MY SWEARING IN to the U.S. Senate in January 2005 completed a process thathad begun the day I announced my candidacy two years earlier—the exchange of arelatively anonymous1 life for a very public one.
To be sure, many things have remained constant. Our family still makes its home inChicago. I still go to the same Hyde Park barbershop to get my hair cut, Michelle and Ihave the same friends over to our house as we did before the election, and our daughtersstill run through the same playgrounds.
Still, there’s no doubt that the world has changed profoundly for me, in ways that Idon’t always care to admit. My words, my actions, my travel plans, and my tax returnsall end up in the morning papers or on the nightly news broadcast. My daughters have toendure the interruptions of well-meaning strangers whenever their father takes them tothe zoo. Even outside of Chicago, it’s becoming harder to walk unnoticed throughairports.
As a rule, I find it difficult to take all this attention very seriously. After all, there aredays when I still walk out of the house with a suit jacket that doesn’t match my suitpants. My thoughts are so much less tidy, my days so much less organized than theimage of me that now projects itself into the world, that it makes for occasional comicmoments. I remember the day before I was sworn in, my staff and I decided3 we shouldhold a press conference in our office. At the time, I was ranked ninety-ninth in seniority,and all the reporters were crammed4 into a tiny transition office in the basement of theDirksen Office Building, across the hall from the Senate supply store. It was my firstday in the building; I had not taken a single vote, had not introduced a single bill—indeed I had not even sat down at my desk when a very earnest reporter raised his handand asked, “Senator Obama, what is your place in history?”
Even some of the other reporters had to laugh.
Some of the hyperbole can be traced back to my speech at the 2004 DemocraticConvention in Boston, the point at which I first gained national attention. In fact, theprocess by which I was selected as the keynote speaker remains5 something of a mysteryto me. I had met John Kerry for the first time after the Illinois primary, when I spoke6 athis fund-raiser and accompanied him to a campaign event highlighting the importanceof job-training programs. A few weeks later, we got word that the Kerry people wantedme to speak at the convention, although it was not yet clear in what capacity. Oneafternoon, as I drove back from Springfield to Chicago for an evening campaign event,Kerry campaign manager Mary Beth Cahill called to deliver the news. After I hung up, Iturned to my driver, Mike Signator.
“I guess this is pretty big,” I said.
Mike nodded. “You could say that.”
I had only been to one previous Democratic convention, the 2000 Convention in LosAngeles. I hadn’t planned to attend that convention; I was just coming off my defeat inthe Democratic primary for the Illinois First Congressional District seat, and wasdetermined to spend most of the summer catching9 up on work at the law practice thatI’d left unattended during the campaign (a neglect that had left me more or less broke),as well as make up for lost time with a wife and daughter who had seen far too little ofme during the previous six months.
At the last minute, though, several friends and supporters who were planning to goinsisted that I join them. You need to make national contacts, they told me, for whenyou run again—and anyway, it will be fun. Although they didn’t say this at the time, Isuspect they saw a trip to the convention as a bit of useful therapy for me, on the theorythat the best thing to do after getting thrown off a horse is to get back on right away.
Eventually I relented and booked a flight to L.A. When I landed, I took the shuttle toHertz Rent A Car, handed the woman behind the counter my American Express card,and began looking at the map for directions to a cheap hotel that I’d found near VeniceBeach. After a few minutes the Hertz woman came back with a look of embarrassmenton her face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Obama, but your card’s been rejected.”
“That can’t be right. Can you try again?”
“I tried twice, sir. Maybe you should call American Express.”
After half an hour on the phone, a kindhearted supervisor10 at American Expressauthorized the car rental11. But the episode served as an omen2 of things to come. Notbeing a delegate, I couldn’t secure a floor pass; according to the Illinois Party chairman,he was already inundated12 with requests, and the best he could do was give me a passthat allowed entry only onto the convention site. I ended up watching most of thespeeches on various television screens scattered13 around the Staples14 Center, occasionallyfollowing friends or acquaintances into skyboxes where it was clear I didn’t belong. ByTuesday night, I realized that my presence was serving neither me nor the DemocraticParty any apparent purpose, and by Wednesday morning I was on the first flight back toChicago.
Given the distance between my previous role as a convention gate-crasher and mynewfound role as convention keynoter, I had some cause to worry that my appearance inBoston might not go very well. But perhaps because by that time I had becomeaccustomed to outlandish things happening in my campaign, I didn’t feel particularlynervous. A few days after the call from Ms. Cahill, I was back in my hotel room inSpringfield, making notes for a rough draft of the speech while watching a basketballgame. I thought about the themes that I’d sounded during the campaign—thewillingness of people to work hard if given the chance, the need for government to helpprovide a foundation for opportunity, the belief that Americans felt a sense of mutualobligation toward one another. I made a list of the issues I might touch on—health care,education, the war in Iraq.
