He has that inspiring way of talking, the same kind that grabbed me when I was just sixteen years old, and sent me riding a bus to downtown Cincinnati after school and on Saturdays to hand out buttons, and shout from a car equipped with a loudspeaker, asking people to vote for John F. Kennedy. The same way of talking that had me calling lists of people from the yellow princess phone in my bedroom that had been my thirteenth birthday present. I was so naive that I didn't understand why so many people yelled at me or hung up the phone. I was so naive that I didn't understand the place where I lived, a place where the afternoon paper declared Nixon the winner of a debate that the rest of the country overwhelmingly awarded to Kennedy, the most conservative city, and county in the state of Ohio. Looking back it wouldn't have mattered if I did know and understand, I was wildly and madly carried away by "my " candidate, the man that became "my" president. So when I watch the young people screaming and applauding Obama, it takes me back and brings tears to my eyes. I know just how they feel. They see their guy as giving this country new hope, as the person who will bring the young, fresh, vision we need to get us back on track, as the person who will say things that will be repeated decades later, things like "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." And watching them, watching and listening to Obama, I want the same thing. There is a little spark of idealism still deep inside me, and that little spark wants to be set free, to light up my eyes, engage my brain, and find the tiny bit of that sixteen year old kid that still exists in the sixty-three year old. This guy could make it happen.
Both of my older sons, raised in the diversity of Shaker Heights, Ohio, counting people of various races and religions among their friends, tell me that it won't happen, that it can't happen.
"Mom," they say, "when people walk into the voting booth, and pull the curtain closed behind them, their prejudices come out. They may say they don't care about race, religion, or gender when they vote, but when no one is watching, lots of people won't vote for a black man. Obama can't win, Mom." they say.
My oldest son went so far as to say that being a Democrat for Obama is one way to put a Republican back in the white house. I don't want to believe him.
"It's 2008, " I say "don't tell me that people are still judging people by the color of their skin, rather than their ability. What did Martin Luther King live and die for? Why did all those people ride the bus South and face dogs and hoses? Why the heck did people in Shaker form neighborhood associations and housing offices, and work so hard to keep the city integrated? "
"Mom," each of them said, "I'm not saying it's right. I'm not saying it's the way I think, but there are still too many people who do think that way."
Barack Obama wrote a book called "The Audacity of Hope." I have the audacity to hope, to hope that my sons are wrong. That my country is better than they think, that when people go into those voting booths, they will vote for a chance to prove that our country is the place Martin Luther King envisioned in the sixties, a place where Barack Obama will be judged not on the color of his skin but on the content of his character, and on his message of change and hope. That little spark of idealism is struggling inside of me these days. It wants to be free once again. I would like to wake up on Wednesday, November 5th, and feel the way I felt when I was sixteen.
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