
Lillian Rubin
GRANTED WE projected our fantasies onto him.  But it wasn’t just that  we deluded ourselves; it was more like a tango, a seductive dance in  which we both played a part. We needed to believe, he needed believers.  We were a perfect match: our hunger and his promise. After eight years  of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Gonzales, Yoo, and the rest, he was like the  coming of spring after a treacherous winter—the embodiment of a new era,  a new politics, a sense of redemption and renewal. His name was Barack  Hussein Obama, and he was the perfect vessel into which to deposit our  progressive hopes: a slim, graceful, fiercely intelligent, handsome  black man with an easy manner, funny ears, and a gorgeous smile. We fell  in love.
  That I can even talk about falling in love with a politician sounds  ridiculous coming from an old political hand like me—a woman who decades  ago (another life, it seems) managed congressional campaigns and saw  firsthand how easily politics corrupts. But that was Barack Obama’s  genius; he made us forget what we knew. I’m reminded of a  book by  Julian Barnes, a meditation on life and death, whose opening line is,   “I don’t believe in God, but I miss him.” Barack Obama filled the void;  he gave us something to believe in. So my heart ruled, even when my  brain stirred uncomfortably.
  My brain poked me from time to time as we moved through the long  campaign and the first months of his presidency. Didn’t he say  unequivocally, “Let there be no doubt, I will end this war...and get all  of our combat troops out of Iraq within 16 months?” How did that  certainty get transformed into the hazy, “In 16 months, we should be  able to reduce our combat troops?” He told us he was open to all ideas,  yet the advocates for single-payer universal health care were excluded  from the table. Timothy Geithner, the Goldman Sachs alumnus, as  Secretary of the Treasury! That’s quite a reward for sitting at the head  of the New York Fed for five years while the excesses of Wall Street  devastated the economy.
  Then there’s same-sex marriage. I get it; Obama won’t spend political  capital on a fight with Congress to legalize same-sex marriage. But the  pen he promised to use to end “Don’t ask, don’t tell” remains capped on  his desk. And how do you explain his failure to stand by the assault  weapon ban? Does he really believe the Second Amendment gives us the  right to carry weapons that can murder dozens of people with a single  pull of the trigger? What will he give away next in his quest for a  consensus the Republicans are determined not to give him?  Okay, okay, I  hear you, and I even agree, said my heart. But enough!  This is what it  means to govern; you have to pick your fights, find the compromise  without giving away the principle. Be patient, give him a chance; you’ll  see.
SEE WHAT? I never really had an answer. Was I naïve enough to believe  that it was only a matter of finding the right time before he’d step up  to the change he promised?  Perhaps not naïve but hungry enough to  believe a full table awaited me.  Now, one year into the Obama  presidency, I’ve run out of excuses, speculations, and  pseudo-explanations. Sure, I can still be moved momentarily by his  soaring rhetoric and the subtlety of his mind, but the balance between  heart and brain has shifted. I want deeds, not words; I want to hear the  whole symphony, not just the melody.
  Don’t get me wrong: I know that Barack Obama’s worst is a lot better  than George Bush’s best. But I’m like the woman who, when the flames of  passion no longer glow so brightly, suddenly notices that the guy she  thought was perfect leaves his dirty underwear on the floor and that his  most often-used words are I and me.  And like her, I find myself  asking: What was I thinking? What happened since those days of  transformative dreams and inspirational words that spoke of remaking the  nation?
  It’s easy to say that “the hope and hubris have given way to the  daily grind of governance,” as an article in the New York Times  put it recently. Or as Anna Quindlen wrote in Newsweek, “This  president promised to tackle the big stuff, swiftly, decisively, and in a  fashion about which he was unequivocal…For those who yearned for a  progressive agenda that would change the playing field for the  disenfranchised, he promised to do good.  So far he has mainly done  government, which overlaps with good too little in the Venn diagram of  American public policy.” But talking about the difficulty and complexity  of governing in our fractious democracy without attention to the governor  misses a vital piece of the story. 
  Or does it? My divided self surfaces again, this time between the two  disciplines to which I owe allegiance: sociology and psychology. My  sociological self argues that you can’t leave the social system out of  the man. But the psychologist in me, ever wary of a sociology that  doesn’t allow for human agency, insists that you can’t leave the man out  of the social system.  Which leads me to the conviction that if we’re  going to talk about the way Obama governs, we have to look back at the  social and personal history that formed him: a history that’s  unique among American presidents.
TRUE, THE sociologist in me argues, but this also is a unique historical  moment. The social, economic and political forces arrayed against Obama  are formidable: there is the worst economic debacle since the Great  Depression; a Republican opposition that’s little more than a collection  of naysayers who live in fear of their right flank and have made the  words “moderate Republican” into an oxymoron; a real unemployment  rate—not just what the Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) reports—that’s  over 17 percent; a left that’s fractious and conflicted while the right  is organized, noisy, and determined; a voracious media whose  ever-shorter news cycles need constant feeding so that by now there’s  virtually no distinction between the trivial and the momentous, between  reality and fantasy, between news and entertainment.
