The morning after Barack Obama is elected President, my adoptive dad is elated. He’s working, by his own admission, on less than three hours sleep. He stayed awake, sitting in the living room with the television volume turned low, until the final result came in. Later, after hours of commentary, a concession speech, and a victory celebration, he went up to bed but was too excited to do little more than occasionally drift off.
“It was an amazing night,” he says as he drives me to my eighth grade homeroom.
“You should take the day off,” I tell him. “You don’t look so hot."
“Are you kidding?” he says, as he reaches forward to switch on the radio. “No way I’m missing today.”
He teaches at a Catholic college where, for the past year, most of his colleagues have been telling him that an African-American can’t win. He’s insisted they’re wrong – that the country has advanced beyond that – and this is his day to puff out his chest and strut.
A page in the book of American history has been turned, a radio talk show host tells his audience. This morning we all sit proudly in the front of the bus.
We’re on Route 58, stopped at a red light, when it happens. It’s not much – hardly noticeable – but a thump and a nudge let us know that the car behind us has tapped our bumper.
“Crap,” my father mutters as he reaches for his door handle.
The other driver is out before we are. He’s a black man with white hair and he’s shaken. He wears heavy brown shoes, navy blue pants and a matching zip-up jacket with the name ‘Ralph’ stitched over the left breast pocket. “You folks, okay?” he asks.
“We’re all right,” my dad says. “What about you?”
“I was adjusting the radio,” Ralph says. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
My father inspects the back of our car. It’s an eight-year old Honda CRV, scarred by its share of falling bikes and windblown shopping carts, so one more dink hardly seems to matter.
“I don’t see any damage,” my father reports.
“I am really sorry about this,” Ralph says.
By now, traffic is moving around us. Some people beep, most gawk, one man on a cell phone takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to shoot us the finger.
“I guess we should get out of here,” my dad says.
“Probably a good idea,” Ralph agrees.
We haven’t even made it back to our cars when we hear the command. It comes over a public address system mounted on top of a slowly approaching police cruiser.
“PULL YOUR CARS OVER TO THE SIDE!”
My dad smiles, raises his hand, waves toward the police car stopped just behind Ralph’s car. “It’s all right, officer!” he calls. “No harm done!”
“PULL YOUR CARS OVER NOW!”
There’s a clearing on the side of the road, a place where I’ve seen a concession truck selling hot dogs around lunch time. We pull in, followed by Ralph, followed by the police car. The officer is out first, a muscular looking guy about my dad’s age.
“Everybody out!” he orders.
“Wait here,” my father says.
“He said ‘everybody,’” I remind him.
My father, out of the car, already has the necessary paperwork in his hand: license, registration, insurance card. Ralph, not as organized, flips through a tangled mass of odds and ends in his glove compartment.
“I said out of the car!” the officer bellows, his hand now resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.
Ralph has apparently been around enough to know to comply. He gets out of his car and hands the officer what looks like his license. “I’ve got my registration in there somewhere,” he says.
“You been drinking, have you?” the police officer asks.
“No, sir,” Ralph answers.
“It was just a little tap,” my dad tries to explain.
“I saw what it was,” the officer says as he takes my dad’s papers. “Don’t anybody move.”
With the officer in his car and out of earshot, I tell Ralph, “It’ll be fine.” But in fact, I have no idea how it’s going to be. A few minutes pass before the police officer comes back and hands my father his paperwork.
“You planning on filing an insurance claim?” he asks.
“No.”
“In that case, you’re free to go.”
“What about him?” my father asks.
“I’ll take care of him.”
“I really don’t think he’s been drinking.”
“You an expert?” the officer asks.
“No.”
“I’ve been on since midnight,” the officer says. “They’ve all been drinking.”
We get back into the Honda, but my father sits for a minute and stares out.
“I’m going to check your eyes,” the officer tells Ralph as they stand next to the police car.
Were only Dr. King alive to share this day... the guy on the radio says.
“Keep your head still and follow the stimulus,” the officer says as he removes a pen from his pocket and waves it in front of Ralph’s face.
If only President Lincoln was here...
“Do not move your head.”
...or Rosa Parks or Malcolm X...
“I said not to move your head!”
“Turn off the radio,” my dad says as he puts the car in gear and eases into traffic.
“I should have done something,” my father says just as we pull into the school parking lot.