But most of all, I thought about the voices of all the people I’d met on the campaigntrail. I remembered Tim Wheeler and his wife in Galesburg, trying to figure out how toget their teenage son the liver transplant he needed. I remembered a young man in EastMoline named Seamus Ahern who was on his way to Iraq—the desire he had to servehis country, the look of pride and apprehension15 on the face of his father. I remembered ayoung black woman I’d met in East St. Louis whose name I never would catch, but whotold me of her efforts to attend college even though no one in her family had evergraduated from high school.
It wasn’t just the struggles of these men and women that had moved me. Rather, it wastheir determination, their self-reliance, a relentless16 optimism in the face of hardship. Itbrought to mind a phrase that my pastor17, Rev7. Jeremiah A. Wright Jr., had once used ina sermon.
That was the best of the American spirit, I thought—having the audacity to believedespite all the evidence to the contrary that we could restore a sense of community to anation torn by conflict; the gall19 to believe that despite personal setbacks, the loss of ajob or an illness in the family or a childhood mired20 in poverty, we had some control—and therefore responsibility—over our own fate.
It was that audacity, I thought, that joined us as one people. It was that pervasive21 spiritof hope that tied my own family’s story to the larger American story, and my own storyto those of the voters I sought to represent.
I turned off the basketball game and started to write.
A FEW WEEKS later, I arrived in Boston, caught three hours’ sleep, and traveled frommy hotel to the Fleet Center for my first appearance on Meet the Press. Toward the endof the segment, Tim Russert put up on the screen an excerpt22 from a 1996 interview withthe Cleveland Plain-Dealer that I had forgotten about entirely23, in which the reporter hadasked me—as someone just getting into politics as a candidate for the Illinois statesenate—what I thought about the Democratic Convention in Chicago.
The convention’s for sale, right…. You’ve got these $10,000-a-plate dinners, GoldenCircle Clubs. I think when the average voter looks at that, they rightly feel they’ve beenlocked out of the process. They can’t attend a $10,000 breakfast. They know that thosewho can are going to get the kind of access they can’t imagine.
After the quote was removed from the screen, Russert turned to me. “A hundred andfifty donors24 gave $40 million to this convention,” he said. “It’s worse than Chicago,using your standards. Are you offended by that, and what message does that send theaverage voter?”
I replied that politics and money were a problem for both parties, but that John Kerry’svoting record, and my own, indicated that we voted for what was best for the country. Isaid that a convention wouldn’t change that, although I did suggest that the moreDemocrats could encourage participation25 from people who felt locked out of theprocess, the more we stayed true to our origins as the party of the average Joe, thestronger we would be as a party.
Privately, I thought my original 1996 quote was better.
There was a time when political conventions captured the urgency and drama ofpolitics—when nominations26 were determined8 by floor managers and head counts andside deals and arm-twisting, when passions or miscalculation might result in a second orthird or fourth round of balloting27. But that time passed long ago. With the advent28 ofbinding primaries, the much-needed end to the dominance of party bosses andbackroom deals in smoke-filled rooms, today’s convention is bereft29 of surprises. Rather,it serves as a weeklong infomercial for the party and its nominee—as well as a means ofrewarding the party faithful and major contributors with four days of food, drink,entertainment, and shoptalk.
I spent most of the first three days at the convention fulfilling my role in this pageant30. Ispoke to rooms full of major Democratic donors and had breakfast with delegates fromacross the fifty states. I practiced my speech in front of a video monitor, did a walk-through of how it would be staged, received instruction on where to stand, where towave, and how to best use the microphones. My communications director, RobertGibbs, and I trotted31 up and down the stairs of the Fleet Center, giving interviews thatwere sometimes only two minutes apart, to ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, Fox News, andNPR, at each stop emphasizing the talking points that the Kerry-Edwards team hadprovided, each word of which had been undoubtedly32 tested in a battalion33 of polls and apanoply of focus groups.
Given the breakneck pace of my days, I didn’t have much time to worry about how myspeech would go over. It wasn’t until Tuesday night, after my staff and Michelle haddebated for half an hour over what tie I should wear (we finally settled on the tie thatRobert Gibbs was wearing), after we had ridden over to the Fleet Center and heardstrangers shout “Good luck!” and “Give ’em hell, Obama!,” after we had visited with avery gracious and funny Teresa Heinz Kerry in her hotel room, until finally it was justMichelle and me sitting backstage and watching the broadcast, that I started to feel justa tad bit nervous. I mentioned to Michelle that my stomach was feeling a little grumbly34.
She hugged me tight, looked into my eyes, and said, “Just don’t screw it up, buddy35!”
We both laughed. Just then, one of the production managers came into the hold roomand told me it was time to take my position offstage. Standing36 behind the black curtain,listening to Dick Durbin introduce me, I thought about my mother and father andgrandfather and what it might have been like for them to be in the audience. I thoughtabout my grandmother in Hawaii, watching the convention on TV because her back wastoo deteriorated37 for her to travel. I thought about all the volunteers and supporters backin Illinois who had worked so hard on my behalf.
Lord, let me tell their stories right, I said to myself. Then I walked onto the stage.
