Something Lurking in the Gym

Last Saturday I almost came to blows with an African American dad while I watched my white grandson play pick-up basketball. I have written before about how race sometimes “lurks” in our interactions. This race-laden incident threatened to steal the joy and spirit of our regular Saturday mornings at the gym.

Some context: Every Saturday morning when my white wife, Laura; my white grandson, Damon; and I walk into Coleman Community Center, I am reminded of the history told to me by Doug Williams. Doug is a white administrator at a local state university. Years ago when I was out of work he agreed to meet with me for an informational interview. He ended up granting me way more than the 20 minutes I asked for.

Doug talked about growing up in the 1960s. He had graduated from Glencliff High School the year before the all-white school was forced to integrate. Doug told me about the time in his high school years that he received a phone call at home. His mother answered the call and hailed him to the corded phone in the kitchen. When Doug arrived in the kitchen, Mom, with her hand over the phone, whispered, “He says it’s Leroy.”

“Okay,” Doug said.

“Who’s Leroy?”

“I’ve told you about Leroy. We play basketball together.”

“Is he… a Negro?”

“Yes.”

“You never told me he was a Negro.”

“I didn’t know it mattered.”

Doug told me that during the segregated Glencliff/Coleman community of youth, the only place black teens and white teens interacted was in the gym at Coleman Community Center. The center was the place that Doug regularly played basketball with black guys.

The Glencliff/Coleman community has grown much more multicultural in more recent years. Glencliff High is an international center. Coleman Community Center also reflects that diversity…except in the gym.

When Laura, Damon and I arrive at the center on Saturday mornings, we observe a predictable scene in the gym. There are often single players each claiming one of the six goals, while being trained by a dad or a personal trainer. Players and trainers are all black.

Damon and I usually find an open goal and play one-on-one before others arrive, especially if Akam, the Kurdish eighth grader, hasn’t arrived yet. We might get in a game of two-on-two or three-on-three before the high schoolers and young men arrive. It varies week to week, most Saturdays, except for Damon and Akam, all of the gym-dwellers are African American.

Damon has earned the respect of all of the players. The boys have fun. There are the usual disputes about who knocked the ball out or whether someone was fouled. Most of the time the offender knows he is wrong, and sometimes laughter ensues. Disputes are resolved quickly; everyone just wants to get back to playing. And when the games are over, there are fist-bumps and high-fives all around and promises of “See you next week.”

Last week I was watching the boys play five-on-five. I looked up and saw a familiar African American dad, who had been coming with his son the past three weeks. In those weeks I had struck up conversations with him. We had recognized each other because I had taught his eighth grade son when the boy was a sweet first grader.

On this day I tapped the dad on the shoulder and said, “Hey.” He barely looked at me and grunted. A few minutes later he turned to me and started badmouthing Damon under the guise of “coaching.” The smirk on his face betrayed his real meaning. While his son strutted and taunted on the court, I decided to return (grand)parental fire (because I am such a calm and gracious guy). I commented on his son’s “attitude” on the court.

So it was ON. This dad is a big guy, and he thought (I assume) that if he abruptly moved closer to me while spewing, I would be intimidated. He didn’t know that I am both too old and too young to be intimidated. After a heated exchange of words, I eventually walked out of the gym.

When I came back with a calmer demeanor, the dad just started talking smack every time his son came up with a good play or Damon missed a shot. I was sitting behind and away from said dad, so he had to turn around to keep making his comments. I finally asked him to stop talking to me. He asserted his right to say whatever he wanted to. My loving wife encouraged me several times to not engage him at all.

The game ended, and his victorious son unleashed this lengthy angry taunt into the gym. It was unlike anything we’ve seen in the weeks we have been playing light-hearted Saturday morning pick-up basketball. Ignoring my wise wife, I turned to the dad and said, “That’s the attitude I’m talking about.” I honestly don’t remember what else transpired before we were up in each other’s faces, but a shouting match ensued.  And management came. I took another walk.

