Barack Obama Dreams from My Father

replayed the tug-of-war between Linda and the director. The morning paper noted the frustration residents

felt with CHA’s slow response to the asbestos problem, as well as the director’s tardiness that evening. In

fact, we could claim the meeting as a victory of sorts, for the following week men dressed in moon-suits and

masks were seen all over the Gardens, sealing any asbestos that posed an immediate threat. CHA also

announced that it had asked the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development for several million

dollars in emergency cleanup funds.

Such concessions helped to lift the spirits of some of the parents, and after a few weeks of licking our

wounds, we started meeting again to make sure that CHA followed up on its commitments. Still, in Altgeld at

least, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the window of possibility that had been pried open so briefly had

slammed shut once again. Linda, Bernadette, Mr. Lucas-they would all continue to work with DCP, but only

reluctantly, out of loyalty to me rather than to each other. Other residents who had joined us during the

weeks leading up to the meeting dropped away. Mrs. Reece refused to speak to us anymore, and while few

people paid attention to her attacks on our methods and motives, the squabbling only served to reinforce

the suspicion among residents that no amount of activism would alter their condition, except maybe to bring

trouble that they didn’t need.

A month or so after the initial cleanup, we met with HUD to lobby for CHA’s budget request. In addition

to the emergency cleanup funds, CHA had asked the feds for over a billion dollars to make basic repairs on

projects all over the city. A tall, dour white man from HUD went over the line items.

“Let me be blunt,” he told us. “CHA has no chance of getting even half the appropriation it’s requested.

You can have the asbestos removed. Or you can have new plumbing and roofing where it’s needed. But

you can’t have both.”

“So you’re telling us that after all this, we gonna be worse off than we was,” Bernadette said.

“Well, not exactly. But these are the budget priorities coming out of Washington these days. I’m sorry.”

Bernadette hoisted Tyrone up on her lap. “Tell that to him.”

Sadie didn’t join us for that meeting. She had called me to say that she had decided to stop working

with DCP.

“My husband doesn’t think it’s a good idea, me spending all this time instead of looking after my own

family. He says that the publicity went to my head…that I became prideful.”

I suggested that as long as her family lived in the Gardens, she’d have to stay involved.

“Ain’t nothing gonna change, Mr. Obama,” she said. “We just gonna concentrate on saving our money

so we can move outta here as fast as we can.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I ’M TELLING YOU, MAN, the world is a place.”

“Say, the world is a place, huh.”

“That’s just what I’m saying.”

We were walking back to the car after dinner in Hyde Park, and Johnnie was in an expansive mood.

He often got like this, especially after a good meal and wine. The first time I met him, when he was still

working with a downtown civic group, he had started explaining the relationship between jazz and Eastern

religion, then swerved into an analysis of black women’s behinds, before coming to a stop on the subject of

Federal Reserve Bank policy. In such moments his eyes would grow wide; his voice would speed up; his

round, bearded face would glow with a childlike wonder. That was part of the reason I’d hired Johnnie, I

suppose, that curiosity of his, his appreciation of the absurd. He was a philosopher of the blues.

“I’ll give you an example,” Johnnie was saying to me now. “The other day, I’m headed for a meeting up

in the State of Illinois Building. You know how it’s open in the middle, right…big atrium and all that. Well, the

guy I’m supposed to be meeting with is late, so I’m just standing there looking down at the lobby from the

twelfth floor, checking out the architecture, when all of a sudden this body flies past me. A suicide.”

“You didn’t tell me about that-”

“Yeah, well, shook me up pretty good. High up as I was, I could hear the body land like it was right

there next to me. Terrible sound. Soon as it happened, these office workers rushed up to the guardrail to

see what was going on. We’re all looking down, and sure enough the body’s lying there, all twisted and

limp. People started screaming, covering their eyes. But the strange thing was, after people got through

screaming, they’d go back to the railing to get a second look. Then they’d scream and cover their eyes all

over again. Now why would they do that? Like, what do they expect the second time around? But see, folks

are funny like that. We can’t help ourselves with that morbid shit….

“Anyway, the cops come, they rope things off and take the body away. Then the building crew starts

cleaning up. Nothing special, you know-just a broom and a mop. Sweeping up a life. Whole thing’s cleaned

up in maybe five minutes. Makes sense, I guess…. I mean, it’s not like you need special equipment or suits

or something. But it starts me thinking, How’s that gonna feel to be one of those janitors, mopping up

somebody’s remains? Somebody’s got to do it, right? But how you gonna feel that night eating dinner?”

“Who was it that jumped?”

