My America, Part I: The Dream

It’s taken me basically 2 days to be able to write this post. Two days of the most incredibly strong emotions. Two days of pain, elation, panic and fear. This is a two part post, because there’s just too much to put in one. The second part is called My America, Part II: The Nightmare.

The Oregonian Front Page, from Oregonlive.com

On Election Night, something hit me that was much stronger than anything I had anticipated. The level of emotion that I felt was more than I’d ever expected.

I realize now that this was due as much to my own doubts  about political possibilities as it was to low expectations of my country. Michelle Obama was lambasted for saying it- but she was saying nothing more than what many people have felt for much of their lives.

But on Election Night, something washed over me like a river over a rock, and it was both cleansing and terrifyingly powerful. The memory of it happening is so clear, almost as if it’s not a memory at all, but the present moment. I remember it exactly as it happened. That night, I looked at the TV and saw the number ’284′

We thought it was a joke at first. At our Election Night part,y we were talking to one another and suddenly realized that something was going on. There were these scenes of people shown on the television. People cheering, Morehouse college students screaming, men and women crying and a picture of Barack Obama with “President-elect” beneath his name.

For a moment, we thought it was a joke or some hoax. But then I looked at the bottom of the screen and saw the number ’284.’ The 270 electoral vote barrier had been crossed.

284.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breath. Surrounded by my best friends, laughing and cheering, I found that I couldn’t breath and within moments I realized that it wasn’t my throat closing. I was crying.

284.

Scenes passed before my eyes not from my life in pink,  but from a much harder, much more painful life. These were scenes from my life in black and white.

I fell to the floor. Sobbing, sobbing. My friends around me were cheering, clinking glasses together and I lay in a heap on the floor with emotions pouring over me that I never knew I would feel. Scenes passed before my eyes not from my life in pink,  but from a much harder, much more painful life. These were scenes from my life in black and white.

I saw a day in 8th grade when I got into a fight because I defended my black best friend and was called a “nigger-lover” only to scream back that “No, motherfucker! I’m a nigger!” and be sent home for swearing. A day sitting on the floor as friends and family of my mother told Black jokes and I realized, painfully, that they were actually talking about me. The day my Black Indian father scolded me for saying I would never marry a White woman. He scolded me to honor all of my ancestors- especially my White ones.

They were scenes from a life spent absorbing jokes, comments and fears from people who often didn’t know I was Black. Maybe Indian, maybe Greek, probably Italian or Samoan. In Desert Storm, Omani people would walk up to me and start speaking in Arabic, surprised when I couldn’t understand them. People can rarely figure out what I am. I’m definitely not White- but I can’t be Black, and those are the only two colors that many people see in America. So, being “not Black” I got to hear a lot of comments from people, comments that made me wonder how White people could say things that are so amazingly painful.

Then they were scenes from the day I got my military discharge papers and the next day when I got my acceptance letters from two colleges and decided to go to College of Charleston instead of Morehouse- not because one was better, but because of years of living in racially divided South Carolina. It was because of years living the most painful part of that division- not being “black enough.” Years excluded from a Black community that I felt a part of. Years that turned much of my strength to fear. Fear and cowardice. For much of my life, I’d wanted to go to Morehouse. After living in South Carolina I realized that I couldn’t. I realized that I was too afraid. I was afraid because being pushed away by Black folk was too much pain for me and I was afraid that it would happen again. I was afraid of not being strong enough. After hearing something for too long- even the most ridiculous something- you begin to believe it. I believed it. I was afraid that I wasn’t “Black enough.” It’s a comment that still makes me wonder how Black people could say things that are so amazingly painful.

Scenes passed before me, so many scenes- like a time lapse movie in my brain. And with each one came tears, with each one came sadness, with each one came joy.

“We did it, baby.” She says. “There’s a Black president- we have a president that’s just like you.”

10 minutes rolled by as I lay there sobbing. 15 minutes, 20. Finally, Jessica, the beautiful, sweet, White woman I met at College of Charleston, aroused me and handed me a glass of champagne as I dry my tears.

“We did it, baby.” She said. “There’s a Black president- we have a president that’s just like you.”

Immediately I began sobbing again. 90 minutes I spent periodically drying my eyes and hugging my friends before walking to a close chair, collapsing and starting again. Jessica found me at one point and said that she was sorry that she didn’t know it all meant so much to me. I told her not to apologize, because I didn’t  know it either. Even as I type these words, I sit with tears in my eyes because it still means more to me than I realize.

We have a president that’s just like me.

We have a president that’s just like me.

I say it in my head, over and over again- it’s like a mantra. And every time I say it, I start to cry. It’s now days later, and I still start to cry. We have a president who has a White family and a Black family. We have a president just like me.

There’s a long road ahead, and no, we are not done. In many ways, President Obama will likely have the worst presidency in decades- because of the incredibly bad state of things that he’s walking into.  Hell, it’ll probably take at least two terms to fix the Cheney/Bush black hole of America¹ . I’m not worried though, because Obama is probably one of the smartest and most competent men we’ve ever elected. It’s going to be hard, but that’s the thing about walking into a crisis, you have to find a person who can handle it. Obama is that person.

I used to say that I’ll truely believe in my country when I see a Black woman as president.

I’ll leave you with a cynical “joke” that I used to tell people. I used to say that I’ll truely believe in my country² when I see a Black woman as president. The cynism in that joke stems from my sad certainty that it will never happen. It could never happen because we’d never even elect a Black man as president.

Well, we did- and we did it in a landslide. There’s a long way to go, but I’m amazed to be apart of us getting even this far. There are problems, there are fears, there are long roads to walk. But there is also a president that’s just like me. He’s smart, he’s driven, he’s competent, he’s brave. He’s both strong and compassionate. And he’s just like me.

That’s the thought I’m holding on to for the moment.

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1. that’s something I’ll get to later [↩]
2. By the way, if you say anything negative about that comment, you’d better have served in more military branches and fought in more wars than me. [↩]