While outside I spoke to another African American dad, whom we had befriended in earlier weeks. One week he had asked Damon to play one-on-one offense so that his son could work on his defense. On this Saturday, I asked this dad if he had witnessed the scene I had just caused. He hadn’t. I apologized for it anyway. Then he said, “You know, in days like these it is disappointing when we start at EACH OTHER like this. It’s enough to have to deal with that treatment in general society. You would think that at least WE could keep it together.” He meant, of course “we black folk.” It was lament, not criticism.

The rest of the of the conversation was typical. We talked more about our boys and their basketball experiences. Then, newly calm, I returned to the gym.

The “my boy/your boy” conversation is one I have had with dozens of parents. Three weeks ago I launched into that conversation with Dad #1.  But whenever I complimented his kid, he criticized Damon.

So why was this dad all focused on Damon? He made no comments about any other kid out there. And in three weeks he and his son had become increasingly anti-social, and the son had become increasingly angry on the court. Aside from Damon’s obvious talent, I can think of only one reason he was singled out for this constant criticism. It was something lurking.

By the middle of the first five-on-five game last week, Damon didn’t want to play anymore, but, as he told his Meemaw, “I wasn’t gonna go out like that.”  He finished the game, and his team handily won the next game. Still Damon was disturbed.

I own my part in the drama. The following week the whole scenario occupied a lot of my thought life. I first apologized to Damon and then tried to encourage him, “We can’t let them steal the joy of our Saturday mornings. We do this for fun. Don’t let them take this from us.” But I had no idea how I could instruct my own emotions before the next Saturday. I did pray. I did consider whether we should show up at all. I did think of what I wanted to say to reconcile with this dad, but it would all be built on how wrong HE was. And I had already committed to a wise woman that I would not speak to the man at all.

I did go over the past three weeks in my mind trying to figure out what went wrong before I had decided to “return fire.” And why was I so inconsolable after the incident?

I think the discomfort was based in something more than immediate. It drew on the historical romance I had been told about Coleman/Glencliff. It was the sense that this place of peace, this place of community against the cultural odds, was being turned into a place of conflict. And the battle was engaged against me and my grandson for no respectable reason.

By week’s end, my emotional energy had dissipated and I had pictured for myself how I would act. First, I would get back out on the court myself. No-one can take the game too seriously when I am on the court.

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As it turned out dad and son didn’t show. I don’t think anyone spoke of them or of our incident. But there was a palpable relief hanging in the air. The boys were lighter than usual. They played hard, but they laughed as hard as they played. And there were fist-bumps and high-fives.

What I am learning from my white grandchildren: Truths about race | Antho...

The Way It's Supposed to Be: Reflections on Sandy Hook

I finally remembered the unicorn. It had been in our car since Sunday when our granddaughters, five-year-old Chelsea and 18-month-old Zoey, went to church with us. We took the girls home after Sunday lunch, but Chelsea left the little stuffed toy in our car.

That Friday morning, December 14, 2012, we drove to their house to take Chelsea and eight-year-old Damon to school as we do many schooldays. All week I had kept forgetting to return the unicorn. Until that day.

We arrived at their house and found Chelsea as we do every schoolday, dressed and sitting in her little girl chair in the middle of the living room, watching “Charlie and Lola” on TV. Damon was nowhere to be found. We knew he was in the house somewhere, and older people were around but asleep. I finally spotted two legs sticking out from under the Christmas tree like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy's fallen house. After we pulled him out, we laughed a little and gathered up the children and their things.

Before we left the house, Chelsea grabbed a pink box that opens at the top and has two opening drawers in the front. She gave it to me and said “You take this home and put stuff in it.” When we got to the car, she elaborated to Meemaw, “ You put stuff in it, and Peepaw puts stuff in it. Then you can bring it back to me tomorrow or Sunday.” We took in our instructions obediently. I’m pretty sure she just wanted us to have something else of hers since we returned the unicorn.

 Whitsitt Elementary School is only about four blocks from the house, but as the weather is getting colder we prefer driving the kids to school. Once we pulled out of the driveway, Meemaw   started the prayer.  “God we thank you for this day. And we ask that you be with Damon and Chelsea at school today. We ask for their protection. And we pray that they will be obedient to their teachers and kind to their classmates. We pray that everyone will be kind to them. We pray that they will know that You are with them. In Jesus’ Name.  Amen.”  

