Oprah Winfrey’s Golden Globe Speech (2018)
Ah! Thank you. Thank you all. O.K., O.K. Thank you, Reese. In 1964, I was a little girl
sitting on the linoleum floor of my mother’s house in Milwaukee, watching Anne
Bancroft present the Oscar for best actor at the 36th Academy Awards. She opened the
envelope and said five words that literally made history: “The winner is Sidney Poitier.”
Up to the stage came the most elegant man I had ever seen. I remember his tie was
white, and of course his skin was black. And I’d never seen a black man being celebrated
like that. And I’ve tried many, many, many times to explain what a moment like that
means to a little girl — a kid watching from the cheap seats, as my mom came through
the door bone-tired from cleaning other people’s houses. But all I can do is quote and
say that the explanation’s in Sidney’s performance in “Lilies of the Field”: “Amen, amen.
Amen, amen.” In 1982, Sidney received the Cecil B. DeMille Award right here at the
Golden Globes, and it is not lost on me that at this moment there are some little girls
watching as I become the first black woman to be given this same award.
It is an honor, and it is a privilege to share the evening with all of them, and also with
the incredible men and women who’ve inspired me, who’ve challenged me, who’ve
sustained me and made my journey to this stage possible. Dennis Swanson, who took a
chance on me for “A.M. Chicago”; Quincy Jones, who saw me on that show and said to
Steven Spielberg, “Yes, she is Sophia in ‘The Color Purple’”; Gayle, who’s been the
definition of what a friend is; and Stedman, who’s been my rock — just a few to name.
I’d like to thank the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, because we all know that the
press is under siege these days.
But we also know that it is the insatiable dedication to uncovering the absolute truth
that keeps us from turning a blind eye to corruption and to injustice. To tyrants and
victims and secrets and lies. I want to say that I value the press more than ever before,
as we try to navigate these complicated times. Which brings me to this: What I know for
sure is that speaking your truth is the most powerful tool we all have. And I’m especially
proud and inspired by all the women who have felt strong enough and empowered
enough to speak up and share their personal stories. Each of us in this room are
celebrated because of the stories that we tell. And this year we became the story. But it’s
not just a story affecting the entertainment industry. It’s one that transcends any
culture, geography, race, religion, politics or workplace.
So I want tonight to express gratitude to all the women who have endured years of abuse
and assault, because they — like my mother — had children to feed and bills to pay and
dreams to pursue. They’re the women whose names we’ll never know. They are domestic
workers and farmworkers; they are working in factories and they work in restaurants,
and they’re in academia and engineering and medicine and science; they’re part of the
world of tech and politics and business; they’re our athletes in the Olympics and they’re
our soldiers in the military.
And they’re someone else: Recy Taylor, a name I know and I think you should know,
too. In 1944, Recy Taylor was a young wife and a mother. She was just walking home
from a church service she’d attended in Abbeville, Ala., when she was abducted by six
armed white men, raped and left blindfolded by the side of the road, coming home from
church. They threatened to kill her if she ever told anyone, but her story was reported to
the N.A.A.C.P., where a young worker by the name of Rosa Parks became the lead
investigator on her case and together they sought justice. But justice wasn’t an option in
the era of Jim Crow. The men who tried to destroy her were never persecuted. Recy
Taylor died 10 days ago, just shy of her 98th birthday. She lived, as we all have lived, too
many years in a culture broken by brutally powerful men. And for too long, women have
not been heard or believed if they dared to speak their truth to the power of those men.
But their time is up. Their time is up. Their time is up.
And I just hope that Recy Taylor died knowing that her truth — like the truth of so many
other women who were tormented in those years, and even now tormented — goes
marching on. It was somewhere in Rosa Parks’s heart almost 11 years later, when she
made the decision to stay seated on that bus in Montgomery. And it’s here with every
woman who chooses to say, “Me too.” And every man — every man — who chooses to
listen. In my career, what I’ve always tried my best to do, whether on television or
through film, is to say something about how men and women really behave: to say how
we experience shame, how we love and how we rage, how we fail, how we retreat,
persevere, and how we overcome. And I’ve interviewed and portrayed people who’ve
withstood some of the ugliest things life can throw at you, but the one quality all of them
seem to share is an ability to maintain hope for a brighter morning — even during our
darkest nights.
So I want all the girls watching here and now to know that a new day is on the horizon!
And when that new day finally dawns, it will be because of a lot of magnificent women,
many of whom are right here in this room tonight, and some pretty phenomenal men,
fighting hard to make sure that they become the leaders who take us to the time when
nobody ever has to say, ‘Me too’ again. Thank you.”
