I often remark that my grandfather and I have been arguing about politics since I was seven. You may find that ridiculous, but no one in my family will argue against that. He was a quietly relgious, small-business man and community pillar with a heart of gold. A heart, in fact, that couldn’t see that the politicians he voted in were sinking him faster than a burning pirate ship. With him as my family, but growing up as a pitied child of a single-parent, I didn’t come from the other side of the tracks, but had a clear vision from my perch as to what was happening. Walking myself to school at eight-years old, I remember the cheese line growing as a result of “policy.” I remember walking over a homeless guy sleeping at my front door to get into my apartment. I remember my free lunches being threatened. I remember single-mothers being blamed for all of the ills in society. I remember. Later in life after reading volumes of scholarships available to me, I remember giving up on my aspirations to go to Princeton because the money just wasn’t there.
I came from a town that’s barely two miles by one and a half miles with a white man’s history of over 300 years. If there is a Native-American history, I certainly don’t know it. I’ve always been proud of that town because it would celebrate all of the patriotic holidays right along side Puerto Rican festivals, Italian Day, and more recently, African-American and Celtic celebrations held right in the main thorough fare. I didn’t know how unique this was until I moved to Simi Valley which only boasted Rodeo Days. Rodeo Days??? You know my teen-aged, vegan rear was sitting outside offering knowledge of animal torture to the families trying to have some simple fun. Simple, indeed. It wasn’t until I did my thesis at SFSU that my suspiciouns that I grew up in the Twilight Zone were confirmed. My advising professor knew the little town of Bristol, PA and informed me that my elementary school housed one of the first African-American principals in the 60s and that his wife was quite the radical. The broadened historical and social perspectives outlined in my young life that seemed to be in stark contrast to that which every other person I’d met except for those raised on communes were confirmed to be real and not a delusion of my memory.
Wether the school shaped me or if it’s a consequence of a past-life conscience, I’ve always been sharply aware of social inequalities. I’ve had a very difficult time accepting that earning loads of money is not unrighteous. I’ve been fighting the system and sharing with the less fortunate quite nearly since I can recall. I’ve been very uncomfortable with Barak Obama because he’s seems to good to be true. To good to be true opportunities always screw you in the end. Obviously, I’ve had my heart broken in love and in life very deeply. Sorry Obama. It’s not you. It’s me. But I’m going to try very hard to let you in because I see the great effort your making so be patient. I really want to believe in change, hope, and you.
If I could afford one, I’d even hang a flag at my front door.
