I look at the crowds, big…oh so large and rambunctious. They are cheering for a man with a beaming toothy, smile; grinning from ear to ear, his firm round cheeks raised up to the light in his eyes. The feeling is overwhelming and I gladly place my individual power into his hands.
Now, reading all of these articles, looking at these pictures, I am frightened. Overcome with fear for the outward display of affection for this man we all barely know. Will he do what he promises? My skepticism grows.
I was comforted momentarily by my generations confirmation of his stature, of the undeniable surge of faith and hope, oh dear dear hope, that was thrust from his succulent mouth into the hearts and bodies of those who listened, those who were mesmerized to believe. For this was never a choice to choose him. However, it was not manipulation. It was an uncontrollable urge to follow and believe in his words and his ideas.
And I still have to look around, to look around at my elders. And think, shouldn’t we trust their crude judgments of him? Suddenly I revert back and am filled to the brim with anger and rage at their dismissal of this man, this mixed man. This man that they do not know how to classify. This man that transcends racial boundaries. This man that will not allow himself to be categorized so easily.
My heart is broken to see the great divide emerge between the generations. FINALLY, I think. FINALLY.
To recognize your own perpetuation of discrimination is difficult. Pulling the socialism card is very much a way out of discussing the racial hatred that has been ingrained in your very being. To work to eliminate it from your decisions and actions is even harder. But to eliminate it from your thoughts? That takes generations. And the great divide was seen this November as people protested and slurs were tossed. 1964 is not that deep in our past.
Reading the cover of the New York Times, I couldn’t help but read the profiles of McCain and Obama. Halfway through McCain’s I grew tired and lowered my eyes down to read Obama’s profile story. I read it feverishly; swallowing every description and anecdote like cookie dough ice cream. I thought, ‘Is this written better? Or is he just better?’ I conclude it’s a matter of interest and my interest lies clearly in the bed of the liberal opponent. I acknowledge my selfish love of his image and his ideas. I feel shameful that I have turned my back on the notion that your money is your money is your money, and not the governments. I used to like the idea of rich, white men that worked hard for their money and doubled, tripled, quadrupled it by stepping on the little people. I dreamed of being their wife or hell, even their mistress!
But as I ascertained my independence and gained my identity, recognizing that I was a woman... alone, and could make my own way without a rich, white man, and that the government could and should help me to some extent so I don’t have to take out a loan to pay my hospital bill from a kidney stone…
And then I turn the page of the New York Times, and read an article about how women’s healthcare is twice as expensive as a man’s on the free market. Health insurance during pregnancy: optional. Domestic Violence victims: Not covered. And this seemingly “free market” idea sounds a lot like being backed into an inescapable corner by the government. Segregated by gender? I am frightened.
