Barack Obama is the American hero. Our blood brother, best friend, south paw, first pick, jump shooting mutt with big ears that stand straight up in the woods is the quintessential American, an archetypical case of a boy wanting to be president - a westward ho-ing, Harvard going Chicagoan whose Mom got lost in the 60’s and brought someone home to dinner (wow) which guy then disappeared, leaving behind a single mother with a black baby, raised by his grandmother in a middle class white family out in the sun belt whose retirement was suddenly interrupted by a devastating and unexpected development - our first begotten, 21st century son: Barack Hussein Obama.
My grandmother always said: be careful what you wish for - which I know Barack’s grandmother told him, which was advice from our common, and much greater grandmother, who is either German or Swedish, from the Italian half of our people in Spain, or so I’m told by the Jewish side, who married into those Greeks, just before they left for America. They settled in Brooklyn and opened the bakery in California on their way from St. Louis. Boy, they made money. After the one son married that Puerto Rican girl, his brother got with those people from Wisconsin, who came from Detroit, Indians I think. They loved those girls, who looked like the mother. They came from Dade County, before they moved to Hawaii, which was lucky for them. But that was the white side, out of Ireland. We didn’t hear much from his father, who went back home to Africa. But we’re all so proud of Barack.
We’re having a reunion during the inauguration. The only reason I go to these things is to see some cousins who like to play cards. We keep in touch, but to have a conversation we gamble. Usually it’s small stakes, unless my cousin from Texas is there. Then, you better have some money. My cousins say that Barack has shit in his hand, which is the way they talk after a few beers. You can bluff or you can draw, they say, but you can’t fold. You just lose. It isn’t poker, I say, it’s more like rummy, or bridge. You just have to be patient and stay in the game. You have to concentrate.
We all agree that Barack can concentrate. He’s intense. He’s like Dr. J, Jack Nicklaus, Willie Mosconi. Michael Jordan. Lance Armstrong. Try Tiger Woods, says my cousin. Barack is a regular machine, I say, but a machine with a brain, a heart, a sense of humor, a team player, a superstar. Barack is in it for the long haul, all 9 innings. Barack only needs one name, like Ali. (That third debate? Rope–A-Dope) But one name isn’t enough for Barack. He needs two. Add Obama. Hey, add Hussein, says my cousin. Yo, I say, Hussein is a holy name. There are plenty of crooks named Jesus, down your way. I say this to offend my other cousin, a deacon in the church, but he never pays any attention to me.
We’re supposed to meet at the airport in Fort Worth, before we go, which makes it easy since nobody is traveling much these days. I got a great deal at the Haytt. My brother is at the Holiday Inn, but I didn’t say anything. My mother may come with my aunt, though she may just stay home. She’s 85, after all. She’s crazy about Barack, but she’s not sure if he’ll actually show up. She imagines Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Clinton. We're all Democrats around here. Check the window.
Lately, she’s never watched so much TV, forgoing Raymond to watch the Phillies win the World Series and Barack get elected. She says she watched the World Series for my Dad, who recently passed away and was buried with an Honor Guard, which made everyone cry all the more. Obama she watched for herself, though she did pay a price over at the Senior Citizen Center, where nobody wanted to talk about Barack. This led my mother into a few confrontations, where she called some fellow seniors, racists. Just vote for the white half, she said. In the last weeks of the campaign, she stayed home. As it turns out, she convinced more than a few elders, ever the activist. Her parting advice was: Let the kids have their own President.
My wife's family back in Europe is also very excited, and many want to come over for the party, but they’re bound to be disappointed. They have this funny idea about America, and usually end up disappointed. But when someone like Barack comes along, a once in a lifetime, only in America miracle - the genuine article, a new invention that could change the world brought to you by the only country in which he could ever exist, they pay attention. Some are even jealous that we’re Americans. Imagine that, in this day and age. I’ll be making some sandwiches, but nothing special. Just some hamburgers and hot dogs. Maybe some corn. If my mother comes, she'll bring a pie.
