“He's a Muslim,” my grandmother said, pointing at Barack Obama on the TV.
“No, Mema. He's a Christian, like you,” I softly corrected her. She shook her head, “No. He's not like me.”
Being born and raised a Carolina girl, my suspicion was that my grandmother was just racist enough to reject an African-American president.
Mema grew up in Cheraw, South Carolina, on her father's watermelon farm. She rode on the back of a buggy and peeled sugar cane for a treat. She had a pet owl and servants who cooked, cleaned, and virtually raised her. These servants were black and, while loved dearly, were never treated as equals. The Old South brought up my grandmother, so I wasn't surprised by her attitude-just saddened.
I spent a lot of time with Mema over the following weeks. She would often steer our conversations so that they became political, and as often I would cringe, fearing her expression of a more overt racist opinion. Mema spoke of Hillary's strengths over the other candidates, and I argued Obama's qualities. Again, not surprisingly, Mema seemed to believe every negative rumor she heard about him.
“He refuses to say the Pledge of Allegiance! That's just downright un-American!” she'd say.
“He has to open the Senate several times a year, Mema,” I'd answer. “They open the Senate by saying the Pledge. He has to follow protocol, or he can't be a senator.”
“Well. He scares me,” she'd say.
“Why?” I'd ask, thinking, “Please don't use the word “black,” Mema.'
“I think we're going to be sorry if he gets elected,” she'd say.
“But, why?” I repeated. Again, in my head, I'd be thinking, “Say you don't like his foreign policy, his healthcare plan, his military position. Say you don't like the way he smiles or his voice. Just don't say the obvious.'
“I just don't think he stands for what we stand for,” she told me.
These kinds of conversations tortured me, because Mema is my heroine. She is easily the strongest person I've ever known. I watched her take care of my grandfather for over ten years until his death. Perhaps this heroism I'd grown used to was why I was so afraid to hear Mema express a racist opinion. I needed to respect her in every way.
“What are you going to do if Obama gets the Democratic nomination?” I asked Mema days before the end of my visit.
“I'm not sure,” she replied, “I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
I was so sure she was just sidestepping any open expression of her prejudice. I almost wanted to hear it-the evasions were infuriating, but she just South-Carolina-clichéd me!
We didn't talk politics again until I left. A few weeks after I returned to Brooklyn, I received a phone call from Mema. In the middle of telling me how much she missed me, she turned political again.
“I heard your Barack give a speech last night,” she said.
“Oh. Yeah?” I said, feeling my gut tighten up.
“He's a beautiful speaker. A magician with words.”
I didn't answer. I was waiting for the “but…”
“I'm still a little afraid of his inexperience,” Mema said. “I don't know how much idealism America can handle. But I think if it came down to it, I could vote for him knowing we'd be all right.”
I breathed more freely. My spunky, argument-loving grandmother had changed her entire view of race. The slight action of her admitting to potential support of Obama gave me hope-if my grandmother, so set in her ways, can give Obama a chance, maybe the rest of America can, too. And maybe, if other young people are willing to accept tradition along with change-as I, the most stubborn of all radical 20-somethings, managed to do with my grandmother's help-there is hope for an America in which generation gaps are narrower and much more harmonious.