“That’s the other thing, Barack!” Johnnie took a drag from his cigarette and let the smoke roll from his

mouth. “It was a young white girl, man, sixteen maybe, seventeen. One of these punk rock types, with blue

hair and a ring through her nose. Afterward, I’m wondering what she was thinking about while she was

riding up the elevator. I mean, folks musta been standing right next to her on the way up. Maybe they

looked her over, decided she was a freak, and went back to thinking about their own business. You know,

their promotion, or the Bulls game, or whatever. And the whole time this girl’s just standing there next to

them with all that pain inside her. Got to be a lot of pain, doc, ’cause right before she jumps, you figure she

looks down and knows that shit is gonna hurt.”

Johnnie stamped out his cigarette. “So that’s what I’m saying, Barack. Whole panorama of life out

there. Crazy shit going on. You got to ask yourself, is this kinda stuff happening elsewhere? Is there any

precedent for all this shit? You ever ask yourself that?”

“The world’s a place,” I repeated.

“See there! It’s serious, man.”

We’d almost reached Johnnie’s car when we heard a small pop, compact and brief, like a balloon

bursting. We looked in the direction of the sound, and watched a young man appear from around the corner

diagonal to us. I don’t clearly recall his features or what he wore, although he couldn’t have been older than

fifteen. I just remember that he ran at a desperate pace, his sneakered feet silent against the sidewalk, his

lanky limbs pumping wildly, his chest jutting out as if straining for an imaginary tape.

Johnnie dropped flat onto a small plot of grass in front of one of the apartments, and I quickly followed

suit. A few seconds later, two more boys came around the same corner, also running at full speed. One of

them, short, fattish, with pants that bunched around his ankles, was waving a small pistol. Without stopping

to aim, he let out three quick shots in the direction of the first boy. Then, realizing that his target was out of

range, he slowed to a walk, stuffing the weapon under his shirt. His companion, skinny and big-eared, came

alongside.

“Stupid motherfucker,” the skinny boy said. He spat with satisfaction, and the two of them laughed to

each other before continuing down the street, children again, their figures casting squat shadows on the

asphalt.
Another fall, another winter. I had recovered from the disappointments of the asbestos campaign,

developed other issues and found other leaders. Johnnie’s presence had helped relieve my workload, and

our budget was stable; what I’d lost in youthful enthusiasm I made up for in experience. And in fact, it may

have been that growing familiarity with the landscape, the counsel of time, that gave me the sense that

something different was going on with the children of the South Side that spring of 1987; that an invisible

line had been crossed, a blind and ugly corner turned.

There was nothing definite I could point to, no hard statistics. The drive-by shootings, the ambulance

sirens, the night sounds of neighborhoods abandoned to drugs and gang war and phantom automobiles,

where police or press rarely ventured until after the body was found on the pavement, blood spreading in a

glistening, uneven pool-none of this was new. In places like Altgeld, prison records had been passed down

from father to son for more than a generation; during my very first days in Chicago I had seen the knots of

young men, fifteen or sixteen, hanging out on the corners of Michigan or Halsted, their hoods up, their

sneakers unlaced, stomping the ground in a desultory rhythm during the colder months, stripped down to T-

shirts in the summer, answering their beepers on the corner pay phones: a knot that unraveled, soon to

reform, whenever the police cars passed by in their barracuda silence.

No, it was more a change of atmosphere, like the electricity of an approaching storm. I felt it when,

driving home one evening, I saw four tall boys walking down a tree-lined block idly snapping a row of young

saplings that an older couple had just finished planting in front of their house. I felt it whenever I looked into

the eyes of the young men in wheelchairs that had started appearing on the streets that spring, boys

crippled before their prime, their eyes without a trace of self-pity, eyes so composed, already so hardened,

that they served to frighten rather than to inspire.

That’s what was new: the arrival of a new equilibrium between hope and fear; the sense, shared by

adults and youth alike, that some, if not most, of our boys were slipping beyond rescue. Even lifelong South

Siders like Johnnie noticed the change. “I ain’t never seen it like this, Barack,” he would tell me one day as

we sat in his apartment sipping beer. “I mean, things were tough when I was coming up, but there were

limits. We’d get high, get into fights. But out in public, at home, if an adult saw you getting loud or wild, they

would say something. And most of us would listen, you know what I’m saying?

“Now, with the drugs, the guns-all that’s disappeared. Don’t take a whole lot of kids carrying a gun. Just

one or two. Somebody says something to one of ’em, and-pow!-kid wastes him. Folks hear stories like that,

they just stop trying to talk to these young cats out here. We start generalizing about ’em just like the white

folks do. We see ’em hanging out, we head the other way. After a while, even the good kid starts realizing

ain’t nobody out here gonna look out for him. So he figures he’s gonna have to look after himself. Bottom

line, you got twelve-year-olds making their own damn rules.”

