Barack Obama. Yes.

By Kevin Scheitrum

‘And although it seems heaven sent
We ain’t ready, to see a black President’
Tupac Shakur, Changes (1995)

Is this the dream fulfilled?

Is this the day, the day when our country’s little children – and their little children and their little children – have been judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their characters? When suddenly what wasn’t even considered a possibility becomes a reality? When we turn our backs on what’s come before and look to the future and understand, reminding ourselves of the failures behind us, that we can all make a difference, that we can form, after all, a more perfect union?

He spoke and we listened and in turn, we spoke louder, together and fully. A generation that never had a voice has suddenly bellowed.

How could we have possibly seen this, even four short years ago? Could we have imagined a black man, even in these times, not only winning this election, but defeating a war hero opponent by a landslide?

On this night, we see ourselves atop one of our history’s highest peaks. Of all of the mythologies that galvanize this great continent, few have enjoyed more staying power than the intertwined ideas of the Melting Pot and infinite opportunity, that this country was founded on diversity and possibility, and all it took to ascend indefinitely was a sharp and shrewd mind and a tireless effort.

But before tonight, those allegories have been nothing but words and simple fantasies, tethered to the sad fragments of our past, dark and damning ghosts like Jim Crow, the notion of three-fifths, the bullet inside Martin Luther King, Jr. Over time, the increase of blacks in the workforce and the influx of blacks with college degrees chipped away at racism, while the integration of sports and the importance of blacks in music, from blues to hip-hop sanded more of it away.

But then the Fortune 500 would come out, and as of 2006, blacks occupied only four of the CEO spots. At the end of the same year, median household income for whites stood at $50,673; for blacks, it was $31,969. The stats go on and on, and yes, stats only tell part of the story, but the most glaring message behind these statistics is that, outside of the thin avenues of entertainment and athletics, blacks rose to prominence in so few ways. Terribly few ways.

That mythology of equality, of all men being created equal, had such little resonance under the harsh glare of these facts. Tonight, that idea has roots. Tonight, it is no longer mere floating, hollow words, the preserve of rhetoricians.

We’d be fools to assume that this will change everything. But we’d be missing out on the moment if we don’t think that we just witnessed a moment that will irrevocably change the course of American life.

Link Lockdown

• Barack Obama and John McCain spoke a couple nights ago at an annual charity event in New York City. They were funny. Watch McCain first, then Obama. Refreshing to see them act more like the guys we had grown accustomed to before this loooooooong campaign. Also, the MSNBC.com politics page has some other great videos on it, spend some perusal time.
• When the Boston Red Sox came back from down 7-0 with two outs in the bottom of the 7th the other night against the Tampa Bay Rays, I remembered why I watch. We spend our time and money hoping special athletes who may or may not be special people (and trust me, several of your favorite players are far from that) will give us the feeling that used to overtake us when we were young. That's what sports is all about--the reclamation of our youthful exuberance. Well, at 12:16 am on October 17th I felt the way I did in 2003 when Derek Lowe threw the greatest two-seam fastball I had ever seen to an unsuspecting Terence Long and followed up his initial wrist action with another, the second of the DX variety toward the Oakland dugout. After J.D. Drew hit a line drive that sailed over the head of Tampa Bay's Gabe Gross, silent screams in the depth of night mixed with leaps of immeasurable height had me feeling 17 again.
• Barack Obama is planning on buying a half-hour television spot before the start of Game 6 of the World Series. Yes, he's going to talk for 30 freakin' minutes. 30. I can't possibly see the rationale of speaking for that long when the public is growing tired of the longest campaign in history. Not only is he quite possibly going to turn off a few voters simply because they're sick of hearing him, but he's delaying the start of Game 6 for 15 minutes by doing so, further preventing America's youth from forming a love lockdown with the greatest game. Education plans aside, does Barack truly care about the kids? You know John McCain would never do something like this, if only because he'd be scared he might not be able to stay up late enough to watch it live. No matter, however, since the likelihood of the Philadelphia Phillies (what a creative moniker, by the way), the champions of AAAA, extending the series that far against either the Red Sox or Rays is almost nil.
• PS--I currently sit at 466th overal in unique page views vis-a-vis raking in a gargantuan total of 6 per day at Today.com, the host for The Sports Beat, so please give it a read if you like what you've seen here.

