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reffieisredThe first thing I remember, in 8th grade at Whitewater Middle School, was my Georgia History teacher telling us to make bumper stickers. “Advertising for the candidate you support is important,” she had said, handing out long and rectangular sheets of blank paper, “So draw what you would have your bumper sticker look like.”
To this day, I can neither find the bumper sticker I drew, nor can I remember what I had drawn myself. The only thing I remember, clear as day, is the bumper sticker of the boy next to me. He had grinned so wide, and he was immensely proud of his own cleverness, as he called the attention of the entire room to show us his sticker.
Whiet White House White!
I thought about that bumper sticker for the rest of the day; even when I had gotten home, even when I was going to sleep. I remember coming into school the next day, once again in Georgia History, and our teacher telling us to talk amongst ourselves as we waited for her to get the powerpoint for the day ready. At first, the topic was merely about lunch, video games, or new tv shows, but the topic went very easily to the election once again.
I remember being asked: "If you could vote, who would you vote for?"
I remember responding: "I would vote for John McCain."
What I also remember is that I had no idea about any of the issues or any of the policies, I am quite sure neither did any of the other students in my class, and my decision was governed by one simple statement by the same boy who had made that bumper sticker I couldn't forget.
"People are only supporting Obama because he'd be the first black president."
If people are only supporting him because he's the first black president, I reasoned in my little eight-grade mind, Then I can't support him. I'm black, and they expect that of me.
I never said to the kids in that class, out loud, that I would rather support Obama than McCain or that I had no idea about any of the policies. I didn't talk much at all in that class until after the election was over. I sat up, all night, watching the election results with my dad and my brother. My father had told me then that ever since he could, he had always watched the election results and the inauguration, regardless if he supported the given president or not.
When Obama was first projected to win the presidency, my dad told my brother and I: "I knew I would see this one day."
When Obama officially won the presidency, after the votes were counted and everything was finished, my dad told my brother and I: "I'm glad you two didn't have to wait as long as I did."
At school, I didn't hear people really talk about the election anymore. I hadn't expected them to.
When Obama's inauguration came about, my brother and I didn't go to school that day. Instead, my father took us down to the CNN Center in Atlanta to watch the inauguration on one of the center's massive televisions. There had to have been hundreds of other people there as well. Before the program started, I had my father buy me a notebook.
Most of the people in that room watching with us were black. Older black men, younger black women, and everyone in between had found themselves a seat somewhere in front of that massive screen. My brother was talking to my dad about the people on the screen and their reactions while the new President was speaking. I was writing down things that he said in his speech.
I had never experienced anything quite like what I watched. So many people in Washington DC, in Atlanta, and in the world were all watching this one black guy speak. They were all watching him speak and, chances are, they would be for at least the next four years. He was important. I didn't factor in how or why they listened to him at that point-- what I focused on was the fact that they were listening to him in the first place.
My eighth grade self, this young black (soon to realize they were) gay kid, got to see a black man get sworn in as President of the United States, the highest office in the land, the commander-in-chief, and a Very Important Person all at once. It was absolutely astronomical. I thought about this every single time I looked at a textbook printed before 2009 that had a list of presidents in it. It's all white people, I would think, But there's a black person now.
I thought about this whenever I would mention I wanted to study international affairs and politics in college. Holding a high office wasn't just feasible anymore-- it had been done, so by that extension, I could do it as well. I was black, the President was black. My brother was black, the President was black. It was in the realm of possibility now for my brother and I to become President.
("But it was always in the realm of possibility," you say, "There was never a law saying a black person couldn't become president." Younger me knew that, but didn't believe it.)
I went to high school at Whitewater High School (which was aptly named because there were only a handful of black students to my knowledge) for my 9th-12th grade years. Race was brought up many times, during these years, especially in relation to the President of the United States. The concept of "Obama only won because he would be the first black president" was brought up in every single conversation. Attention would turn to me.
(Chances are, I was still the only black person in the room.)
"He's the first black president," I would say, every time, "But not the first person to support these issues." Usually that would end the conversation there, and everyone would move on, or I would move on because I had work to do. Very rarely were things pressed further than that. I knew they would be pressed further sometimes, though, so I would always make sure to either read up on issues or ask my dad about his stances on certain topics.
(PBS News Hour, thank you for that.)
In other cases, I could ascertain very quickly if the argument I was about to be in concerning the President and his policies would be substance-based or merely race-based. Nine times out of ten, it primarily centered on race. This became even more prominent as the "birther" movement became a larger stink.
This hurt me the most, especially when classmates and those who I considered "friends" would perpetuate this concept. For the longest time, I couldn't pin point exactly why I didn't like it, or why I distanced myself from the white friends who believed it too. It wasn't until eleventh grade, when Obama was running for his second term and I was in AP Language, that I finally understood why I felt this way.
The only reason there are people that think Obama wasn't born in America is because he isn't white.