“Amen.” 

“Amen.”

“Amen.”  

As we approached the drive up to the school, Meemaw said, as usual, “Wave to Mommy.” Chelsea and Damon’s mom, Chrissy, is a crossing guard at their school. We always wave to her as we drive up to the school.

We parked and headed into the building and walked the short entry hallway. From there, the second through fourth graders turn right and the pre-K through first graders turn left to get to their respective classrooms. At this point we typically wait for Damon’s decision. He might want to go to breakfast, might want to walk alone to class, or might want to have company walking to his second- grade class. “Company” usually means Meemaw, since I am designated to walk with Chelsea, who always just wants to get to class as soon as possible and would be just as happy to walk all by herself.  

Chelsea and I both love the walk, but we are really in different worlds, I think. I am an observer, amazed and delighted to see how the children at Whitsitt respond to one another every day. The school exudes kindness, friendliness, and safety. And yes I have to mention the racial make-up of the student body. It’s perhaps 80% Latino with a handful of black students and white students. That make-up matters to me, mainly because it doesn’t seem to matter to the children. Brown, black, and white pre-K through fourth grade boys and girls walk hand in hand or arm and arm. They are not supposed to speak, because it’s Zone Zero in the halls, but they smile and wave and sneak in a “Hi Chelsea” whenever they can. Chelsea is obediently silent, but also smiles and waves. And she soaks it in.

On this day Damon decided to walk to class on his own, so Meemaw hugged him and said goodbye before joining me and Chelsea. As usual Chelsea’s mood grew more quietly excited as she walked down the hall. We finally got her to her class, where she stopped to hug Meemaw, and I kneeled down so that she could half-hug me. She doesn’t like this moment because she’s already in school mode, but she always accommodates us. By then she was beaming. Mrs. Williams greeted her at the door, and Chelsea entered her kindergarten classroom, her second home, safe and sound.

After the events at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, that day, we made a point of going to Damon and Chelsea's house after school. We just wanted to see their little faces. When we walked in, Chelsea wanted to know if I had brought back her pink box. I reminded her that I have until Sunday. She giggled, “That’s right. I’ll see you Sunday!”

Are We Losing Winning?

 I spent the day Saturday ragging on Damon’s coach after their first soccer match of the season. After Damon’s team scored their second goal, one of his teammates asked if they were winning. The coach, who was doubling as a referee, replied, “Winning doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?!” I said, mainly to Christian, who was coaching his little brother from the sideline. “What did she say?”

I get where the coach was coming from. A long time ago, I played Little League baseball…badly. I got to play because the league said that the coach had to play me. Each game I served my one inning in right field. Most of that time was spent like Chelsea’s one-and-only soccer practice before she quit this year: I would rather be picking flowers (not literally for me, but for Chelsea...). As I stood out in that field, I prayed, as did my coaches, that the ball would never come my way.

I played for two years, one at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and one at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. My two experiences differed very little from each other. But the first year our team came in first place. The second year our team came in fourth place. First place was better.

I played baseball because my brother, Carl—who was still Cochise to me in those days—had played before me. Co experienced all of the pressure that led later parents to go easy on their kids. He was a good player, especially a good pitcher, but I think that, with Dad as his coach, Co never felt he was good enough. Dad had to change his tune by the time I started to play. There was no way to parlay my inability, uncoordination and disinterest into some winning prospect. The best he could do is to hope to get me on a good team and hope I didn’t ruin anything.

I later joined a basketball team of my own volition. I faired no better there, and like Chelsea, I quit pretty early on. But I learned that I liked basketball. It didn’t so much matter how good I was. I liked the game. So by the time I enrolled at Punahou School for my junior year of high school, I was beginning my days playing basketball with a ragtag bunch of classmates. Most of them were better and younger than me, but I still liked playing. I also liked winning.

And I later played basketball on teams or in pickup games, knowing that I would usually be the weakest player on the court. One of my fondest memories remains the day my older brother, Carl, and my younger brother, Keith, and I challenged some guys in a pickup game in Hawaii after my college graduation. My brothers are clearly better athletes than me. I don’t remember who won that game. I do remember that Carl missed a layup, Keith put it back up, I got his miss, and I made the basket. Whether or not we won, I saw myself as the hero—that time.

