Keynote Address for Jubilee Day

Good Morning.

Thank you for that great introduction, Carolyn. She is my sister, a Fiskite, Class of 1961, and the mother of U.S. Senator Cory Booker of New Jersey.

Thank you to Alumni Affairs Director Adrienne Latham and her staff, and to President Agenia Walker Clark.

I want to thank my children and grandchildren who traveled here today to support my efforts: my son, Henry Dan Bailey, and his wife Juana; my oldest daughter, Dr. Paula Bailey Walton, and her daughter, my granddaughter Sydney Walton; and my second-born daughter, Dr. Pamela Bailey Herbert, and her son, my grandson Nathan Herbert.

I was blessed with another presence here today — Charles Mayfield. Someone I had not heard from in 47 years. He was a child patient whom I once invited to Holman United Methodist in Los Angeles to hear the Jubilee Singers. He went, was so inspired that he attended Fisk, became a Jubilee Singer, and said he was coming here today.

Many classmates also sent me special encouragement and good wishes for today — Freddie, Beatrice, Ethel, Donna, Hertha, Billie, Jeanne, and many more. People matter!

So I am first and foremost grateful to God — for the people I have just lifted up, and for God’s grace in allowing me to be here today.

To the students, faculty, alumni, guests, classmates, and beloved community of Nashville — Good morning.

What a privilege it is to stand before you on this sacred day — Jubilee Day — October 6th. A date etched not only into the history of Fisk University, but into the heart of American cultural and spiritual heritage.

After Carolyn’s wonderful introduction, you might be thinking: Now, what is she going to say? I’m not able to leap buildings in a single bound or climb any mountaintops like Diana Ross sings about. The truth is, I get stumped trying to remember my passwords as well as how to program my remote. So let’s just say, I have no superhero cape. But I am here today with a full heart.

I am kind of like the turtle who said, “I only make progress when I stick my neck out.” So, if that’s enough to get us started, then we are already climbing together.

People matter. History matters. Today matters.

Seventy years ago, I left Los Angeles on the Sunset Limited train, leaving high school classmates and friends behind, heading to Louisiana. My grandmother accompanied me on the Missouri Pacific train on the last link of the journey, carrying that wonderful shoebox of fried chicken and pound cake. My mother had packed my trunk full of clothes, bound for Fisk.

I sat right where you are today, in this sacred space, at the foot of leaders.

I heard Dr. Martin Luther King deliver his famous “street sweeper” speech: If it befalls you to become a street sweeper, be the best the world has ever known.

I heard Dr. Benjamin Mays, president of Morehouse College, speak of making excellence not an event, but a habit.

I witnessed W.E.B. Du Bois lead our graduating Class of 1958 — the talented tenth, founder of the NAACP.

Mountains were crossed to get here — by me and by you. We’ve been blessed.

Today we pause to honor the day in 1871 when a group of young students, led by the bold vision of George L. White, walked off this very campus — not with wealth, not with institutional power, but with voices. Pure, unshaken voices that would carry the story, the soul, and the suffering of a people across this nation and beyond.

I like to open with a story. As my minister used to say, “If you forget the message, keep the story.” One day…In the summer of 1960, the world watched a young Black woman from Clarksville, Tennessee, run faster than anyone had ever seen. Her name was Wilma Rudolph. She was the 20th of 22 children, born premature, and stricken with polio as a child. Doctors said she might never walk without a brace. But Wilma refused to let her future be written by her circumstances. With grit, prayer, and the fierce love of a determined mother, she learned not only to walk — she learned to run. And run she did. In Rome, Wilma won three Olympic gold medals, becoming the fastest woman in the world and a symbol of perseverance for millions. She showed us that the finish line is not just for the swift — it belongs to the steadfast.

The Jubilee Singers’ legacy is much like Wilma’s.

Fisk University opened its doors in 1866, offering education to “young men and women irrespective of color” — the first of its kind. By 1871, the school faced a financial cliff. 

Buildings were crumbling, resources vanishing, hope thinning. And in that moment of crisis, a vision was born.

George White gathered nine brave students — many of them teenagers, most of them formerly enslaved — and set out not just to raise money, but to raise voices. They called them “curiosities.” They expected minstrel acts. But what the world received was sacred: Negro spirituals, sung with dignity, power, and truth.

The road was not easy. The earliest performances were met with confusion, cold silence, and even hostility. Audiences didn’t know what to make of these serious, poised young Black singers refusing to entertain with caricature. Yet something happened. When they sang Steal Away, or Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, or Go Down, Moses — something stirred in the rooms. And something stirred in the nation.

