I expected it, but I didn't believe
I was taught in Chicago schools as a child. There I learned to love the writers who wrote about the black experience. Those bitter stories of hate and hope spoke to me and reflected the world I saw around me. The Harlem Renaissance was my window to our country.
As I grew older Cosby created an iconic model of hope - a kind of platonic ideal for the struggle. I believed in that ideal. I believed that MTV would eventually allow Rick James and rap music. I believed that equality was so close we could taste it. The optimism and energy of the 70s and early 80s infected me with the belief that things would be better in the future.
I graduated from high school in a world where rap had turned on itself and the cause seemed to falter. I went to college in the lilly white East. I left the old wards in Houston, not knowing they would not be there ever again. In college the riots broke out and I watched a white man dragged from his truck and beaten almost to death. In that moment I knew I could no longer see the struggle of the black man as my own struggle. I was suddenly the enemy - not part of the solution. I cried then. Maya Angelou tried to sew the tears that ripped across our communities as Louis Farrakhan spread that hate even further. I think she lost out then, but I forgot that hope and tolerance are quiet things.
After years of feeling miserable I moved to LA, and made South Central my home. There I tried to yet again connect to that world. It didn't take. The senseless violence and the broken race relations in LA were heart breaking.
I underestimated what this might mean. I'd forgotten hope, and as Obama rose to fame I disbelieved. I couldn't imagine he could win, and then I disbelieved that he would be good for us. I voted for him because I would not vote for Clinton. Then I voted for him because I would not vote for McCain.
In his speech tonight my facade crumbled. Decades of fear and hate gave way and I found myself thinking of my childhood in Chicago schools. I was surrounded by boys who looked like this man who was speaking. As a class we watched the figures of our time push for change. Tonight I saw those same figures stare up at a stage in an Autumn Chicago night and cry. On that stage the man spoke differently. He spoke not of winning or of politics. He didn't speak of race or party. He spoke plainly about the next hundred years and the mysteries that must be waiting for us in those times yet to come. I don't believe everything will be alright now - but I believe it could be. Now I have to step up and be worthy of that promise.
I didn't actually expect to hope again. It made me cry, and I have not stopped since. I'd forgotten what it felt like to hope.
As I grew older Cosby created an iconic model of hope - a kind of platonic ideal for the struggle. I believed in that ideal. I believed that MTV would eventually allow Rick James and rap music. I believed that equality was so close we could taste it. The optimism and energy of the 70s and early 80s infected me with the belief that things would be better in the future.
I graduated from high school in a world where rap had turned on itself and the cause seemed to falter. I went to college in the lilly white East. I left the old wards in Houston, not knowing they would not be there ever again. In college the riots broke out and I watched a white man dragged from his truck and beaten almost to death. In that moment I knew I could no longer see the struggle of the black man as my own struggle. I was suddenly the enemy - not part of the solution. I cried then. Maya Angelou tried to sew the tears that ripped across our communities as Louis Farrakhan spread that hate even further. I think she lost out then, but I forgot that hope and tolerance are quiet things.
After years of feeling miserable I moved to LA, and made South Central my home. There I tried to yet again connect to that world. It didn't take. The senseless violence and the broken race relations in LA were heart breaking.
I underestimated what this might mean. I'd forgotten hope, and as Obama rose to fame I disbelieved. I couldn't imagine he could win, and then I disbelieved that he would be good for us. I voted for him because I would not vote for Clinton. Then I voted for him because I would not vote for McCain.
In his speech tonight my facade crumbled. Decades of fear and hate gave way and I found myself thinking of my childhood in Chicago schools. I was surrounded by boys who looked like this man who was speaking. As a class we watched the figures of our time push for change. Tonight I saw those same figures stare up at a stage in an Autumn Chicago night and cry. On that stage the man spoke differently. He spoke not of winning or of politics. He didn't speak of race or party. He spoke plainly about the next hundred years and the mysteries that must be waiting for us in those times yet to come. I don't believe everything will be alright now - but I believe it could be. Now I have to step up and be worthy of that promise.
I didn't actually expect to hope again. It made me cry, and I have not stopped since. I'd forgotten what it felt like to hope.