Johnnie took a sip of his beer, the foam collecting on his mustache. “I don’t know, Barack. Sometimes

I’m afraid of ’em. You got to be afraid of somebody who just doesn’t care. Don’t matter how young they are.”

After I was back in my own apartment, I thought about what Johnnie had said. Was I afraid? I didn’t

think so…at least not in the way Johnnie had meant it. Wandering through Altgeld or other tough

neighborhoods, my fears were always internal: the old fears of not belonging. The idea of physical assault

just never occurred to me. Same thing with the distinction Johnnie made between good kids and bad kids-

the distinction didn’t compute in my head. It seemed based on a premise that defied my experience, an

assumption that children could somehow set the terms of their own development. I thought about

Bernadette’s five-year-old son, scampering about the broken roads of Altgeld, between a sewage plant and

a dump. Where did he sit along the spectrum of goodness? If he ended up in a gang or in jail, would that

prove his essence somehow, a wayward gene…or just the consequences of a malnourished world?

And what about Kyle: How did one explain what he was going through? I leaned back in my chair,

thinking about Ruby’s son. He had just turned sixteen; the two years since my arrival had given him several

inches, added bulk, and the shadow above his upper lip, first efforts at a mustache. He was still polite to me,

still willing to talk about the Bulls-this’d be the year Jordan took ’em to the finals, he said. But he was usually

gone whenever I stopped by, or on his way out with his friends. Some nights, Ruby would call me at home

just to talk about him, how she never knew where he was anymore, how his grades had continued to drop in

school, how he hid things from her, the door to his room always closed.

Don’t worry, I would tell her; I was a lot worse at Kyle’s age. I don’t think she believed that particular

truth, but hearing the words seemed to make her feel better. One day I volunteered to sound Kyle out,

inviting him to join me for a pick-up basketball game at the University of Chicago gym. He was quiet most of

the ride up to Hyde Park, fending off questions with a grunt or a shrug. I asked him if he was still thinking

about the air force, and he shook his head; he’d stay in Chicago, he said, find a job and get his own place. I

asked him what had changed his mind. He said that the air force would never let a black man fly a plane.

I looked at him crossly. “Who told you that mess?”

Kyle shrugged. “Don’t need somebody to tell me that. Just is, that’s all.”

“Man, that’s the wrong attitude. You can do whatever you want if you’re willing to work for it.”

Kyle smirked and turned his head toward the window, his breath misting the glass. “Yeah, well…how

many black pilots do you know?”

The gym wasn’t crowded when we arrived, and we had to wait only one game before we got onto the

court. It had been at least six months since I’d even seen a basketball, and the cigarettes had taken their

toll. On the first play of the game, the man guarding me stripped the ball clean out of my hands and I called

a foul, causing the players on the sidelines to hoot with derision. By the second game I was walking across

the half-court line, feeling slightly dizzy.

To spare myself further embarrassment, I decided to sit out the third game and watch Kyle play. His

game wasn’t bad, but he was guarding a brother a few years older than me, an orderly at the hospital-short

but aggressive, and very quick. After a few plays, it became clear that the man had Kyle’s number. He

scored three baskets in a row, then started talking the usual talk.

“You can’t do no better than that, boy? How you gonna let an old man like me make you look so bad?”

Kyle didn’t answer, but the play between them became rough. The next time down the floor, as the

man made his move for the basket, Kyle bumped him hard. The man threw the ball at Kyle’s chest, then

turned to one of his partners. “You see that? This punk can’t guard me-”

Suddenly, without any warning, Kyle swung. His fist landed square on the man’s jaw, dropping him to

the floor. I ran onto the court as the other players pulled Kyle away. His eyes were wide, his voice trembling

as he watched the orderly struggle to his feet and spit out a wad of blood.

“I ain’t no punk,” Kyle muttered. And then again, “I ain’t no punk.”

We were lucky; somebody had called the security guard downstairs, but the orderly was too

embarrassed to admit to the incident. On the drive back, I gave Kyle a long lecture about keeping his cool,

about violence, about responsibility. My words sounded trite, and Kyle sat without answering, his eyes fixed

on the road. When I was finished he turned to me and said, “Just don’t tell my momma, all right?”

I thought that was a good sign. I said I wouldn’t tell Ruby what had happened so long as he did, and he

grudgingly agreed.