I WOULD BE lying if I said that the positive reaction to my speech at the Bostonconvention—the letters I received, the crowds who showed up to rallies once we gotback to Illinois—wasn’t personally gratifying. After all, I got into politics to have someinfluence on the public debate, because I thought I had something to say about thedirection we need to go as a country.
Still, the torrent38 of publicity39 that followed the speech reinforces my sense of howfleeting fame is, contingent40 as it is on a thousand different matters of chance, of eventsbreaking this way rather than that. I know that I am not so much smarter than the man Iwas six years ago, when I was temporarily stranded41 at LAX. My views on health care oreducation or foreign policy are not so much more refined than they were when I laboredin obscurity as a community organizer. If I am wiser, it is mainly because I havetraveled a little further down the path I have chosen for myself, the path of politics, andhave gotten a glimpse of where it may lead, for good and for ill.
I remember a conversation I had almost twenty years ago with a friend of mine, an olderman who had been active in the civil rights efforts in Chicago in the sixties and wasteaching urban studies at Northwestern University. I had just decided, after three yearsof organizing, to attend law school; because he was one of the few academics I knew, Ihad asked him if he would be willing to give me a recommendation.
He said he would be happy to write me the recommendation, but first wanted to knowwhat I intended to do with a law degree. I mentioned my interest in a civil rightspractice, and that at some point I might try my hand at running for office. He nodded hishead and asked whether I had considered what might be involved in taking such a path,what I would be willing to do to make the Law Review, or make partner, or get electedto that first office and then move up the ranks. As a rule, both law and politics requiredcompromise, he said; not just on issues, but on more fundamental things—your valuesand ideals. He wasn’t saying that to dissuade42 me, he said. It was just a fact. It wasbecause of his unwillingness43 to compromise that, although he had been approachedmany times in his youth to enter politics, he had always declined.
“It’s not that compromise is inherently wrong,” he said to me. “I just didn’t find itsatisfying. And the one thing I’ve discovered as I get older is that you have to do what issatisfying to you. In fact that’s one of the advantages of old age, I suppose, that you’vefinally learned what matters to you. It’s hard to know that at twenty-six. And theproblem is that nobody else can answer that question for you. You can only figure it outon your own.”
Twenty years later, I think back on that conversation and appreciate my friend’s wordsmore than I did at the time. For I am getting to an age where I have a sense of whatsatisfies me, and although I am perhaps more tolerant of compromise on the issues thanmy friend was, I know that my satisfaction is not to be found in the glare of televisioncameras or the applause of the crowd. Instead, it seems to come more often now fromknowing that in some demonstrable way I’ve been able to help people live their liveswith some measure of dignity. I think about what Benjamin Franklin wrote to hismother, explaining why he had devoted44 so much of his time to public service: “I wouldrather have it said, He lived usefully, than, He died rich.”
That’s what satisfies me now, I think—being useful to my family and the people whoelected me, leaving behind a legacy45 that will make our children’s lives more hopefulthan our own. Sometimes, working in Washington, I feel I am meeting that goal. Atother times, it seems as if the goal recedes46 from me, and all the activity I engage in—thehearings and speeches and press conferences and position papers—are an exercise invanity, useful to no one.
When I find myself in such moods, I like to take a run along the Mall. Usually I go inthe early evening, especially in the summer and fall, when the air in Washington iswarm and still and the leaves on the trees barely rustle47. After dark, not many people areout—perhaps a few couples taking a walk, or homeless men on benches, organizingtheir possessions. Most of the time I stop at the Washington Monument, but sometimesI push on, across the street to the National World War II Memorial, then along theReflecting Pool to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, then up the stairs of the LincolnMemorial.
At night, the great shrine48 is lit but often empty. Standing between marble columns, Iread the Gettysburg Address and the Second Inaugural49 Address. I look out over theReflecting Pool, imagining the crowd stilled by Dr. King’s mighty50 cadence51, and thenbeyond that, to the floodlit obelisk52 and shining Capitol dome53.
And in that place, I think about America and those who built it. This nation’s founders,who somehow rose above petty ambitions and narrow calculations to imagine a nationunfurling across a continent. And those like Lincoln and King, who ultimately laiddown their lives in the service of perfecting an imperfect union. And all the faceless,nameless men and women, slaves and soldiers and tailors and butchers, constructinglives for themselves and their children and grandchildren, brick by brick, rail by rail,calloused54 hand by calloused hand, to fill in the landscape of our collective dreams.
It is that process I wish to be a part of.
My heart is filled with love for this country.
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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rev
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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supervisor
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| n.监督人，管理人，检查员，督学，主管，导师 | |
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rental
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inundated
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scattered
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staples
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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pastor
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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gall
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mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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excerpt
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entirely
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donors
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| n.捐赠者( donor的名词复数 )；献血者；捐血者；器官捐献者 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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nominations
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| n.提名，任命( nomination的名词复数 ) | |
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balloting
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| v.（使）投票表决( ballot的现在分词 ) | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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grumbly
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| [人名] 格伦布利 | |
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buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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recedes
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的第三人称单数 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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inaugural
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| adj.就职的；n.就职典礼 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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