And Everyone in the Room Knew What It Meant:
A Letter and Short Memoir Dedicated to President Barack H. Obama
Dear Mr. President,
I missed the exact moment that you won the presidency.
Tuesday, November 4th, 2008 fell on a school night. It was senior year of high school; it was late, and my mom had already gone to bed. I had shut off the TV and was whispering into a landline while checking the results online with my friend on AIM.
We had “high-speed” internet, but, again, it was 2008. So, once you were within about 20 electoral votes, my connection froze. I kept refreshing my screen in anticipation. Finally, the connection reloaded and you had leapt past the 270 electoral threshold by about 50 votes. I didn’t care about the noise level any more. I screamed for all in my apartment and all apartments to hear. “He won!” “He won!”
From that moment on, your presidency, your image, your influence would reach me at different points in my life. I know you know your speeches, your visits, your appearances. But I also want you to know a few stories from a home, a life in America, where over the past eight years you were present — even when you weren’t present.
On Wednesday, November 5th, 2008, I was waiting in line in the cafeteria at the High School for Math, Science, and Engineering at the City College of New York. Ahead of me, a woman was going to place her order at the counter — but she couldn’t speak at the moment. Because when she saw the man working the deli, all she could do was lock eyes and stand in silence. After a few seconds, the woman started to cry. The young man behind the counter went around the barrier to embrace her, and as she cried, he kept repeating, “I know, I know.”
It was crowded, and staff and students only have a short time for lunch — and we in New York — but no one said a word to complain, because everyone in the room knew what it meant.
Eight years later, on November 9th, I would see people on that same campus cry for a very different reason.
On that note,
I want to rewind to your primary campaign in 2007. Politics can bring out the best and the worst of people. Families are no exception to this rule. While many of my friends and I were excited when you announced your candidacy, I was also apprehensive. Who in my close circles would not share my excitement? Where would this historic candidacy create divisions around me? How close to home would these divisions hit?
I remember going to my grandparents’ house for the first time after you announced your candidacy. For the first 17 years of my life, I had mostly kept politics away from the dinner table. My grandparents on my father’s side are Italian-American Catholics who had voted Republican their entire lives. But today, politics made its way to the dinner table.
“Who do you think you’ll vote for this time around?’ someone asked. “McCain,” my grandfather said. Which meant the patriarch had spoken. Which meant it was the way my grandmother was going, too. Which meant that was that. But, this time, I couldn’t let it end at that. “Have you heard Barack Obama speak?” I said. “Listen to Obama speak, and let me know what you think.” No pressure, just a suggestion and an invitation.
The next time I stopped by my grandparent’s house for dinner, I asked my grandfather, “Did you listen to Obama speak?” “He said, yeah, he’s a great speaker, but probably still voting for McCain.” “That’s fine,” I said, “Keep listening.” The next time the response was, “Well, I’m not sure.” The following time, “Maybe this guy Obama here’s onto something.” And eventually, “I’m gonna go for Obama.” And eventually, “The greatest president of my lifetime.”
My grandmother loved you since day one, by the way.
This recent election created the divisions I had previously feared. These same people who voted for you twice went another route. My feelings on this route would take up another letter entirely. But I’d like to think that, over the past eight years, you brought out the best between two grandparents and their grandchildren.
It’s not equitable and not entirely linear — the way people vote. Who they’re thinking of and not thinking of when they submit that ballot. I used to be very cynical of the formulaic nature of people’s politics. But after being so close in proximity to two people who defied any rigid platform. Two people whose politics have given me hope and pessimism. Because of you, Mr. President, I know it is at least possible to break through.
So don’t lose faith when you speak, when you say, “I wish I could be with every American in their living room,” because, trust me, for some — even some who weren’t expecting to extend the invitation — your “naive” and “rhetorical” hope and change and optimism have been there. Because, for some, once it was treated how Barack Obama treats it, they knew what it meant.
It is now your second term on a November night in 2013, nearly five years to the date after you were elected America’s first black president.
I am at a City College Alumni Gala. Towards the end of the festivities, I struck up a conversation with some classmates I hadn’t spoken to in a while. An elderly, and potentially tipsy, woman holding a glass of champagne walked with purpose towards our group. I vaguely remembered seeing her around campus during undergrad but didn’t know her name (I would later find out she was a vice president of the college). She stood in front of us and paused. She eyed us up and down. “There were few in my day,” she said. “There were few in my day,” she repeated. She would repeat this several times, as we stood speechless.
Tipsy was out of the question now — for after the first refrain, and every time to follow when she said that statement, with increasing intensity and pride, I knew, and everyone in our group of mostly Muslim and Latino students who hailed from one of our nation’s most diverse and awarded public institutions knew exactly what that meant.
There have been, and will continue to be, many criticisms of you from both the right and left of things, maybe more than you can keep track of. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. But, make no mistake, you will never know how many stories like this exist.
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When you were elected, it meant the world to millions of people. On a level of representation of race, background, perseverance. But also on a level of character. Throughout my life, I tried to exercise compassion and decency. That is how I measured my success above any other barometer. But I would see so many examples of greed, arrogance, and maliciousness in those we consider successful, and I wondered — “is what I value incompatible with what I want to achieve?” “Could a great man be a good man?” as the old paradox goes.
There may be few, but your election answered this question for me.
While you were running for your first term as president in 2008, you gave a speech on a more perfect union in Philadelphia. It remains my favorite speech of yours. You concluded the speech by illustrating a scene of a group of people organizing for your campaign. Everyone in the room was discussing why they were there. The lead organizer, a young white woman named Ashley, told the group she was there because her mother had cancer and lost her health insurance, putting her family in financial distress. Eventually, the introductions reached an elderly black man. He said he was there, advocating with this group for your campaign, simply because of Ashley.
Mr. President, I have been in that room in the final years of your office, now having signed the ACA into law, with a group of young students of all backgrounds advocating for the issues of our future. And I recall a student saying that we are here for each other, because the next Barack could be in this room. Not the next president, because it’s your first name that has uplifted us; that has echoed through celebration in our homes and representation in our schools over the past eight years; that has risen our hopes and expectations of America’s promise over the past two terms; so when it is mentioned among new generations of peers, it signifies that we can succeed as peers — that our names are enough, because there’s already been a Barack, and anybody who’s ever felt its absence knows what that means for our future.
Thank you,
Evan J. Mastronardi,
A proud constituent
