What Barak Obama's Inauguration Means to Me

I grew up in the South. It was during the 1970's in Alabama, not far from the infamous Pulaski and Lynchburg Tennessee towns. Though I was shielded from much of the political climate and activity, I still had a sense that I was different. Though I grew up in a racially mixed neighborhood and had friends that didn't look like me, I still had a sense that I was different. And though I attended a school where all but two families looked just like me, I still had a sense that I was different.

I couldn't define the difference until much later in life, but it left me feeling slightly inferior, slightly invisible at certain times in my life. Like shopping on a weekend afternoon at the local mall... I remember being followed around the store by sales clerks, watching my every move. I had never stolen in my life, nor had I ever intended to, but I was viewed as a potential thief whenever I walked into certain stores. I remember standing in line at the sales counter waiting for my turn to give my order or to pay for my purchases, only to be overlooked and silently asked to wait while another customer behind me, who didn't look like me, was helped first. I had a sense that I was different.

And then we moved to the North. I imagined things would be better there, but I was mistaken. I remember a 6^th grade teacher telling the class that only people who looked like me ever got head lice and to be careful not to share combs, hats or brushes with them. And I sat in shock and silence as all the kids in the class moved their chairs away from me, the only "one" in the class. Even though I had never had head lice, nor even knew what it was, it didn't matter to my classmates. I remember standing in front of my church with others that looked different than me and being called a racial slur by a man riding by on a bicycle. I still had a sense that I was different.

I remember the stories my parents would share with me and my sisters about having to drink from separate water fountains, and entering public establishments from a back door, and having to sit in the balcony at so-called integrated movie theaters. I remember stories from my grandmother about sitting on the back of the bus and not being allowed in stores because of how she looked. I remember the stories told about my great-grandmother picking cotton in the South and cleaning homes for mere pennies just to earn food and clothing for her children. This gave me a sense that we were different.

So today, on January 20, 2009, I saw a page turn in history. I now see a blank, clean page on which anything that can be dreamed can be written about. I see the results of years of oppression and peaceful demonstrations and pleading speeches and intense pain and silent hope. I see in Barak Obama a new role model for children and a new face of success. I see that being different no longer means being inferior, hopeless, or invisible. It now just means that we are American.