Over the past week, I read “Dreams from My Father” by Barack Obama our presidential candidate with much interest. It has been a while since I read that kind of a book. The one that makes you feel. One that makes you feel like there is sense in the chaos that is the political landscape. One that makes you feel someone cares. About the people. About the country.
Beyond being a book written by a person that could well go on to be the next President, I enjoyed the book for what it was. A young man’s search for himself in a world that is neither black nor white. A world of which I have little idea about. Some of the passages in the book brought tears to my eyes. I saw myself in the woman at the bus shelter clutching her purse a little tightly when a black person passed by. I felt so ashamed of my stereotypical views.
I saw myself in the anguished young Obama feeling the sense of being alone in an alien world. Being a colored myself, I saw things with the eyes of one that understood the pain. Yet, the world portrayed in his memoir is one I cannot connect myself with.
The next time an Obama ad came on TV I felt like I know this person. I know where he comes from. I know his heritage. If I were an American, I would be proud to vote for him.