In my later single adulthood I also enjoyed shooting around by myself. I even used basketball as a sort of worship. I would bring my boombox to the outdoor court at the old Howard School. I’d blast Christian music and sing while I played. I met 12-year-old Josh and 8-year-old Anna that way. They lived across the street from the school. They came over together one day while I was shooting and singing. They introduced themselves and told me that they recognized my Christian music. They asked me where I went to church. Then without asking their parents, they invited me to the weekly Tuesday night dinner they had with close friends from their church. Josh and Anna symbolize basketball benefits that had nothing to do with competition. I had grown to enjoy basketball with or without the competitiveness.

Although I was largely unsuccessful in sports, I did grow up learning to compete, mainly with words. And in those competitions, winning was everything; I would not back down. The residuals of my competitiveness remain today. I like being right. And I like you believing that I am right—even if I’m not.

Then I face moments like this Sunday morning, when Pastor Stephen Handy talked about imitating the humility of Jesus. Again with that Jesus Talk! I loved that in our subsequent Sunday School class, Ken pointed out that Jesus is already a victor and that because of Jesus, we are victors too.

I’m still learning. I have discovered that winning doesn’t have to be everything in order for it to be anything. And in some situations, winning doesn’t even matter. Marriage has been my best laboratory for seeing that “winning doesn’t matter.” I’ve learned that there are some things—such as the relationships themselves—that matter more.

After Damon’s soccer game Saturday, an inattentive teammate asked who won. The coach said, “Nobody won.” I still think she is wrong (which would mean that I am right): Damon’s team won 4-0. It matters. But it's not all that matters.

A Father's Blessing

I know this plays like a commercial, but it's really just another excuse to talk about the grandkids. The occasion is the release of the updated version of The Blessing, John Trent and Gary’s Smalley’s popular family-oriented, Christian “self-help” book, originally published in 1986.

I read the book back then, and as a Christian with a fairly recent psychology degree and a strong desire to raise a family, it punched all my buttons. Problem was I didn’t have a family of my own. I wasn’t married; I wasn’t even dating. So it was a bit like reading escapist fiction for me.  But now, of course, my world is different. I'm married and occasionally dating (my WIFE, silly people!); I count six kids and seven grandkids.

My grandson Damon had a tough time last school year. He is now in 1^st grade for the second time. This year, he’s doing well academically, but it’s taken a while for him to deal with this thing emotionally. It seems that repeating a grade and trying to fit into a new school are not easy realities to get used to.

Laura, my wife, and I get to see him every morning. Before we pick up his cousin Elliott for the day, we travel to Damon’s house to drive him to school. When we get to Damon’s house each schoolday morning, his mom, Chrissy, has already taken his brothers Christian and Dylan to their schools on her way to work.  Brother Michael is also at work. Damon is at home with his daddy, Thomas, who is there after having worked into the evening. Damon's little sisters, Chelsea and Zoey, are usually sleeping.

Before leaving the house with Damon, we ask him, “Did you do you homework? Did you get your folder signed? Are you all set?” It’s the ritual. The last part of the ritual is when he goes to his daddy. Thomas hugs him, holds him close, and whispers a prayer for the day. He challenges Damon to do his best, to obey his teachers, to be kind to his classmates. He says “I love you,” and kisses him. Damon is then ready to face his day.

That moment lasts less than a minute each day, but it makes all the difference in the world for how Damon navigates that day. Thomas bestows a blessing on Damon.

That’s The Blessing John Trent and Gary Smalley describe in their book. Their contention is that The Blessing bestowed upon our children (our grandchildren, spouses, other family members and friends) can make a difference in how they navigate, not just one day, but their entire lives. For the authors there are five elements to The Blessing:

1. Use meaningful and appropriate touch.

2. Use a spoken message of encouragement.

3. Attach high value. Communicate that person’s value.

4. Help them picture a special future.

5. Actively commit to helping them succeed.

I’d like to say that I taught Thomas everything he knows in this regard, but it wouldn’t be true. Thomas is one of those rare people gifted by God as a natural nurturer, a natural encourager. Most of us are not like that. Most of us need help learning how to bestow that blessing. For us, the book, The Blessing, can help.

