One week after: Reflections on a personal, historic moment

It has been one week since Barack Obama was elected to be the 44^th President of the United States of America, and I am still overcome with emotions when I think of what this means to/for me personally. I grew up in poverty in a single-parent, welfare-dependent home in one of the most dangerous cities in America. Although I was always told that I could be anything I wanted to be (and I have repeated these words to my nieces and nephews), I never really believed it. But at 11:01 p.m. on Nov. 4, 2008, I could relate to the words that have been used to cast Michelle Obama as unpatriotic: For the first time in my adult life, I am proud of my country. And I finally believe that this is my country too.

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way . . .  

One of the first people I spoke to after learning of Obama's victory was my 22-year-old nephew, Deon. He and I have shared many milestones in our lives and so it was no surprise to me when he broke my "no phone calls after 10 p.m." rule to share his elation with me. We talked about a lot of things, including the time when he was 10 and invited his friend for a sleepover. He and his friend had fun playing for a while but when it came time to shower to prepare for bed, his friend began to sob uncontrollably. After trying for hours to console him, my sister finally gave up and called his mother. When the mother arrived to pick up her son, she asked what was wrong with him. Imagine the horror on her face when he responded that he didn't want to use my sister's wash cloths or water because he was afraid he would turn black and grow a tail. A tail? Really? I wonder where he got an idea like that? We can laugh about it now but it wasn't so funny when it happened.

Deon is a military brat who has lived all over the world, but he has only felt rejection here in his own country. In the middle of our conversation on Tuesday, Deon asked me how long I thought it would be before the first assassination attempt would occur and whether or not I believed the backlash in the black community would be limited to increased hazards of DWB (driving while black). As I pondered his questions, I was saddend by the realization that even in what was a great moment of joy, these questions are not his alone. He begins his tour of duty in Afghanistan on Nov. 15, so I tried to get him to live in the moment and let the future take care of itself. I wish I could have taken my own advice. Instead of worrying about the future, I was also haunted by memories.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chast’ning rod, felt in the days when hope unborn had died . . .  

Ten years ago I left home (East St. Louis, Ill.) for the first time and moved to Wisconsin. I took a job where I was the only black person employed at the college. Although I had some trepidation, I was not prepared for the hostility and terrorism that I would encounter. I can't say which event was the worst I experienced during my two years there. Maybe it was the time I came home to find my doormat replaced by a Confederate flag. It could have been the time I pulled into my driveway and realized someone had sprinkled nails everywhere and effectively ruined my tires. Perhaps it was the time that I went to K-Mart and the manager had to check me out because the cashiers all decided to go on break rather than serve me. Or possibly it was being denied service at a restaurant.

But I do know that the incident that finally made me realize that I needed a change of address wasn't something that happened to me but something that happened to one of my students. She was walking down Main Street on her way to class one day when a car drove up, and the occupants yelled, "Go back to Africa, n-word" and then used a spray gun to shoot her with paint. She ran to my office in tears and I immediately called the police. But she refused to file a complaint, afraid of what would happen if she stirred things up on campus and in the community. The police and administration were happy to comply and there was nothing I could do to convince anyone that such behavior should not be tolerated. On that day in 1999, hope for me died. A few months later, I packed up my house and left Wisconsin, and as I was driving to Texas I kept reminding myself what the ancestors must have often told themselves: This too shall pass.

Yet with a steady beat have not our weary feet come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

I spent Tuesday afternoon canvassing homes to ensure that everyone who wanted to vote had no excuse. I drove an elderly woman to the polls and listened as she tearfully shared her story with me. "Never in my lifetime," she said, "would I have ever believed I would be voting for a black man. Look how far we've come, baby." How far, indeed. While standing outside in the rain at the school, I talked with other campaign workers about the diversity of the people working on the Obama campaign: a white "biker dude," a Jewish grandmother, and a single black woman. "In Virginia. Who would have thunk it?" the biker asked. Someone came running out of the school yelling that we had 15 minutes before the polls closed and said two people were at the wrong location. "Can someone drive them to their separate locations?" the person asked. Biker dude and I sprang into action and as he ran to his car, he yelled to me, "See you at the inauguration, my sister." I replied, "Wouldn't miss it, my brother."

Lift ev’ry voice and sing, Till earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of Liberty; Let our rejoicing rise High as the list’ning skies, Let it resound loud as the rolling sea . . .  

I can't describe what I felt when I heard David Gregory call the election for Barack Obama. My family, friends and I had many laughs. We joked about how the Republicans ridiculed Obama for his experiences as a community organizer. Who's laughing now? Boo-ya! And we cried when we realized the enormous tasks ahead.

I thought about my mother, who died 12 years ago. What would my mother – who told me that I shouldn't be the secretary for our precinct or serve as the regional director for the NAACP Youth Council because people get lynched for doing those things – what would she say if she were alive? I thought about Deon's little friend and the guys who sprayed paint on my student and wondered where they were. But above all, I thought about Barack Obama€”a man born of a white mother and a Kenyan father who has chosen to identify with black people. A man who carries the hopes and dreams of this people on his shoulders. A man who stayed true to himself when others advised him not to. A man who has given black people a reason to believe that we really can be anything we want to be. It has come to pass.

Yes, we can. Yes, he did. Yes, we will.

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, Let us march on till victory is won!