After realising this, dealing with this frustration became so much simpler. No one asks for the birth certificate of any of the other presidents, Donald Trump didn't need the birth certificate of any of the white Republicans, and the kid in my AP Language class that insisted it was unconstitutional for President Obama to not release his birth certificate didn't ask the same of Mitt Romney.
As I saw President Obama combat this in every way, shape, and form, from all sorts of lay people and people in high offices, I felt a sort of weird solidarity. I felt this solidarity every single time someone would comment how I "was the whitest" they knew because I didn't talk in a sort of stereotypical "street" fashion. They would say it like a compliment, as if it were a grand privilege to not be like One Of Those Black People. When I didn't take it as a compliment, I was being too uptight. I entertained this thought for about eleven seconds before I saw the similarities.
President Obama got asked for his birth certificate because "white" was seen as correct, and he was black. Not half black, not half white, but because he had a mix in him (look up the one drop rule, folks, that's another discussion of racism), he wasn't white. He wasn't correct, so there's no possible way he could be naturally born.
I got told I "was the whitest" black person and told it was a compliment because, once again, "white" was seen as correct. My lack of accent, formal speech pattern, and nerdy book personality weren't typical traits of your stereotypical black person, apparently, so I was gifted with the compliment of being "the whitest black person" people at Whitewater High School knew. I was supposed to take this statement and view it as a blessing; when I did not, I was uptight and ungrateful.
When I saw the similarities in the statements, it made it easier. When I saw President Obama's deflection of these accusations as foolish, as racist, as ignorant, I could see it as well. He has to deal with this too, I would think, even as he won a second term, The President of the United States has to deal with this as well.
To this day, I can neither find the bumper sticker I drew, nor can I remember what I had drawn myself. The only thing I remember, clear as day, is the bumper sticker of the boy next to me. He had grinned so wide, and he was immensely proud of his own cleverness, as he called the attention of the entire room to show us his sticker.
I thought about that bumper sticker for the rest of the day; even when I had gotten home, even when I was going to sleep. I remember coming into school the next day, once again in Georgia History, and our teacher telling us to talk amongst ourselves as we waited for her to get the powerpoint for the day ready. At first, the topic was merely about lunch, video games, or new tv shows, but the topic went very easily to the election once again.
I remember being asked: "If you could vote, who would you vote for?"
I remember responding: "I would vote for John McCain."
What I also remember is that I had no idea about any of the issues or any of the policies, I am quite sure neither did any of the other students in my class, and my decision was governed by one simple statement by the same boy who had made that bumper sticker I couldn't forget.
"People are only supporting Obama because he'd be the first black president."
If people are only supporting him because he's the first black president, I reasoned in my little eight-grade mind, Then I can't support him. I'm black, and they expect that of me.
I never said to the kids in that class, out loud, that I would rather support Obama than McCain or that I had no idea about any of the policies. I didn't talk much at all in that class until after the election was over. I sat up, all night, watching the election results with my dad and my brother. My father had told me then that ever since he could, he had always watched the election results and the inauguration, regardless if he supported the given president or not.
When Obama was first projected to win the presidency, my dad told my brother and I: "I knew I would see this one day."
When Obama officially won the presidency, after the votes were counted and everything was finished, my dad told my brother and I: "I'm glad you two didn't have to wait as long as I did."
At school, I didn't hear people really talk about the election anymore. I hadn't expected them to.
When Obama's inauguration came about, my brother and I didn't go to school that day. Instead, my father took us down to the CNN Center in Atlanta to watch the inauguration on one of the center's massive televisions. There had to have been hundreds of other people there as well. Before the program started, I had my father buy me a notebook.
Most of the people in that room watching with us were black. Older black men, younger black women, and everyone in between had found themselves a seat somewhere in front of that massive screen. My brother was talking to my dad about the people on the screen and their reactions while the new President was speaking. I was writing down things that he said in his speech.
I had never experienced anything quite like what I watched. So many people in Washington DC, in Atlanta, and in the world were all watching this one black guy speak. They were all watching him speak and, chances are, they would be for at least the next four years. He was important. I didn't factor in how or why they listened to him at that point-- what I focused on was the fact that they were listening to him in the first place.
My eighth grade self, this young black (soon to realize they were) gay kid, got to see a black man get sworn in as President of the United States, the highest office in the land, the commander-in-chief, and a Very Important Person all at once. It was absolutely astronomical. I thought about this every single time I looked at a textbook printed before 2009 that had a list of presidents in it. It's all white people, I would think, But there's a black person now.
I thought about this whenever I would mention I wanted to study international affairs and politics in college. Holding a high office wasn't just feasible anymore-- it had been done, so by that extension, I could do it as well. I was black, the President was black. My brother was black, the President was black. It was in the realm of possibility now for my brother and I to become President.
("But it was always in the realm of possibility," you say, "There was never a law saying a black person couldn't become president." Younger me knew that, but didn't believe it.)
I went to high school at Whitewater High School (which was aptly named because there were only a handful of black students to my knowledge) for my 9th-12th grade years. Race was brought up many times, during these years, especially in relation to the President of the United States. The concept of "Obama only won because he would be the first black president" was brought up in every single conversation. Attention would turn to me.
