my parents could give me was gas money. Enough about that. Here, I feel I must go way back to a March day in 2005. My baby was just weeks old, and I was suffering from postpartum depression and sleep deprivation. I was, however, able to love and admire my beautiful son and was watching him sleep in a way that only a mother can watch a child sleep. I imagine I was also yawning and about to nod off myself when a frightening thought settled in my hormonally charged brain: “I have created a white man. A white man. Oh my God. I have created the exact version of my own species responsible for death, destruction, warfare, want, hunger, rape, pillage. All the world’s problems from the beginning of time!” My vision of his angelic face began to blur. “My tiny little white man.” I reached down, brought him to my chest and held him close. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” In fairness, I probably only thought about that for twenty to thirty seconds because in the next twenty to thirty seconds, I was probably thinking about diaper rash. But, the point is I really had that thought, and as eleven years have gone by, I have continued to worry over the fact of my son’s race and gender from time to time in varying quantities. I want him to be kind, compassionate, open-minded, accepting, loving. I want him to have peace and happiness and fun and adventure. So a great part of my life is devoted to what I want my son to be and have. It’s a daunting task filled with fear and hope, holding on and letting go, taking charge and getting out of the way. I have had some extraordinarily good luck though. Until very recently, my son has never known anyone other than Barak Obama as the President of the United States. Imagine it. Honestly, I find it hard to grasp at times. Just as I can never know what it’s like to live without remembering when you had to go in the house, pick up the phone and dial the number. Or go to the library and look up the capital of New Zealand. In an encyclopedia. A black person has been the leader of my son’s country, has held the highest office in his nation, has been revered and criticized, has had the most responsibility it is possible to have, and bore it all with grace and intelligence and composure. My son can never know what it is like not to have an AfricanAmerican president. Did former President Obama lead perfectly? In my opinion, he did not – nor, of course did any President before him. Did he single-handedly communicate something to my son that all my words wrapped in gold and delivered in an ice cream truck could never explain? Oh, yes he did. Oh, yes indeed. Thank you, A Rock A Bama.
110
111
