Obama Ready To Lead

Growing up my father wasn't allowed in my home.

From age six until eighteen, twelve full years, while my mother worked strenuous hours trading in her chosen profession, dance, for the pursuit of dollars and happiness for her children, I was often alone. My big sister, the owner of five extra worldly years on this planet, stood watch, but in a town where the most successful establishment was something called, quite literally, The General Store, safety from others wasn't such a concern.

And yet, my pale blue Ghostbusters blanket could only do so much late at night.

My relationship with my father was tenuous during my most formative years, and I didn't look forward to spending Tuesday and Thursday nights and the entire weekend twice a month sitting in his dingy apartment. We spent most of our time together at his shaggy rug-covered abode in a small living room with quickly enclosing walls. Inside his building hanged an abject emptiness the effusive odors drifting from the kitchens of other, equally downtrodden poor folks failed to mask. Bordering the living room that served as a catacomb for my sister and me were a kitchen and bathroom not much bigger than a walk-in closet, as well as a solitary, dark bedroom.

I knew my father loved me, for my mother had assured me of this fact, but I wasn't sure if I loved him back. He slept elsewhere, after all.

How could I respect a man who made the mother of his son and daughter cry? How could I love a man whose mere presence ruminated threat. If my father were present, in the flesh or even just in my thoughts, the world was not stable. My mind was a sponge and his internal anger invaded it. I was prone to outbursts of fury mixed with private episodes of remorse, guilt, and salty tears regretfully rolling down my troubled face. When we wrestled I would hit him hard, hoping he would return the blow, enabling me to turn my back on him forever. This was no joke; I was a warrior defending my mother's honor.

All this, and my father truly cared.

Years later things have changed. Time has mellowed the man. Pain has been replaced with a strange appreciation for his existence. Our relationship has grown, and I now enjoy my father's company. The scars of his past are still visible, but the aesthetics are easier to take now that his sutures have faded from view. I know I can count on him; in turn, he can count on me too.

The best of a bad situation was made, one could say. But the truth is, the situation wasn't so bad.

The two women in my life, and my home, shaped my existence.

My mother was a rock--unbreakable, indefatigable, heroic. I have trouble picturing another human being of her quality. She was a guiding light in a murky swamp of a childhood.

At the same time, my sister served as an example of what not to become. She had caved under the pressure of an easy erasure. Drugs could delete the ringing in her ears that mommy and daddy's berating each other had left. Once she gathered her fragmented mind, eschewing the easy route of day-to-day survival for cold turkey austerity, I had another perfect example--this time of whom I should strive to be. The screw up became an archetypal ideal, The Teacher.

Meanwhile, sports nursed my ego, bestowing confidence upon me in the way that a father in the home should have, teachers urged me to develop my mind, and friends would eventually become pillars I could lean on.

But it was no sure thing. My life avoided the cliché. Others aren't nearly as lucky.

Untold American youths toil in unsafe communities, fatherless. Dad doesn't live a town or two away in a dingy apartment; he doesn't exist. He simply up and left when he got the news that he had fulfilled nature's instinctual demand. He enacted Light In August in modern times.

Barack Obama also grew up in a fatherless home. Like my sister, he at times lost his way. But, ultimately, the presumptive Democratic nominee gave up self-pity and grabbed the mantle of leadership left vacuous by his lack of a male role model.

Today, on Father's Day, he spoke up.

The New York Times mentioned the outspoken Bill Cosby in reference to Obama's speech in a thriving Chicago church this morning, but the Illinois Senator's tone is different. When Obama calls for parents to be just that, he does so without the disdain that many viewed Cosby as radiating. The Man Who Would Be President eludes nothing more than a steady confidence, and wise words.

"We need fathers to realize that responsibility doesn’t just end at conception," he told a gathering of thousands. "What makes you a man is not the ability to have a child. Any fool can have a child. That doesn’t make you a father. It’s the courage to raise a child that makes you a father."

Obama's speech was not a diatribe, but a truthful assault on passiveness and lassitude. A man is man when he acknowledges that fact and embraces the responsibility it entails.

While Obama aimed his words poignantly at African-Americans, his point transcends race, nationality, ethnicity, or politics. The time is upon us to change America. Our country is great, and contrary to reports of its demise, it will continue to rank as one of the great nations in history for generations heaped upon generations. But, there's no reason it can't be better.

When the final votes are cast in November, the likely winner will be ready to fill the void America has felt for the past eight, arduous years. The nation's father figure has gone missing. With the ascension of Mr. Obama, keepsake blankets once again must provide only physical comfort.

Mr. Accountability is ready. All that's left is for America to declare the same.