Dinner with Dad and Obama's Speech

While at the end of dinner, my father and I said we loved each other, this time our words sounded remote and robotic, almost fake and phony. Just a few minutes prior, I had called him out as an old, ignorant, white guy, too afraid to admit his own prejudices, too timid to challenge his own beliefs, and too afraid to face reality: for the first time in our country’s history, we have the potential of electing the first black president, an achievement hardly fathomed by his generation and only recently conceived by my own.

My father and I had engaged in a serious political discussion, which is in itself an achievement, since most of our conversations revolve around the weather, sports, work, and anything but politics. We sat in a packed restaurant, our fellow diners pawned off as audience members watching the tragedy unfold in front of them. It didn’t help that we had each drank way too much: I alone had a bottle of wine and he at least several beers. The exact genesis of our conservation is a mystery—like all major disagreements, major conflicts, even wars, you never remember how it commences, how it starts, who pulls the trigger, only how it ends, what silence sounds like after a series of successive rounds. There was no victor or no one waving the white flag. The dénouement was peaceful and civil, unlike the actual battle.

If it is not already abundantly clear, let me state unequivocally that my father and I rarely agree on anything. We are very different. And that is why we rarely—if ever—discuss politics or other controversial issues with each other. While we are different, we have not allowed our differences to divide us. Our familial bond has united us for a quarter century, and nothing that happened last night will evaporate our relationship. We will always be bound together, through blood and personality, whether we like it or not.

For the first time in my life, however, I had told my father what I had long felt about him. I didn’t immediately regret my remarks. To a certain extent, I still believe in what I said. Yes, I had gotten caught up in my anger and indignation. Sparks flared, fires erupted, blows landed—we didn’t actually engage in fisticuffs, but after I spoke truth to power, after my father witnessed my indignation and frustration over him, his face grimaced, his eyes lowered, and he looked deflated, defeated, and he knew it.

Reading, listening, and watching Senator Obama’s speech today, I could not help but wonder: Was my father watching this? Would he be viewing it later? How would he react? Would he find it offensive or not enough to alter his opinion? Would it suffice and calm his fears? Would it ease his discomfort over voting for someone whose name doesn’t resemble those of the previous forty-three presidents? Or, would it merely confirm his initial suspicions and verify his bigoted attitudes and opinions?

At this Sunday’s Easter supper, when we all hold hands at the dinner table, rejoicing in grace and sacrifice, what will he be thinking then? I know what I will be praying for.