There are several reasons why today is one of the most historical moments in history. Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States.
After watching an interview with KRS-1 regarding this event, I am now incapable of calling Obama the first black president, rather, he is the first African-American President.
"Calling him the first black President is disrespectful to Obama's mother," he said. Good point.
But no matter what label one chooses, there are other facets to this event that needs to be examined. I think it's dangerous that people are putting so much hope in the hands of a man inheriting two wars, a feeble economy, a divided nation and an unstable world. Conflicts in the middle east, Georgia/Russia, India/Pakistan and elsewhere means Obama will have more on his plate than any other President in recent history.
And here we are being mesmerised by the spectacle. It's as if Obama has super-human powers, able to leap corporations in a single bound, walk on water, eat bullets and shit ice-cream. He can't. He's human - a great speaking human who has yet to prove anything, other than the fact that he has charisma.
People need to stay grounded. People need to scrutinize Obama...call truth to power. Remember, he is the new face of the same machine...the same system. He was most definitely a better choice for the top job than McCain and his sidekick, Sarah 'Fargo' Palin, but let's not pretend that everything is going to be OK now that he is in charge.
It's embarrassing and cringe-worthy watching people fawn over him. It makes us look like sheep. I sincerely hope he is the best President of all-time, but I will not become brainwashed and give away healthy skepticism because I am caught up in the moment.
Neither should anyone else. Good luck Obama.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Habits of our Fathers
Many of my closest friends are taken aback at the type of relationship I have had with my family, both immediate and extended. We aren't close. Truthfully, I am as much to blame as anyone for this lack of interaction, and lately it all seems so very cliche - a Cats in the Cradle of sorts - punctuated when I heard that my father suffered a heart attack a couple nights ago.
My father comes from a family where communication was an afterthought. Phone calls on birthdays and Christmas was about all the family could accomplish to shorten the distance that separated us. And still, those conversations were bland and rather quick. As a child I would feel a strong anticipation whenever it was a relative's birthday. It was really the only time I had to talk with a favourite uncle or my grandfather.
I soon learned that this sparse method of communication was going to be passed down to my two sisters and I. And this cold hard lesson was realized just the other day.
My father suffered a heart attack on Sunday, January 12th, 2009. While I have only seen him three times in the last decade, I was immediately brought back to this moment from my childhood when his father passed away. It was my 11th birthday. I was preparing for the arrival of my friends and eating breakfast my father had made for me. The phone rings. I watch my mother put her hand in front of her mouth, hang up the phone and walk outside where my father is sitting on the edge of the pool. She bends down, puts her arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear. Instinctively I walk outside to see what is happening. My father's shoulders begin to bounce a little, and a tear climbs down his cheek and into his beard. This was the only time I had ever seen him cry.
When I was given the news about his heart attack I walked into an empty room and felt an overwhelming sadness. I began to weep quietly. Then, as if thrown back into my father's body from years ago, I noticed my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. My shoulders bounced, and a tear made its way from my eye to my cheek, and eventually the floor.
I guess we are a product of where we come from. My father is recovering, but perhaps I can use this experience to help break the chain of non-communication, forging ahead with a new desire to be the kind of son I should have tried harder to be all of these years.
He had a slew of tests done today and does not want any visitors. Tomorrow I will decide whether or not to begin yanking on the chain that has tied us together from miles apart. Wish me luck.
My father comes from a family where communication was an afterthought. Phone calls on birthdays and Christmas was about all the family could accomplish to shorten the distance that separated us. And still, those conversations were bland and rather quick. As a child I would feel a strong anticipation whenever it was a relative's birthday. It was really the only time I had to talk with a favourite uncle or my grandfather.
I soon learned that this sparse method of communication was going to be passed down to my two sisters and I. And this cold hard lesson was realized just the other day.
My father suffered a heart attack on Sunday, January 12th, 2009. While I have only seen him three times in the last decade, I was immediately brought back to this moment from my childhood when his father passed away. It was my 11th birthday. I was preparing for the arrival of my friends and eating breakfast my father had made for me. The phone rings. I watch my mother put her hand in front of her mouth, hang up the phone and walk outside where my father is sitting on the edge of the pool. She bends down, puts her arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear. Instinctively I walk outside to see what is happening. My father's shoulders begin to bounce a little, and a tear climbs down his cheek and into his beard. This was the only time I had ever seen him cry.
When I was given the news about his heart attack I walked into an empty room and felt an overwhelming sadness. I began to weep quietly. Then, as if thrown back into my father's body from years ago, I noticed my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. My shoulders bounced, and a tear made its way from my eye to my cheek, and eventually the floor.
I guess we are a product of where we come from. My father is recovering, but perhaps I can use this experience to help break the chain of non-communication, forging ahead with a new desire to be the kind of son I should have tried harder to be all of these years.
He had a slew of tests done today and does not want any visitors. Tomorrow I will decide whether or not to begin yanking on the chain that has tied us together from miles apart. Wish me luck.
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