Stuff I Learned from a 15-Month Unplanned Sabbatical

 Labor Day Thoughts from  a Guy Who is Recently Re-employed:

1. I love job security!

2. It is good and satisfying to work for a living.

3. Contrary to the human nature beliefs of some of my friends, most humans (even most Americans) believe, live by, and are motivated by no. 2.

4. There are hardworking people who can’t find a job and hard-working people who can’t provide for their families (OK, I already knew this one).

5. There are more important things than job security.

6. Looking for work is work. Looking for work during a recession takes patience, persistence and ingenuity. And the Patience and Persistence Award goes to: My wife, Laura.

7. Networking works, even if it takes 15 months (or longer) to work. 

8. Contrary to some rantings from defenders of hard-working, successful people, there is no such thing as independence. No-one gets there purely by their own actions and abilities (See no.7).

9. There is no such thing as job security.

10. blah blahblah GRANDKIDS blah blah blah (See no.5)

Just Thinkin'

I’m wrestling with when and whether I will meet Damon for lunch at school. At first it was a no-brainer: I’d love that, and so would he! After all he visited me at work on a number of occasions. And we first went out into public—just the two of us before he was two weeks old (We went to Home Depot).

But then I remembered: kids can be cruel. And innocent, curious kindergarteners can be unintentionally hurtful.

When Timothy was in kindergarten, I ate lunch with him once after his persistent requests. I met his friends, and we had a great time. Damon has his Uncle Timothy’s take-it-or-leave-it confidence. But he also has his daddy’s desire to make sure everyone is getting along (“No-one should be left out!”). What would my presence in these early days do to a little boy who is trying to fit in and to make sure everyone else fits in? How would he handle their innocently curious questions? What would their questions tell him about what is “normal”?

I knew those questions would be inevitable for our kids. Before I asked Laura to marry me, we had been close friends for ten years and had dated for three years. I had a lot to think about before deciding that this was what I wanted to do. At the top of my foot-dragging list was the knowledge that the kids would have to explain to other kids something that they did not choose.

One day, after we had been married about five years, I was down in the basement sorting through stuff (I have a little bit of stuff). The kids, all teenagers except Timothy, were gone for the weekend. My mind started working; and when I would let it go like that, it usually focused on the kids. All of a sudden I was overcome with emotion. The thought that prompted the flood was the realization that I had never once asked the kids what happens when people at school learn that they have a black stepfather. I had not asked, and they had not told. I started thinking of all the possible reactions.

During the next week, I asked each of our children in private.

Kimberly said, “I go to Hume-Fogg (Academic Magnet School). There are a lot more unusual family situations than ours!”

Thomas said, “My friends think it’s cool, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Charlie said, “Nothing happens.” When I pressed him, it wasn’t clear if to me if the subject never came up, if he was ashamed, or if he was protecting me. Now that he’s a little older and a lot more mature, I might ask him again.

Timothy said, “They ask me ‘So are you mixed?’ and I say, ‘Do I LOOK mixed?’”

So I finally asked them, and I think their message to me was, “It’s not a big deal.” But in case you’re wondering, I wasn’t asking about how much they love me or anything like that. I think the kids and I have all come through that “Can I trust that you really love me? stage.”

Likewise I have no doubt about the bond between Damon and me. But love often comes with a cost, sometimes with a burden. Real love can bear the burden, especially once we reach a certain level of maturity. By the time I asked my kids that question, they were all veterans of school society and they had already borne some burdens.

Damon is new at this. I think the lunch visit can wait until he gets his classroom and schoolyard legs under him. Unless he persists.

Am I Black or Am I White?

Damon, my five-year-old white grandson, announced to his Aunt Kimberly recently that he was black.

Kimberly: No, Sugar Booger; you’re white, just like Daddy.
Damon: Well when I get bigger, I’m gonna be black.

Only a few weeks later he asked his pregnant Aunt Kimberly, “Is your baby gonna be a Mexican?”

