The End??

It's all over but the shouting, and the obese woman is practicing her scales one last time.  My head is crammed with thoughts, and as cynical and distant as I have become, my heart aches at  least a  little.
First, I find it so ironic that the fate of the President essentially rests in the hands of white men-- if the President can garner sufficient votes from this constituency (Romney's constituency), maybe 30 percent instead of 28 percent, then he will be rewarded with another four years.  Ironic and tragic that so many white men whose economic situations are so similar to most African Americans will identify themselves with the rich white guys based on color alone.

Be that as it may, I have better thoughts.  The out of context President's quote that ignited a Romney adopted refrain of "We built our businesses, not the government," compelled me to assess my own journey.  Obama is right-- none of our successes are attributable to ourselves alone, and those who make such a claim lack so much self-confidence that they cannot be expected to take a trip into their past to evaluate themselves with integrity.  For to make that journey requires humility and gratitude, and some egos are just not wired that way.

For myself, I think of my parents and my neighborhood.  My mother whose work ethic was simply a part of her faith in a God who wants what is best for his children.  Bible readings over breakfast, church and adult Bible studies, healing services.  How she befriended and cared for the radically different-- women whose looks and psychological illnesses reduced them to hermits whom she escorted on trips downtown and welcomed even to live for awhile with us; elderly and disabled women who resided at the neighborhood senior care facility for whom she would provide free haircare;  the drifters who would stop by the house for a hand-out and for whom she would cook (I watched in shock at how ravenously a hungry stomach could put way food).  I think of my father who fought in the Battle of the Bulge and who never could secure the American success story for himself, but whose ability to make the most of any situation was astounding.  Pestered by me to reveal something of his war experience, he recounted only one memory to me.  That of the day he was taken out of battle due to trench foot, being carried by two young German POWs.  Nearing their destination, the one young German at my father's feet, let the stretcher down in exhaustion.  Immediately an American officer rammed the butt of his rifle into the young man and screamed that no one treats Americans that way.  My father admitted how sorry he felt for a young man who was so much like himself.  And one month before he died, while coming out of anesthesia he said flatly, "War is Hell."  Those who think that Christianity or Patriotism is some cheap neon sign flashing a cross and American flag are just those who jump on bandwagons without understanding how unfathomably deep and hidden lie the roots of real citizenship and faith.

 I think of my neighborhood and those who I went to school with-- how many varieties of poor there are.  I think of those of us who made it to college-- Don Featherstun, Eric Dixon, Steve Kendall, Wanda Northington.  And those who I can only suspect were lost along the way.  I remember the Kirby family at whose house I stayed and had dinner with until my mother returned from work-- they had so many kids, what was one more?  I think of those teachers we had who actually cared and tried to make some form of educational Goshen in a land of drop-outs:  high school teachers like Mrs. McLaughlin, Mr. Iezzi, Mr. Carpenter (RIP), Mrs. Brunger, Miss McKim, Mr. Steele.  I think of my professors at Duquene Univeristy especially Dr. Clack who served as my mentor, my Tio, who gifted me with his old albums to introduce me to Ethel Merman and Gustav Mahler and everything in between.

When Barack Obama was elected, I felt vindicated in some strange way-- I praised his election on behalf of all of those in my past, black and white from the North Side of Pittsburgh.  But yesterday when I read Maureen Dowd of the NY Times describe the President as uninspiring, I was filled with white rage (as Tracy Morgan would say).  Uninspiring?  To whom?

At a private all girls' school on the Main Line outside Philly that had committed itself to diversifying the student body and faculty, an area had been set apart for watching the broadcast of Obama's inauguration.  I was overwhelmed; even I was on the point of tears, when I looked up to see the P.E. instructor, a black man nearly seven feet tall, with tears pouring down his cheek.  This was his time, not mine.  My time was 200 years ago when white men invented a country that outlawed diversity, treating women like second class humans, and blacks in property terms-- serviceable or worthless.  What must he be feeling?  Was he like me considering the possibility that racism and sexual discrimination were in the throes of destruction.  How could he really?  How could any African American?  He was, I suspect, savoring down to his marrow the success of one black individual, one who had overcome, and not praising a country that would have done anything not to allow him to reach this precious moment.

Little did I know that this was simply a way for a large number of white men and some white women in federal or state government do guarantee that this black man would not continue to inspire, to succeed, to remain the archetype of hope and change so that in the end, they could collectively wash their white hands with the claim-- we all gave him the chance, look at him now.  I do see a worn and weary President, but I also see his struggle as emblematic of the struggle of the people with whom I grew up,  every single African American who is condemned either because he or she doesn't succeed (they are just not smart enough) or because he or she does (they get all the breaks).  A no-win situation. And African Americans continue to walk forward every single day of their lives (Hercules or Sisyphus) taking the insults and injuries.  And we who are white think of it as water off a duck's back, and we put our faith in their patience and resolve.

So I will end this reflection not only with the hope that the President does gain four more years, but with the hope that a group of young black women whom I have had the pleasure of teaching and knowing will use the power they have claimed to turn this nation upside down--  Nadya, Tanisha, Maiki, Saidi, Rayven, Jazzlyn, Jocelyn, Ebony, Jennifer, Fay, Jasmine, Shannan, Neveen, and young women like them.  I am hopeful that their patience has run out, and that armed with righteousness, beauty, and wisdom they will inspire.  O how they will inspire!!