yet still, we dream

7 am & the express bus slowly fills its belly for the long haul downtown. Faces look tired & distant, it's an early morning after a long weekend. Some read papers while others dab on makeup. Then she gets on, this African-American woman, her faced wreathed by a scarf, wearing an incurable grin. It's not just a passing ray of sun through the clouds, this smile sustains her. Her face says it all, today changes everything.

Across from me a man holds up a paper upon whose front cover is a photo of Obama's head, from behind, against an American flag. Robbed of the personality and charisma that his smile commands, this picture lays out the simple facts. With nappy hair and tawny skin, with thicker lips and wider nose, this head is the man we have elected president. And the legions who have avoided playing in the sun so as to preserve "good color"; who have spent hours in the salon or barber submitting to heat and chemicals in the struggle for "good hair" or those who have pursed their fleshy lips can at last put down the mirror of self conscious inspection, look into their hearts and deem themselves "good".

Does this mean that the scale of justice has settled in perfect balance? No. I have a mother who still thinks "colored" is a polite word to use. She still identifies newscasters, singers, even friends of mine as "the BLACK one" each time saying "black" as if she'd just found a rodent in her larder. As long as words like "nigger" and "shwarster" exist, we have a way to go yet. As long as people avert their eyes from African American men they meet on the street lest he pose a danger; as long as little old ladies move their purses to their opposite side when a black person sits next to them on the bus, we are not done. As long as race is a measuring indicator of personality we are a long way from the goal. We who believe in freedom cannot yet rest while any single one of us remains in harm's way due to ignorance or prejudice.

Yet still, we dream. Today our dream is sweet because though we trudge the road of history and destiny, it's nice to be on a flatter stretch. We dream, still, because we know just a little more than yesterday about what we are capable of and where our attitudes come from. It's not enough to think different, or even to act different, it's a matter of understanding the assumptions of our past in a new way.

Five years ago I moved to Chicago from Boston. I left a job, an apartment, a full & good life. Packed it all up and moved 1500 miles to find myself in school, again. In those first days I needed so much. And, Yankee will power in hand, I was going to get it. Trips to the ID office took me to Accounts Payable which sent me to Financial Aid, then on to the Registrar, back to Financial Aid and over again to Accounts Payable before I had my card. Then it was time to get a train pass, which took me through a few more lines and offices and burocracy. Each point on the journey left me waiting and hoping yet suspecting that the person behind the counter didn't really understand what I was asking for. Finally, after three days of battling it all out, I went to grad student orientation and met the head of the department. I was greeted by a middle aged man with round, pink features and instantly felt a wave of relief. Then came the guilt. Looking back over my first few days I realized that part of the source of my stress was that no one in any of these offices, where I came knocking with my many needs, looked like me. Unlike monocultural Boston, Chicago is diverse and the office workers at SAIC are primarily African-American (a ratio that swings the other way when it comes to faculty and students). The undercurrent to all my discussions across desks and through glass was that I didn't think that person would take care of me or that they were judging me. Did any one of them fail to help me? NO. Was I fine? YES. Would I have consciously admitted that race was an underlying stress factor in any of those meetings? NO. But there's something about approaching a person in a position of power and influence, however small, and seeing visual cues of same-ness that put one at ease knowing he or she in power identifies with one's plight.

"Yes, we can" was Obama's campaign slogan of note. Well, many always knew, in an academic way, that they could. But that gut level understanding that "Yes, we MAY" remained elusive, lacking a symbol or a visual affirmation to match the words, until now. And so, yet still, we dream. We dream, now, just a little bigger than yesterday.