Kimberly: No silly, Uncle Drew is the Daddy. The baby will be white like me and Uncle Drew.
Damon: I don’t want Mexican; I like white.

And days later, Damon asked his mom “Am I white or am I black?”

For the record, Damon doesn't even know what "Mexican" is, but he has heard someone, probably not in his immediate family, say something negative about someone "Mexican."

Damon has learned the truth at an early age: Race matters. It is not just a matter of skin color. Somehow it means something. For Damon it’s an issue of identity as well as identification, preference, and (he thinks) choice.

When I was five, I don’t think I put any value on the differences among skin color. From birth I had been surrounded by a broadness of hue amongst those who loved me. I drew this picture of my family (I think it’s just us kids) and used the orange crayon even though a brown one was available. I think I perceived skin color as just gradations on a spectrum with no social significance (at five I probably used different language). If so, then biologically speaking, I was right.

But Damon knows that biology is not what matters with race. And he’s trying to figure out what does matter.

I Know How Chelsea Feels

My memories of Germany are mostly impressionistic. I remember fearing the Germans on the other side of the fence, except for the ones we knew and loved. I remember idolizing my big brother, Carl, who we called “Co” --short for Cochise. I remember the feeling when my baby brother, Keith, was born (If he’s the baby brother, then what am I?). I remember a similar lost feeling when Marcia, my one and only sister, went off to German school.

We moved to Camp King, the Army base at Oberursel, Germany, before my first birthday. We lived there until I was five. For the first four years of my life, Marcia was my best friend. We were only thirteen months apart, and eventually people started to think we were twins. We loved that.

Once Marcia abandoned me for German school, Kelly Reinhart became my best friend during school hours. I have no specific memories of her, only fond feeling memories. She was a curly haired white girl (That's her on the tricycle). Our families lived in the same Army quarters. Her dad and mine were both soldiers and worked together at a second job at the NCO club. We got to go to the club at least on Sunday afternoons, so we saw a lot of the Reinharts.

But Army life is all about making friends and losing them in the next assignment. After Germany we lived in Kansas, Ohio, Virginia, and Hawaii; and I started seventh grade at Fort Knox, Kentucky. When Dad orchestrated a return to Hawaii, we were all relieved and thrilled, partly because the Reinharts were now there. I remember the anticipation of seeing my old best friend.

But thirteen-year-olds are not five-year-olds, and socialization was in full swing. I remember being at a backyard barbecue in Hawaii and someone telling me that that girl over there was Kelly; she had long wavy hair by then. I was shy. She probably was too. I don’t know if it was simply boy/girl stuff that kicked in or if anything else was lurking for either of us. But I don’t think we even spoke to each other—ever again.

But it was okay since Marcia and I were back to being “twins”—for a few more years. So I gotta assure Chelsea: Damon will be back.

What It Means to Me

I was 5 years old when President Kennedy was assassinated. I came home from kindergarten and watched the news on our black and white TV. I remember going outside, climbing the dumpster at our Fort Riley, Kansas, Army quarters. There I pondered the significance. To my little mind, you might as well have said, “God has been killed.”

I was 9 years old, living in Fort Belvoir, Virginia, when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Though I am African American, I was not really aware of who he was until he was killed. Dad tried to explain it to my innocent mind, “Martin Luther King was like the President of the Negro people.”

When Bobby Kennedy was assassinated only months later, I was much more alert. In my naive mind I still intertwined patriotism with religious devotion with general decency and strangely with academic excellence. That year my family took at least two trips to Washington DC. One was to see the national sites and structures. I cherish the pictures of the four of us kids standing obediently against the backdrop of the Washington Monument and facing the Lincoln Memorial. The other trip took us to 14th and U to see the devastation of the riots after the MLK assassination.

Two patriotic tracks began to emerge in my mind: one of continued pride and one of continued criticism. I insist that both were patriotism. In those days our family holidays were times to gather friends, often servicemen and women whose families were far away. We would, of course, feast; we’d watch sports; we’d listen to music; and we’d talk about issues. On the issues I was allowed to disagree even with my own Army officer father.

