The United States of America elected Barrack Obama president yesterday, November 4th, 2008. His overwhelming victory over John McCain is a win of historical proportion; Obama is the first African American chosen to hold that office, and stories of his life and reports of his election are already resounding around the world. Last night’s celebrations continued in American cities today, demonstrating a faith in his ability to lead us thru a deepening recession and any security challenges the country may face in the future.
I have been an Obama supporter since I heard him speak on television months ago; consequently, I’m very pleased that he is our president elect, but early in the campaign, I had my doubts that he would be elected because of racism. Even in my enthusiasm, there was a moment when I, myself, stopped to think of what it would mean to have a black man as president.
I had already accepted the fact that Obama was a candidate with extraordinary qualities. As I envisioned him giving television press conferences, meeting world leaders and giving speeches to the nation, I mentally approved his living in the white house. Then I suddenly realized that if he was elected, his wife would be ‘first lady’. I had never envisioned a black woman as ‘first lady’. I didn’t know much about Michelle and wondered how she would compare to what I thought was the epitome of first ladies, Eleanor Roosevelt. It only took a nano-second to realize that if I wanted Obama as president, I could and would accept her too. During the campaign she exhibited the same admiral qualities of her husband and she has certainly surpassed my hopes that she will bring honor to the title.
I applaud the changes in attitude achieved by those who fought and continue to fight against racism. I can trace changes in my own attitude from childhood. As a third grader, I remember asking my father if he had ever shook hands with a Negro or touched the skin of one. When he said yes, I asked him how it felt and when he said it felt just like touching white skin, it was difficult for me to fathom black skin feeling warm. I knew Dad was from the south and his grandfather had owned slaves but at that age I had only been exposed to white people and those of Mom’s family who often talked of their American Indian grandmother whose name had been given to my Mother.
In later years when I was engrossed in family history, Mom told me of her first encounter with a black person. She had just arrived at the train station in Louisville, Kentucky and had difficulty managing luggage and a nine month old fussy baby, at the same time. Incidentally, I was the baby. A black porter not only took care of the luggage, but took charge of the situation. She tried to refuse his help, but he took the baby and guided her to the restaurant and even helped serve her. Mom said that she had never been around black people and was painfully aware of his blackness. She was even too timid to drink the milk he had poured in the glass for her. To avoid hurting his feelings, she tasted the milk but didn’t finish it.
As I moved thru the school grades, I absorbed a ‘northern attitude’ toward those who discriminated against black people in the south. In those formative years, stories of the Underground Railroad were enhanced by childish speculations about the secret passage way leading to an outside exit at my maternal grandmother’s house. As children we pretended that it was one of many used to help slaves escape to Canada.
The family’s move to California during the war brought us in contact with ethnic groups, cultures and religions we hadn’t known in the small Midwestern town in Iowa. The war not only disrupted the country and turned lives upside down, but when it ended, social changes came fast and furiously. Women began to aspire to careers and joined persons of color to demand equality.
I not only supported the Civil Rights movement but was also a fervent supporter of Equal Rights for Women. As a young married woman with two children, I had been shocked when a co worker referred to women as second class citizens. I had only applied that term to black people. It had never crossed my mind that even simple things like the ownership of a vehicle required a husband’s permission if a wife wanted to sell it. When I asked Mom about it, she said yes, they always had ‘and/or’ on the registration of the family cars in case she had to sell the car in some emergency.
I remember when the graduation of a woman from either law or medical school was unusual enough that it made the newspapers. Some years ago there was a push to have the states ratify an Equal Rights amendment to the constitution guaranteeing women’s equality but nothing came of it. History of the amendment can be read on
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equal_Rights_Amendment . It has been reintroduced in every congress since 1982 but public interest has subsided. I was quite disappointed when one of my own brothers fought against passing it, postulating there were already laws on the books protecting women. Today there is sporadic talk of equal pay for equal work, but public interest in that is greatly diminished too.
It’s interesting to see how each generation pushes the acceptance of others to a greater understanding and our attitudes continue toward the goal of equality. It’s heartwarming to watch television interviews with a people who never believed a person of their race could or would be chosen president, only to wake up one morning and realize the highest office in this land has been given to one. It’s also a testament to Barrack Obama’s character that Americans of every color, race and belief recognized his abilities and have faith in him to exemplify our Constitutional and democratic ideals. I’m 86 years old as I write this and I may not live to see a woman reach the top of the mountain, but Obama has shown the way, and one day a woman will be President of the United States of America.
I’m pleased that many family members are as enthusiastic as I am that Obama is president. Comments that both my son and daughter have written follow in the next sections.
After seeing the eye Dr the other day, I stopped at the appointment desk to set the date and time of my next appointment. It fell on the 14th of July. I casually mentioned to the nurse that July 14th was Bastille Day. She and another nurse gave me a questioning look and asked what I meant. I had surprised myself when I blurted out the name of the holiday, but I explained that it was a National holiday in France, celebrating the storming and liberation of the Bastille prison and the beginning of the French Revolution.