In Cincinnati, they earned $50 — and promptly donated it to victims of the Chicago Fire. 

In Boston, they were invited to sing at the World Peace Jubilee. By the end of 1872, they were singing for President Ulysses S. Grant at the White House. A year later, they were singing for Queen Victoria.

With the money they raised, they built Fisk’s first permanent building — Jubilee Hall — a towering testament to the power of song, sacrifice, and vision. A building that still stands today, housing a floor-to-ceiling portrait of those original singers — a gift from the Queen herself.

Think about that: from former slaves to White House performers. From crumbling walls to Jubilee Hall. This is no ordinary legacy. This is testimony. And we are its inheritors.

So why do we gather every October 6th? We gather to remember — nine young people who could have turned inward in despair but chose to sing outward with faith. We gather to recommit — to education, to excellence, to justice. Because the Jubilee Singers didn’t just save a school. They modeled what it means to walk in purpose, to sacrifice for the greater good, and to lift your voice even when your feet are tired. We gather to inspire today’s students — many of whom are walking your own road of adversity — to know that you, too, are heirs to greatness.

To the students: those Jubilee Singers were your age. Teenagers. Some barely 20. They didn’t have TikTok followers or fancy wardrobes. They had grit. They had purpose. They had a story.

And so do you.

Let this day remind you: Your voice matters. Whether you sing, write, code, preach, paint, march, or mentor — your voice can carry light into the world. You stand on sacred shoulders. Don’t just remember history. Extend it. The spirituals sung by the Jubilee Singers were more than music. They were coded prayers. They were resistance. They were theology. They were survival.

And the fact that the current ensemble — yes, our modern-day Jubilee Singers — still sings those songs across the globe today is living proof that truth cannot be silenced. That art has the power to transform not only listeners, but nations.

After this convocation, we will journey together to the final resting places of four of those original singers. Let us walk there not in mourning, but in gratitude.

Let us remember not just their deaths, but their daring. Not just their sacrifice, but their legacy of light that continues to shine.

As we stand at their graves, may we each whisper a word of thanks. And may we each ask ourselves:
- What am I willing to sing for?
- What am I willing to stand for?
- What legacy am I leaving behind?

In 2007, the Fisk Jubilee Singers were invited to perform in a small town in Germany. After the concert, an elderly woman approached them in tears. She spoke in broken English: “My mother heard your singers when she was a little girl, long ago, during the war. She said their songs gave her hope when everything else was gone.” The students were stunned. They had come to sing for strangers, yet here was living proof that the voices of the Jubilee Singers — from decades past — had reached across time, language, and oceans to comfort a child in her darkest hour. That woman gripped the hand of one of the singers and said, “You don’t know what your voice will mean to someone you will never meet.”

Friends, that is the true power of this legacy. The original Jubilee Singers could never have imagined a little girl in wartime Europe — yet their songs found her. Just as your courage, your work, your truth will find people in places you cannot see today.

So as we leave here, remember: history is not just something you inherit. It’s something you build, note by note, act by act, day by day.

If I have learned anything, it’s this: the climb is never easy, but it’s always worth it. And it’s true — better to be an hour early than a minute late.

So let’s face our mountains together with the same courage Wilma Rudolph carried, the same courage Dr. Martin Luther King lived, and the same courage the Jubilee Singers carried — with the confidence that no obstacle is high enough to silence their song.

Nikki Giovanni said in her poetry: There may be a reason why.

Langston Hughes, in Mother to Son, said: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. But I’ve been climbing, reaching a landing, turning a corner.

Dr. Massey, over in the Fisk Chemistry Lab, used to say: Students are not vessels to be filled but torches to be lighted.

Thank God for great teachers. Make sure you come to chapel or to a church of your choice and get your cup refilled on Sunday morning.

In closing, I’ve heard it said that a good speech is like a good airplane ride. You want to enjoy the journey, but more importantly, you want to land safely.

So, as we land together now, may we leave with the courage of the young Jubilee Singers and the words of Dr. Martin Luther King: If you can’t fly, run. If you can’t run, walk. If you can’t walk, crawl. But keep moving forward.

Keep climbing! Sing your song — because someone, somewhere, is waiting for the hope only you can carry. Let Jubilee live. God bless you, every one.

Thank you.

Shirley J. Bailey, BA, D.D.S., F.A.C.D.
Fisk Class of 1958, BA Biology
Alpha Beta Soror, Delta Sigma Theta
shrlywhrl@aol.com | shirleyjbailey.com
Author – Love A La Carte