One Last Time... My President Is Black!
Original Huffington Post article here.
Wait, what do you mean “last time?” President Obama is my FOREVER President… TF?
As much as I want to believe this to be true… I’m not a sociopath like *coughs* the man racist America elected.
Oh, America… Where you can celebrate a civil rights activist on Monday, and inaugurate a racist on Friday.
On the eve of Inauguration Day, we send up prayers asking that we do not wake up to our country in flames and ultimately, prepare ourselves to say goodbye to an era. An era that represented hope and actually brought change for the people… Just not to Washington. & By Washington, I mean… Politics.
For whatever reason, an ambitious black man who put The People first somehow threatened white people, I mean Conservatives, to the point where they were willing to put The People in harm’s way; just to stick it to the [black] man. Because black voices, as we’ve learned, still don’t seem to matter… At least not as much.
How deplorable is that?
For the past eight years, we have watched from our living rooms the most powerful man, not just in the country, but in the WORLD, be subjected to racism day after day. Still having to prove himself, as if the proof isn’t in the details… As if healing the economy, increasing jobs, opening the conversation of racial tensions, LGBT victories, pro-immigration reform, and affordable health care – to name a few – wasn’t proof enough.
We’ve been forced to watch the childish games politicians played in the name of partisanship. We’ve witnessed gridlocks on gridlocks on gridlocks because God forbid Democrats, let alone a man of color, have a better, more functional idea than Republicans. They were so caught up in being petty for the moment, they forgot about the future. OUR future. They rejected the kind of legislation that would shape the very nation they would leave behind for their kids and their kids’ kids. Simply out of spite.
Since November, I haven’t been the same.
I lost my appetite for writing. I lost my appetite for words in general. In fact, I retreated behind the canvas and took up painting instead. Who needed therapy when the paintbrush did the talking for me? I never had to actually cope with our loss that fateful day in November, let alone digest the news, because it hurt too much… And it for damn sure hurt too much to talk about it at the dinner table during the holidays. But… I did anyway. It’s all I could seem to think about it.
I remember that day… I was in Guyana, my parent’s homeland. We stayed up late watching The Election (which aired on every Guyanese news channel). My aunt’s were already defeated when North Carolina was projected to go red. Still, I clung onto the smallest thread of hope that I could find. I tried to maintain my composure, to elude wearing my emotions on my sleeve – I didn’t want the universe to sense my apprehension and agonizing thoughts of a Trump presidency… No, I didn’t want to put that out there. But I suppose I wasn’t as good at shielding my angst as I thought as my uncle exclaimed, “Don’t worry, Nadi. Hillary is gonna win,” in hopes of comforting me.
Michigan, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and I believe one other state remained. I remember doing the math in the notes of my iPhone; making all types of combinations to see which would ensure a Clinton victory.
I was so certain that the president to succeed a Black man would be a woman. That we were going to have yet another victory in history. That my niece would be able to say the only two presidents of her lifetime thus far were a man of color and a woman. That she too could someday be commander-in-chief. Not that I no longer believe that now, but… The media and my faith in humanity led me to believe that We The People, in 2016, could never be capable of electing a racist/xenophobic/elitist/megalomaniac/idiot to the highest honor in America. As you can imagine, or should I say, as you can relate, that does quite a number on one’s sanity.
Since November, I’ve felt like the wind was knocked out of me and I’m still trying to catch my breath.
Since November, I cannot shake images of young girls who would reach for their hijabs whenever Trump speaks… Or families who have a loved one suffering from cancer or heart conditions and either can’t afford healthcare, or saddled with debt. Or young children who may lose a law-abiding, tax-paying parent to deportation.
Spinning in circles… My state of mind has been disoriented ever since. Never feeling in one place. Here, there, and everywhere. Constantly at unease, my once bubbly spirit is now adorned in fear. Fear of the ominous fate of the “Land of The Free.”
Or, as I like to presently call it… The Divided States of America.
A weird place for someone like me who is so accustomed to finding the good in any bad situation.
But that’s what I’ve come to realize – we can’t afford to subscribe to the doom and gloom Donald Trump is selling. He’s got enough money in his wallet, we don’t need to fatten up his ego, too. This man is already plotting on a 2020 reelection bid and he hasn’t even had a chance to run the country into the ground yet.
“Keep America Great,” he says.
Yes, you read that correctly... Keep America Great — just like The Purge: Election Year slogan.
While your anger is very... I mean VERY much justified, we must divorce it (which I still have yet to do but hopefully by the end of this article, I’ll be a bit closer). We can’t keep placing blame on third party voters, the media, racists, the Electoral College, or the jerks who took their civic duty for a joke by wasting a vote that people have died for by writing in Harambe. Nah… That requires too much energy.
If the government isn’t going to keep President Obama’s legacy alive, it’s on us to do it ourselves. We owe that much to Barry.
And as much as I refuse not to acknowledge tonight, Jan. 19, 2017, as The Obama’s final night in The People’s House – because if I don’t say goodbye, it’s not real – we must let go.
We can start by thinking globally and acting locally. Let’s work together so we can find, motivate, and support the candidate we want to represent US. The key is in organizing. We can protest, but it cannot stop there. We must reach out to our local representatives. Attend town halls and meetings. Voice our concerns.
Our values don’t just disappear because our side lost this round.
We can’t let the eight years of Barack Hussein Obama go to waste. And before you even TRY to debate me with the question, “Was President Obama the President of Black America?” You do realize, under a visibly racist Congress, there was only but so much President Obama could do? If he started tending to the Black Community anymore than he had… He might not have made it to eight years. Let me drop a little knowledge quickly. Put some respeck on his name because MY President still managed to:
Decrease black unemployment significantly,
Restore economic security,
Provide affordable and comprehensive healthcare,
Make college more affordable,
Made The White House the PEOPLE’S House,
Build unity within the community and make YUGE strides in criminal justice reform ranging from The Fair Sentencing Act (2010) designed to help undo the damage done by mass incarceration, to the My Brother’s Keeper Initiative designed to keep young men of color on the path to success…
And let’s not forget, for the first time ever, we have seen the President of the United States not only address systemic racism, but actually genuinely relate to the atrocity of police brutality on our young black men and women.
But above all else, that which is not up for debate… Is the voice he gave Black Americans for the first time in a long time.
I know most of you reading this are depressed… Or you’re like me, heartbroken. I’ve been preparing for this day for months... August 23rd, to be exact. But take a minute to let this sink in. This fine brotha from Chicago earned the world’s most powerful title and not only exceeded the expectations placed on him, but did so for the past eight years. A black man was able to call The White House, the residence his ancestors built, “home.” Like… We did that. We did the damn thing. That wasn’t a dream. Actually... It was.
It was Martin’s. And Malcolm’s. And Rosa’s. And Shirley’s. And Harry’s. And every last one of those before us. Those who marched. Those who sacrificed. Those who fought without fighting.
Little did they know, the fight would be far from over. But it’s our turn to come together, channel our inner Beyoncé, and make lemonade out of lemons. And in those seldom yet inevitable moments when doubt begins to cloud our judgment…
Take comfort in knowing that YES WE DID… AND YES, WE SURE AS HELL STILLCAN.
So for one last time, I need y’all to roar… MY PRESIDENT IS BLACK.