(Chances are, I was still the only black person in the room.)
"He's the first black president," I would say, every time, "But not the first person to support these issues." Usually that would end the conversation there, and everyone would move on, or I would move on because I had work to do. Very rarely were things pressed further than that. I knew they would be pressed further sometimes, though, so I would always make sure to either read up on issues or ask my dad about his stances on certain topics.
(PBS News Hour, thank you for that.)
In other cases, I could ascertain very quickly if the argument I was about to be in concerning the President and his policies would be substance-based or merely race-based. Nine times out of ten, it primarily centered on race. This became even more prominent as the "birther" movement became a larger stink.
This hurt me the most, especially when classmates and those who I considered "friends" would perpetuate this concept. For the longest time, I couldn't pin point exactly why I didn't like it, or why I distanced myself from the white friends who believed it too. It wasn't until eleventh grade, when Obama was running for his second term and I was in AP Language, that I finally understood why I felt this way.
The only reason there are people that think Obama wasn't born in America is because he isn't white.
After realising this, dealing with this frustration became so much simpler. No one asks for the birth certificate of any of the other presidents, Donald Trump didn't need the birth certificate of any of the white Republicans, and the kid in my AP Language class that insisted it was unconstitutional for President Obama to not release his birth certificate didn't ask the same of Mitt Romney.
As I saw President Obama combat this in every way, shape, and form, from all sorts of lay people and people in high offices, I felt a sort of weird solidarity. I felt this solidarity every single time someone would comment how I "was the whitest" they knew because I didn't talk in a sort of stereotypical "street" fashion. They would say it like a compliment, as if it were a grand privilege to not be like One Of Those Black People. When I didn't take it as a compliment, I was being too uptight. I entertained this thought for about eleven seconds before I saw the similarities.
President Obama got asked for his birth certificate because "white" was seen as correct, and he was black. Not half black, not half white, but because he had a mix in him (look up the one drop rule, folks, that's another discussion of racism), he wasn't white. He wasn't correct, so there's no possible way he could be naturally born.
I got told I "was the whitest" black person and told it was a compliment because, once again, "white" was seen as correct. My lack of accent, formal speech pattern, and nerdy book personality weren't typical traits of your stereotypical black person, apparently, so I was gifted with the compliment of being "the whitest black person" people at Whitewater High School knew. I was supposed to take this statement and view it as a blessing; when I did not, I was uptight and ungrateful.
When I saw the similarities in the statements, it made it easier. When I saw President Obama's deflection of these accusations as foolish, as racist, as ignorant, I could see it as well. He has to deal with this too, I would think, even as he won a second term, The President of the United States has to deal with this as well.
That made college easier.
I was, once again, a handful of black students at the University of Georgia. I was, once again, usually the only black person in my classes. I had gotten used to it by this point. It was normal. However, when I would hear the same things again-- "you don't sound that black" or "what country are you from?"-- I didn't remain quiet. I didn't brush it off or take it as a compliment that someone didn't see me as a stereotypical black person. For those next four years, I made sure I was as unapologetic, uptight, and ungrateful as possible towards the same damn things I had been hearing since I was a young black kid in a Georgia History class filled with white people laughing at a bumper sticker.
I could go on and mention every single little moment that President Obama directly affected my life in, but neither I nor you have the time. I could mention going to Selma on the 50th Anniversary and marching behind him, I could mention watching every single State of the Union. But I won't.
Instead, I'll end this with the conversation that my father had with me, last night, as he drove through Jonesboro, GA past a sign pointing towards a Confederate cemetery.
"What do you think was the most important part of Obama's presidency?"
The question was tough as shit, so I gave the first answer I could think of. "...He was our first black president?" When my father shook his head, I continued. "...Healthcare?" He shook his head again.
He made me sit there and think for a couple more moments before he answered his own question. "He worked on including more people in the circle titled The United States of America." My father took his hands off the wheel of the vehicle and drew a circle in the air, as if I was unaware what a circle was, before continuing. "He saw the United States as a circle, and throughout his presidency, he made it a goal to include as many people as he could in that circle. You don't have healthcare? Okay. Come on, we'll get you in the circle. It may have faults, but we're going to try to get you in the circle. You don't like being called that word? Okay. I won't use it. You're in the circle. All genders and sexualities want to marry? Okay, you get in the circle too. You don't think you can become President? Nah, look. Watch. You're in this circle with me. Whether he did or didn't achieve his goal is another matter, but I do believe he tried to change things in the United States, and I think that's what he'll be remembered for. He tried to make us and them into we."
While President Obama has a list of faults and shortcomings that wove through his presidency, one thing I will always be able to remember is that I belong in this circle called "The United States of America" as well. I don't have to "act white," I don't have to show any birth certificates or anything of the like. I, in all my black gayness, am an American who is worth and can achieve just as much as anyone else in this country. It may be hard, there may still be things that need to change, but I can do it. Yes, I can.