Kyle was a good kid; he still cared about something. Would that be enough to save him?

schools.

abandoned the system. Neither was overcrowding, at least in black neighborhood high schools; only half

the incoming students bothered to stick around for graduation. Otherwise, Chicago’s schools remained in a

state of perpetual crisis-annual budget shortfalls in the hundreds of millions; shortages of textbooks and

toilet paper; a teachers’ union that went out on strike at least once every two years; a bloated bureaucracy

and an indifferent state legislature. The more I learned about the system, the more convinced I became that

school reform was the only possible solution for the plight of the young men I saw on the street; that without

stable families, with no prospects for blue-collar work that could support a family of their own, education was

their last best hope. And so in April, in between working on other issues, I developed an action plan for the

organization and started peddling it to my leadership.

The response was underwhelming.

Some of it was a problem of self-interest, constituencies misaligned. Older church members told me

they had already raised their children; younger parents, like Angela and Mary, sent their children to Catholic

schools. The biggest source of resistance was rarely talked about, though-namely, the uncomfortable fact

that every one of our churches was filled with teachers, principals, and district superintendents. Few of

these educators sent their own children to public schools; they knew too much for that. But they would

defend the status quo with the same skill and vigor as their white counterparts of two decades before. There

wasn’t enough money to do the job right, they told me (which was certainly true). Efforts at reform-

decentralization, say, or cutbacks in the bureaucracy-were part of a white effort to wrest back control (not so

true). As for the students, well, they were impossible. Lazy. Unruly. Slow. Not the children’s fault, maybe,

but certainly not the schools’. There may not be any bad kids, Barack, but there sure are a lot of bad

parents.

since the 1960s, a settlement that allowed half of our children to advance even as the other half fell further

behind. More than that, the conversations made me angry; and so despite lukewarm support from our

board, Johnnie and I decided to go ahead and visit some of the area schools, hoping to drum up a

constituency beyond the young parents of Altgeld.

We started with Kyle’s high school, the one in the area with the best reputation. It was a single building,

relatively new but with a careless, impersonal feel: bare concrete pillars, long stark corridors, windows that

couldn’t be opened and had already clouded, like the windows in a greenhouse. The principal, an attentive,

personable man named Dr. Lonnie King, said he was eager to work with community groups like ours. Then

he mentioned that one of his school counselors, a Mr. Asante Moran, was trying to start a mentorship

program for young men at the school and suggested that we might want to meet him.

We followed Dr. King’s directions to a small office toward the rear of the building. It was decorated with

African themes: a map of the continent, posters of ancient Africa’s kings and queens, a collection of drums

and gourds and a kente-cloth wall hanging. Behind the desk sat a tall and imposing man with a handlebar

mustache and a prominent jaw. He was dressed in an African print, an elephant-hair bracelet around one

thick wrist. He seemed a bit put off at first-he had a stack of SAT practice exams on his desk, and I sensed

that Dr. King’s call had been an unwelcome interruption. Nevertheless, he offered us seats, told us to call

him Asante, and as our interest became more apparent, began to explain some of his ideas.

“The first thing you have to realize,” he said, looking at Johnnie and me in turn, “is that the public

school system is not about educating black children. Never has been. Inner-city schools are about social

control. Period. They’re operated as holding pens-miniature jails, really. It’s only when black children start

breaking out of their pens and bothering white people that society even pays any attention to the issue of

whether these children are being educated.

“Just think about what a real education for these children would involve. It would start by giving a child

an understanding of himself, his world, his culture, his community. That’s the starting point of any

educational process. That’s what makes a child hungry to learn-the promise of being part of something, of

mastering his environment. But for the black child, everything’s turned upside down. From day one, what’s

he learning about? Someone else’s history. Someone else’s culture. Not only that, this culture he’s

supposed to learn is the same culture that’s systematically rejected him, denied his humanity.”

Asante leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his belly. “Is it any wonder that the black child

loses interest in learning? Of course not. It’s worst for the boys. At least the girls have older women to talk

to, the example of motherhood. But the boys have nothing. Half of them don’t even know their own fathers.

There’s nobody to guide them through the process of becoming a man…to explain to them the meaning of

manhood. And that’s a recipe for disaster. Because in every society, young men are going to have violent

tendencies. Either those tendencies are directed and disciplined in creative pursuits or those tendencies

destroy the young men, or the society, or both.

“So that’s what we’re dealing with here. Where I can, I try to fill the void. I expose students to African

history, geography, artistic traditions. I try to give them a different values orientation-something to

counteract the materialism and individualism and instant gratification that’s fed to them the other fifteen

hours of their day. I teach them that Africans are a communal people. That Africans respect their elders.

Some of my European colleagues feel threatened by this, but I tell them it’s not about denigrating other

cultures. It’s about giving these young people a base for themselves. Unless they’re rooted in their own

traditions, they won’t ever be able to appreciate what other cultures have to offer-”

There was a knock on the door, and a gangly young man peeked into the office. Asante apologized; he

had another appointment but would be happy to meet with us again to discuss possible youth programs for