,
and her glow has held steady no matter what storm. And she's still a beacon, still a magnet for all who
must have
freedom, for all the pilgrims from all the lost places who are hurtling through the darkness, toward home.
We've done our part. And as I walk off into the city streets, a final word to the men and women of the
Reagan
revolution, the men and women across America who for eight years did the work that brought America
back. My
friends, we did it. We weren't just marking time. We made a difference. We made the city stronger. We
made the
city freer, and we left her in good hands. All in all, not bad, not bad at all.
And so, good-bye, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.
My fellow Americans: this is the 34th time I'll speak to you from the Oval Office and the last. We've
been
together eight years now, and soon it'll be time for me to go. But before I do, I wanted to share some
thoughts,
some of which I've been saving for a long time. It's been the honor of my life to be your president. So
many of you
have written the past few weeks to say thanks, but I could say as much to you. Nancy and I are grateful
for the
opportunity you gave us to serve.
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