I get the feeling some people are expecting me to say something this morning. That somehow I will be able to capture the historic nature of last night in a way that they cannot. I hesitate to try. Nothing I say about the election can live up to those expectations. I can bring it no greater meaning than my own.
After the polls closed on the West Coast last night, a friend of mine from high school called me. He was excited that the networks had officially declared the election for Obama. After we had talked for a few minutes, I asked him what his mother, who had died a few years ago, would have thought. He told me that growing up, she used to tell him that while he could do almost anything he wanted to do in this country, he would never be President. Because he was black. I think she would have been tickled to see this day, though perhaps not for the reason you might think.
This was a woman who taught me the meaning of being colorblind. She adopted each of her son's friends as her own. She cared for us, nurtured us. She helped us work through our problems. She protected us, at least where she could. She didn't care about our backgrounds or heritage or skin tones; her son's judgment of our character was good enough for her. She was the village auntie who wouldn't hesitate to set us straight in her own gentle but authoritative way.
I think what she might have been most pleased with out of this election was that for the vast majority of Americans it was not a referendum on race. For most of us, it was about policy, about character, about outlook and direction, whether our candidate won or lost. Race was incidental. As it should be. For that, I think she would have been most proud.
Don't be fooled by the pundits and experts this morning citing how this demographic or that voted by percentages. People are not monolithic, not by gender, not by religion, not by skin tone, no more than by the color of their hair or eyes. The experience of having certain qualities changes us; they don't define us in absolutes. If you don't believe that, have a conversation with a redhead or two some time. Or an Abenaki. Or a Jew. Each has a different perspective on what it meant to grow up in this country, some of which was directly shaped by how they were treated and perceived.
My aunt, who had a double-shot of my splash of native blood, used to get hassled at the beach back in the '50's and 60's because people thought she wasn't white. That experience changed her, just as hearing her retell it years later changed me. She always wanted me to be proud of that sliver of my background. My grandfather wouldn't talk about it, because of his father's and grandfather's experiences I'm told. He lived in New England, not Selma, but his society's expectations still changed him.
As my own changed me. The friend I spoke with last night was once told by my high school girlfriend's parents not to come around alone to see her, at least not to the front door. They were concerned with what the neighbors might think. One member of my own family used to joke that my dark complexion came from all that "nigger blood" in me. This was acceptable behavior at the time. This wasn't segregationist or backwoods Florida. This was an educated suburb in the early '80's, a stone's throw from the Cape. Canaveral, not Cod.
Though they still make me angry sometimes, those memories belong to the past now, not the present. I think we can finally say we've moved on.
Do we have different expectations of this President-elect than of any one previous? I hope not. He is a man, not an icon. He will certainly make mistakes. And we, as a nation, will continue to stumble forward, hopefully toward a better future, for our children or our grandchildren, if not always for ourselves.
Cleo, if you are looking on this morning, I hope you are smiling. For myself, I am content that we have redefined at least one expectation in this country. Though I can see from some of the returns last night that on a number of other issues, we, as a nation, still have a long, hard path ahead.© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III