I’m about to ask him what he could have possibly done. Why get himself into trouble? Except then I realize. He should have done something. Or I should have.
Somebody should have done something.
“It was an amazing night,” he says as he drives me to my eighth grade homeroom.
“You should take the day off,” I tell him. “You don’t look so hot."
“Are you kidding?” he says, as he reaches forward to switch on the radio. “No way I’m missing today.”
He teaches at a Catholic college where, for the past year, most of his colleagues have been telling him that an African-American can’t win. He’s insisted they’re wrong – that the country has advanced beyond that – and this is his day to puff out his chest and strut.
A page in the book of American history has been turned, a radio talk show host tells his audience. This morning we all sit proudly in the front of the bus.
We’re on Route 58, stopped at a red light, when it happens. It’s not much – hardly noticeable – but a thump and a nudge let us know that the car behind us has tapped our bumper.
“Crap,” my father mutters as he reaches for his door handle.
The other driver is out before we are. He’s a black man with white hair and he’s shaken. He wears heavy brown shoes, navy blue pants and a matching zip-up jacket with the name ‘Ralph’ stitched over the left breast pocket. “You folks, okay?” he asks.
“We’re all right,” my dad says. “What about you?”
“I was adjusting the radio,” Ralph says. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
My father inspects the back of our car. It’s an eight-year old Honda CRV, scarred by its share of falling bikes and windblown shopping carts, so one more dink hardly seems to matter.
“I don’t see any damage,” my father reports.
“I am really sorry about this,” Ralph says.
By now, traffic is moving around us. Some people beep, most gawk, one man on a cell phone takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to shoot us the finger.
“I guess we should get out of here,” my dad says.
“Probably a good idea,” Ralph agrees.
We haven’t even made it back to our cars when we hear the command. It comes over a public address system mounted on top of a slowly approaching police cruiser.
“PULL YOUR CARS OVER TO THE SIDE!”
My dad smiles, raises his hand, waves toward the police car stopped just behind Ralph’s car. “It’s all right, officer!” he calls. “No harm done!”
“PULL YOUR CARS OVER NOW!”
There’s a clearing on the side of the road, a place where I’ve seen a concession truck selling hot dogs around lunch time. We pull in, followed by Ralph, followed by the police car. The officer is out first, a muscular looking guy about my dad’s age.
“Everybody out!” he orders.
“Wait here,” my father says.
“He said ‘everybody,’” I remind him.
My father, out of the car, already has the necessary paperwork in his hand: license, registration, insurance card. Ralph, not as organized, flips through a tangled mass of odds and ends in his glove compartment.
“I said out of the car!” the officer bellows, his hand now resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.
Ralph has apparently been around enough to know to comply. He gets out of his car and hands the officer what looks like his license. “I’ve got my registration in there somewhere,” he says.
“You been drinking, have you?” the police officer asks.
“No, sir,” Ralph answers.
“It was just a little tap,” my dad tries to explain.
“I saw what it was,” the officer says as he takes my dad’s papers. “Don’t anybody move.”
With the officer in his car and out of earshot, I tell Ralph, “It’ll be fine.” But in fact, I have no idea how it’s going to be. A few minutes pass before the police officer comes back and hands my father his paperwork.
“You planning on filing an insurance claim?” he asks.
“No.”
“In that case, you’re free to go.”
“What about him?” my father asks.
“I’ll take care of him.”
“I really don’t think he’s been drinking.”
“You an expert?” the officer asks.
“No.”
“I’ve been on since midnight,” the officer says. “They’ve all been drinking.”
We get back into the Honda, but my father sits for a minute and stares out.
“I’m going to check your eyes,” the officer tells Ralph as they stand next to the police car.
Were only Dr. King alive to share this day... the guy on the radio says.
“Keep your head still and follow the stimulus,” the officer says as he removes a pen from his pocket and waves it in front of Ralph’s face.
If only President Lincoln was here...
“Do not move your head.”
...or Rosa Parks or Malcolm X...
“I said not to move your head!”
“Turn off the radio,” my dad says as he puts the car in gear and eases into traffic.
“I should have done something,” my father says just as we pull into the school parking lot.
I’m about to ask him what he could have possibly done. Why get himself into trouble? Except then I realize. He should have done something. Or I should have.
Somebody should have done something.
