Ed. note: We bring you the opening speech of the 140th AIA national convention, May 15, 2008, in Boston, by AIA President Marshall E. Purnell, FAIA, in its entirety below.

“We the People.” Four syllables, three words. Perhaps the three most powerful words after “Let there be light.” God’s word created the world. The words written by James Madison changed it.

Madison was not specific. He didn’t spell out who he had in mind. Was he able to escape his own times? Was he thinking that “We the people” included women? What about Native Americans, people without property? What about slaves?

And yet, and yet . . .

Those words are magic! They escape the tyranny of their time. “We the People!”

Breathe in the oxygen . . . the life-giving energy of these visionary words. Challenged by succeeding generations of the excluded and marginalized, the words have grown stronger . . . the meaning more profound . . . and the effect transformational.

From every corner
Susan B. Anthony drew from the well of Madison’s words. This is what she found:

“It was we, the people; not we, the white male citizens; nor yet we, the male citizens; but we, the whole people, who formed the union . . . Men, their rights and nothing more; women, their rights and nothing less.”

The spirit of “We the People” breathes through the text of the 14th Amendment, Section 1:

“All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.”

“We the People.”

The great 20th century theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, believed that to achieve any kind of justice in an unjust world, the most vulnerable . . . the most vulnerable need to be empowered.

The healing genius of design
Because of what we do as architects—our training, our habit of working collaboratively, our creative gifts—because of these, we have both the ability and, I firmly believe, the responsibility to empower those who have been marginalized . . .

. . . to reach into communities that have not been touched by the healing genius of design, communities that have lost hope, communities that lack the resources to articulate a vision for themselves and their children.

What a gift, what a privilege to have the capacity to do so much and to have the skills to make a difference.

The face of America
Yet, let’s be candid:

How are we perceived by the average citizen? What about those who fall below the radar—the poor, the elderly, the immigrant, the incarcerated, the coal miners of Appalachia, the Native American?

Are we less detached, less removed, less distinguished by the “thunderous silence” Whitney Young accused us of 40 years ago? Are we sought out by our neighbors as essential—essential, can’t-do-without—to the solution of critical issues of public health, safety, and welfare?

As a society, America has made progress. You can’t deny it. Look at the candidates running for our nation’s highest office. Is this what Madison had in mind when he wrote “We the People”?

Praise be: This is the face of America. This is the face capturing the world’s imagination. This is a face rekindling a light, a spirit of hope hidden in the shadows far, far too long.

As a profession, we’ve also made progress. You see it in the schools, where today women make up half the class.

Nevertheless, in coming to grips with who we should be and who we should be serving, are we still confusing words for action?

The people’s songs
At the beginning of the 20th century, “serious” music was written by American composers whose ears were tuned to Europe. We shut out, dismissed as trivial what was sung in the streets or factories or churches or down on the farm. We closed the concert house doors to the music of the people—ragtime, sea chanteys, Gospel, Shaker hymns, and folk.

Not dignified, trivial, low class! Proper men and women listened to other nations’ songs.

Yet the stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone of the world’s song. The Middle East, China, Russia, Africa—we may not see eye-to-eye politically. But the feet of every nation are dancing to our music. The world’s children are humming America’s songs.

Imagine the possibilities. Imagine a golden age of American architecture serving constituencies we have hardly touched!

We the People. Not a few, not some, not even many, but all of us.

The politics of possibility
The premise in the next three days is to break our silence. To gather in this place, here in Boston, to have conversations that are hard. Conversations between equals that put both parties at risk of being drawn to understand where the other person is coming from.

Hard but not impossible: The polemics of limits must be transcended through a politics of possibility.

The work of this convention is to demonstrate that architects are essential . . . that our profession is a resource to address the most pressing issues of our time—where we live, where we work, how we come together, our place on the land, our place in the world, and how we leave it for the generations to come.

The power of architecture on behalf of all people underlies every aspect of this convention. The program, both here and in the workshops and seminars, is designed to inspire . . . to inspire on many scales of interest, from the role of the architect in the world as a shaper of policy to the voice of people who might otherwise not be represented. To heal the split between what we say and what we do.

All to come to grips with one thing, one thing that Martin Luther King described as life’s most persistent and urgent question: “What are we doing for others?”