Michelle Obama Is Bomb

About a week ago my life wasn't running so smoothly. Unemployed, uninsured, recently found 100% culpable in a car accident, hampered by a degenerative disc bulge in my lower back, worried about delaying a sinus surgery that I still need, struggling to find the necessary money to pay my bills, and generally stressed from the inevitable end of college life and the formality of moving to a new section of town, I decided enough was enough. It was time to cry.

The only problem was, I couldn't.

***

When I was much younger crying usually eased the pain of the many stressors the world flung in my direction. Tired of being called "Butt" in lieu of my nickname "Buzz," or more to the point considering my long hair and decision to sell lunch ladies scrunchies my mother had made, "Faggot," by classmates in elementary school, I cried. On my thirteenth birthday, when I should have had a Bar Mitzvah according to tradition but instead received a crisp $100 bill from my father in his little apartment, I told him I hated him and cried. After a shouting match with my mother and seemingly no support from my friends watching television downstairs, I headed to the basement for a salty pity party.

But, somewhere along the way toward young adulthood, crying stopped working. The frequency with which I resorted to tears dropped dramatically, to the point where even as the exit from college and the necessary smattering of "real world" reality that comes with it had taken me back to the level of stress that prematurely turned patches of my hair white during a sophomore year of high school in which I learned a pair of wrist surgeries would essentially put my life on hold for enough Xs to fill an entire calendar, crying wasn't even an option.

***

Monday night, when Michelle Obama presented herself to the nation for the first time, her words resonated. In fact, she resonated. America in its purest idealism comes down to family values, freedom of expression, and the unity of disparate groups. Mrs. Obama's speech spoke of these same concepts: the stoic heroicism of her father as he refused to allow a crippling disease to cripple him, her mother's instillment of a sense of duty to one's community, Hillary Clinton's work in shattering glass ceilings, each carefully crafted to portray just what America needs--not change, but a return to the concepts that the world's greatest document, the one a Tea Party in Boston allowed to shape the future of the world, dictates we must follow.

Yes, each element of the night's events was perfectly planned to attack weaknesses and emphasize strengths in the Obama campaign, be it the newly reformed motherly image of Mrs. Obama or allaying fears that Barack is un-American with the substitution of his wife's biography for his own. However, unlike the night's guest of honor, the magnanimous Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy, Obama was not born to be a politician and he has never involved himself in scandal, such as The Chappaquiddick Incident or cheating at Harvard. He made himself into perhaps the world's next most powerful man by playing the game well, and he and his squadron of spinmeisters continued to pitch a shutout on Monday night. But, this just felt different.

When the prospective first lady took the stage, following an introduction from her older brother, she started off a bit slowly. An opening joke missed, drawing only courtesy laughs, and her words came out a bit off rhythm. But as she progressed deeper and deeper into her speech, she began to sense the mood of the crowd and learned to use both her emotions and those of a sea of supporters to express herself in a truer, more heartfelt, much brighter light.

In that light her daughters entered the stage, radiating beauty, happiness, pride in their parents, and a hopeful future. In that light throngs of convention attendees surged to their feet in support of an enthralling woman and her perhaps equally inspiring husband. In that light countless enthused listeners couldn't help but allow the flow of tears to leave their eyes, eyes that had seen failure, disappointment, and disillusionment, and in that moment glimpsed relief and the return of belief.

And it was in that light that a gentle trickle finally fell southward from the corner of my right eye.

Biden an Uninspiring Choice

In an article in the New York Times, David Axelrod, Barack Obama's chief campaign strategist, spoke about the addition of Senator Joe Biden to Obama's D.C. ticket as VP. “It’s a very personal decision,” Axelrod said. “He approached it in a very serious, sober and reasoned way.”

Well, yeah. I'm not entirely familiar with the living situation once in the White House, but you can be sure that choosing a VP you can get along with is a good idea. But, in this case, perhaps Big Barry should have taken a couple shots before choosing his running mate, because Senator Biden seems to be an altogether too sober selection. Where Obama "falls short" according to most (experience, age, gray hairs, white skin, etc.), Biden helps--he's essentially the liberal parallel to Dick Cheney (although to my knowledge Biden has yet to shoot anyone hunting). But, in terms of fitting the Illinois Senator's calls for change, Biden fits about as well as "mom jeans." (Check out Dad Jeans while you're at it.)

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.