ANOTHER BORN-AGAIN AMERICAN
November 5th, 2008
I don’t know about you, but the first thing that I did as soon as I opened my eyes today was hop out bed and run into the living room with the demented giddiness of a kid on Christmas morning, and turn on CNN to double check that my big shiny gift hadn’t somehow disappeared over the night. Like many, I’ve been conditioned over the past eight years to expect disappointment–even after CNN announced last night that Barack Obama was, in fact, our president elect, I didn’t really and truly believe it. I didn’t jump up, scream, and cry, like I imagined I would. Instead, I was suspicious and cynical. Even when the electoral votes started exceeding well over 270 votes, I still didn’t believe it. I took a walk around the East Village, and saw hoards of people banging on pots and pans, cheering, stopping traffic—some of them even jumping on moving taxi cabs. They sang “The National Anthem,” hugged and kissed strangers, waved flags, shouted “God Bless America!” and all I could bring myself to do was stand dumbly by. I was saddened by my inability to participate because I just had this sickening feeling that it was too good to be true, that it would all be taken away.
Just a few days ago, a group of us drove down to West Philadelphia to canvas throughout some very poverty-stricken neighbourhoods. The streets on my maps were lined with veritable crack-houses and broken-down townhouses replete with boarded up doors and shot-out windows. At first I couldn’t imagine that I’d even get anyone to answer the doors of these seemingly uninhabitable places; I was naïve, I know. These places were people’s homes—wonderful people—people who greeted me so warmly with big smiles and shining eyes, crying “Of course!” they were voting for Barack Obama. One very old woman who greeted me amidst her lovingly cared-for petunia plants told me that she never imagined she would live to see the day an African American would be voted into office.
Little kids that saw me with Obama door-tags came running over to me wanting anything with Obama’s face on it. I joked with them about being too young to vote, but they were each as serious as the most avid baseball card collector. After stockpiling their Obama loot, they went running back down the streets shouting his name, with their mothers trailing close behind.
Then I approached three young guys sitting on a stoop, rolling the fattest blunt I’ve ever seen. I asked them about voting for Obama, to which they began arguing back and forth with each other about their fears of Obama’s inevitable assassination. One of them said, ‘Why do they wanna kill him?’ and then the other said, “Cause he’s BLACK. And he’s about to be President!” Then they told me to make sure that Obama won. And warned me not to stay in the neighbourhood come sundown.
After I left Philly and had time to gather my impressions of the day, I was most struck by the fact that no matter how hardened the person I met, the mere mention of Obama’s name was enough to turn on that inner light inside—it made them shine. And lately, I recognize that same phenomenon in myself. I think its called hope. And though we all need hope—the residents of West Philadelphia are the ones that I’ve been thinking about today. I’ve never seen a hunger for hope like I saw there. And now that the polls are definitively in, and I’m finally sure that this is REALLY happening, I’m just so happy that this country didn’t let them down. I’d go out into the streets with a pot and pan and celebrate but I’m a little late. So instead, I sat down at my Rhodes, and wrote a new song. Which, of course, ended up having literally nothing to do with the elections or anything, but creativity is a funny thing I guess.
Speaking of songs, here is one I wish I wrote: (thanks to Ali for originally sending this to me!)
And here’s something all we Poindexters can be hopeful about:
The Day After: Science in the Obama Administration: Scientific American Podcast
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