In high school I had the rare opportunity to continue those issue discussions with a couple other Black guys. During the 1975-76 school year at Punahou Academy in Honolulu, Hawaii, Rik Smith, a junior; “Barry” Obama, a freshman; and I, a senior had a standing date roughly once a week to talk. We discussed the social climate on our cosmopolitan campus (whether any of the non-black girls would date us black guys). We talked about sports and religion (I was a Christian; Rik and Barry were agnostics). We talked about our classes and the charges that a black person with a book was “acting white.” We talked about the social issues of the day and whether we would see a black U.S. President in our lifetime.

In my 1976 high school yearbook, I was given 1/3 of a page to express whatever I wanted to, to accompany my senior picture. I included this quote from Martin Luther King, Jr.: “I have a dream that one day…the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.” The quote has been a part of my life ever since.

Despite my hopes, by the time I was old enough to vote, my political cynicism was beginning to grow. Few Presidential candidates got my attention. Republican/Independent John Anderson got my attention in 1980. Democrat Jesse Jackson got my attention in 1984. Neither one prevailed, but they both interested me because their platforms were decidedly Christian and not particularly partisan. By 1988 Jesse Jackson had become a partisan Democrat, Anderson had faded from the picture, and my cynicism was completed. I continued to vote for Presidents, but today I can’t remember with assurance who I voted for each time. There was no excitement, no conviction; and as the culture wars ratcheted up, my Christian convictions were torn between party platforms.

When I read the memoir Dreams From My Father, which my brother Keith discovered in a remainder bin of a Boulder, Colorado, bookstore in the late 90’s, I was pleased by Barack’s transformation from an agnostic to a Christian. Despite my surprise, his account of coming to faith rang true to his thoughtful, fair-minded nature and his ability to continually grow.

Then I, like most of the country was taken aback by the soaring rhetoric first displayed nationally at the 2004 Democratic Convention. For me the voice sounded very familiar, like the conversations we had in high school. Still I was astounded by the audacious courage of saying in the Democratic keynote speech, “there is not a liberal America and a conservative America; there’s the United States of America!”

Then I heard the speech about the place of his Christian faith and politics at the Call to Renewal event in July 2006. After that speech, I began hoping that my high school friend would audaciously dare to run to be President of the United States. Over Christmas 2006, I heard that he was pondering such a run. I actually prayed for his decision during those days.

He announced, and then he ran a campaign that continued to stretch my pride. And my political cynicism began to melt. Barack Obama's Christian values showed through the nature of the campaign. He demonstrated how we can “disagree without being disagreeable.” Again I felt echoes of our days together. Barry and I have had in common a lifetime of learning to navigate different worlds. In our culturally rich state at a particularly cosmopolitan school and from each of our uniquely multicultural backgrounds, we were used to bridging communities.

And as he spoke with hope and inspiration, I never asked whether he had the “stuff” to back it up. I knew. I wasn’t saying, like most of America (some people for WAY too long), “Well, we don’t really know anything about him.” I knew. In Barack Obama I see a man who puts his God-inspired judgment above politics. He puts America above party.

That message of hope resonated with everyone in my family, and none of us had paid much attention to politics before. I was privileged to watch the debates with my white wife, white children, and white grandsons (ages 9, 13 and 17!). We met together to early vote, taking the younger grandbabies with us. On election night we all gathered around anticipating and cheering the inevitable.

So these days are partial fulfillment of many of my dreams. I am certainly proud at this moment because Barack Obama is a black man, like me. I am proud because he is “Hawaiian,” like me. I am proud because he was shaped by Punahou, like me. I am proud because he is a Jesus Follower, like me. And I am proud that long ago we actually discussed the possibility of a day like this.


I don’t believe this is a messianic new age. I don’t believe the new President will be a Savior or even a king. I stopped believing a long time ago that the President is God. But I do believe that character, intelligence, and ability matter. And I believe we will all reap the benefits and blessings of those values.

For the first time since I was 5, I can find excitement about the possibilities of the political process. And I am thrilled that when my almost 5 year old white grandson, Damon, hears "President," he pictures someone who looks like Peepaw and he knows it's Barack Obama. And when my granddaughter, Chelsea, is 5 years old (and Damon is 9), her only Presidential memory will be someone with the character of Barack Obama.