Six years ago, this month, a shooter either murdered or defended himself against seventeen-year-old Trayvon Martin, depending on your perspective. On February 26, 2012, the world was rocked by the death of young Trayvon who was visiting his Dad in Sanford, Florida. The response of the then President of the United States, Barack H. Obama, was to say, “If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon.”
Given the chance to show the same compassion for the family of thirty year old Heather Heyer, who was deliberately mowed down by a motor vehicle driven by a white supremacist, President Trump’s response was to defend members of the horde of would-be killers, saying, there “were some very fine people on both sides…”
Buried in the hearts of both men and their respective statements, lay the fundamental difference in the two, decency. I offer this opinion, not as a policy debate or political ideological argument. Simply put, it is a longing for the return of decorousness. I suppose coming to the end of the first week of Black History Month I am feeling a little melancholy. For eight years I enjoyed waking up knowing that someone with moral character, intellectual heft and the respect of the world was in charge.
On the night of November 4, 2008, Barack Obama became the President-elect of the United States of America. I was on the phone with my friend Judy and we both cried. I had been a volunteer door-knocker for the campaign and had worked the phones in a storefront phone center in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I had kept my ear to the doors of the poll counters and experts and knew what signs and state races to look out for to signal victory. When Virginia, Ohio, and Florida fell to his column, I knew the electoral map was his, barring a McCain miracle, but I still could not say it to Judy out loud. She was nervously squealing in my ear as the TV stations counted the votes and the totals mounted in Obama’s favor.
I knew once he won New Mexico, that Washington State, Oregon, and California were foregone conclusions. I had seen the polling numbers and understood he was going to win but this was the America that I had lamented would never elect a black man, so I continued to hold my breath.
I will never forget the NBC News map bursting with fireworks announcing that Barack H. Obama was the new President. I could hardly speak or breathe. I remember Judy’s voice wailing in the distance, but the phone was in my hand and positioned next to my ear. I was not sure if it was shock or the fear I would wake up and it was a dream. So, for what seemed like many minutes I could not move or was just too afraid to break the spell.
I still do not remember hanging up the phone. I do remember calling my sons, my uncle and all my friends and we spoke like zombies to each other trying so hard to rationalize what had just happened. I will readily admit that I was one of those who had said in a loud clear voice, “a black man, named Barack Hussein Obama, President, in America, no way.” The oldest living member of my family is my uncle Jimmy and two months later, on January 19th, he flew three thousand miles from California to Washington, DC for the Inauguration. We visited the grave of the great-grandmother, who was the granddaughter of a slave, that raised us both,we touched the rough etching of her name on her marker and said a prayer.
The next day we stood in the cold, just past noon, wiping away frozen tears and thanking God we had both lived to see the day.