Back in June of 2007, while turning hamburgers on the grill and chatting with a friend, I was asked if I really thought a Black man could become President of the United States.  My response was, "Even if Colin Powell had run in 2000, I don't think he'd have run.  I have a hard time seeing it.  It'll happen someday - but not in my lifetime."
 
Fast forward 12 months to Tuesday, June 3, 2007.  I read the CNN screen as Wolf Blitzer confirmed for my disbelieving ears what my lying eyes told me.  Somehow, despite the middle name and the last name and the thin resume and the Weather Underground and the convicted fundraiser and the controversial pastors and the "bitter" and the "cling" and the "sweetie" and the Operation Chaos and the "Latino problem" and the vandalized campaign offices and the Appalachias and the relentless challenge of the Clinton dynasty, a Black man, not born to money or privilege, whose mother had to take public assistance for a while, and had to use loans for college, was one step away from becoming President of the United States. 

At that moment, a mixture of joy, pride, sadness and shock crested and hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was joyous because I truly feel the best candidate won, despite all the issues laid out above.  I felt pride, not just because of his race, but also because I'd worked hard to help his campaign.  I felt sadness because it took so many years - and so many lives - for this to happen.  I felt shock because I never thought it would - at least, not while I was alive.

Now, as a 34-year-old Black male, I'm supposed to be one of those people who doesn't know much about history in general, and Black history in particular.  I'm supposed to be one of the self-absorbed, me-first kids of the 1980s who knows little and appreciates even less of the struggles endured to make my life possible.  As it happens, though, I'm about as far outside the generational stereotype as you can get.

Maybe it's because my mother and grandmother both grew up in the Deep South, and came of age in a time where they were considered second-class citizens - which they saw as a vast improvement over their forebears.

Maybe it's because my great-grandmother, A.B. Palmer, was a civil rights figure in Shreveport, Louisiana.  I got to speak at the opening of the Palmer Community Center there in 1999, and many people expressed their admiration for her strength and courage.

Maybe it's because one of my teachers was Thelma Wair.  You may not recognize her name.  Her maiden name, however, was Mothershed.  She was one of the Little Rock Nine. 

Maybe it's because another of my teachers, Ron Woods, took time out from teaching us algebra to educate us about how we got to the world we were living in.  Mr. Woods talked with a special passion about Medgar Evers, and how his work laid the foundation for civil rights in Mississippi. 

So, I have always known that, despite how depressing it's been to watch Blacks and women treated poorly in this country's history, there were times when things were much, much worse.  And, for all the hostility encountered by Obama and Sen. Hillary Clinton throughout this primary season, it spoke volumes to me that these two candidates were the last ones standing on the Democratic side.

No, I didn't cry on Tuesday night.  Yes, I knew it was going to happen - in truth, the delegate margin rendered this race effectively over back in March.  But I just couldn't bring myself to believe it until the proof was splayed across my screen, on one news channel after another. 

I spent an evening staring in joyous disbelief.  I silently thanked God for making that night possible - and sent up an extra prayer that my crystal ball from last June would end up being naught more than a paperweight.  I really never thought I'd see the day where someone like Barack Obama could make that kind of history. 

Now, not only do I get to watch it happening live, but I get to watch it with my son.  I tell him every day that he can do anything he wants in life, if he's truly willing to work for it.  Thank you, Sen. Obama, for helping me impart that lesson.