  Yes, the psychologist replies, that’s all true. But you forgot to  mention that Obama is black. I know we’re not supposed to talk about  race; Obama himself would prefer to leave it out of the conversation.  But how can we when, whether in support or opposition, so much of the  attention to his candidacy rose from that fact?  Yes, he’s smart; yes,  he can give a great speech; yes, he’s a refreshing change from the  past.  But he also represents a historic—and for many a  frightening—shift in the nation we knew.
  How can we leave race out when, early in his run for the presidency,  he was too black for whites and too white for blacks; when the threats  against his life spiraled upward as it became evident that he was a  serious candidate (and continue into his presidency); and when  significant numbers of Americans believe Obama is an illegal alien who  has no right to be president? “They have taken over the nation,”  they cry repeatedly at the anti-Obama rallies that swept the country  last summer. “We’re here to take our country back.” Extreme views to be  sure, but does anyone really believe that the women and men we saw on  our television screens then are alone among Americans who take note of  the color of his skin and who respond, for good or ill, to all the  social, personal, and historical meanings attached to that single fact?    
  In Families on the Fault Line, published in 1994, I wrote a  chapter titled “Is This a White Country—or What?”—a direct quote from  several of the white people I spoke with when I was doing the research  for the book. Now the fear that haunted them has come true: California,  Texas, and New Mexico are no longer white country, others are not far  behind, and Barack Hussein Obama is President of the United States. 
  Yes, I know that their anger is born out of the social, cultural, and  class realities of their lives, and I’ve written about this repeatedly  over the last four decades. But I know also that this is a place where  sociology and psychology come together: the nexus where race plays  itself out in the American culture and consciousness; where we  internalize the socially defined status hierarchy that comes with racial  definition; where those definitions—and the rules, norms, beliefs, and  attitudes that flow from them—come to be embedded in each of us.  For  Barack Obama, whose life experience has been so profoundly influenced by  the conflicts of race, it has been a central organizing feature of his  consciousness.
  By now everyone knows his story. It’s interesting, heartwarming, even  exotic, but we don’t talk much about its deeper meanings—about how it  marked him and how it influences the way he governs.  Born to a white  American mother and a black Kenyan father (who left the family when  Obama was two years old), he was raised white but looked black—a child  of two worlds who belonged to neither, an adolescent who, he  writes in his memoir Dreams from My Father, “was engaged in a  fitful interior struggle. I was trying to raise myself to be a black man  in America, and beyond the given of my appearance, no one around me  seemed to know exactly what that meant.”
  Except for a few early years in Jakarta, Indonesia, where he wasn’t  likely to encounter a black face, Obama was raised largely by his white  grandparents in Honolulu, Hawaii, where the black population in 1960 was  a scant 0.8 percent. By the time he was nine years old, his racial  consciousness—his otherness—exploded in his face when he came across a  photograph in Life magazine of a black man who tried to peel off  his skin: an image that, he writes, “permanently altered” his vision of  himself and the world. “That one photograph told me that there was a  hidden enemy out there, one that could reach me without anyone’s  knowledge, not even my own.” Suddenly he noticed what he hadn’t seen  before: “Cosby never got the girl in I Spy, the black man on Mission  Impossible spent all his time underground, there was nobody like me  in the Sears, Roebuck Christmas Catalog.”
  Nor was anyone like him at his school in Honolulu. He was a sophomore  in high school before another black boy, Ray—the son of a military  family transferred from Los Angeles to a base nearby—entered the school.  Although Ray was two years older and a senior, Obama recalls, “We fell  into an easy friendship due in no small part to the fact that together  we made up almost half the black high-school population.” Ray, a savvy  urban kid, introduced Obama to elements of black culture about which he  knew little, telling him tall tales and true stories about what it was  to grow up black in a big city on the mainland, talking about the racial  slights and slurs of his experience—all with anger, a shrug, and an  explanation: “That’s just how white folks will do you.”
  For Obama it was a revelation but not one he could embrace  comfortably. “White folks,” he writes, “itself was uncomfortable  in my mouth; I felt like a non-native speaker tripping over a difficult  phrase.” Not that he didn’t have his own experience with being called “a  coon” by a classmate, with a woman in his apartment building who was so  frightened by his presence in the elevator she called the janitor to  report a stalker, and with a tennis coach who told him not to touch the  printed match schedule because his “color might rub off.” But how could  he generalize about the cruelty of white folks when the blood of his  white kin coursed through his veins and when the closest and most loved  people in his life were white?
  But somewhere inside he knew what he didn’t really want to know. For  by then he understood that his grandparents, transplants from Wichita,  Kansas, lived with typical white American stereotypes about black men as  the alien, frightening other. Reflecting on this painful knowledge, he  writes, “They sacrificed again and again for me. They had poured all  their lingering hopes into my success. Never had they given me reason to  doubt their love...And yet I knew that men who might easily have been  my brothers could still in-spire their rawest fears.”
  Whether in the family or outside it, Obama’s difference created a  space that lay unoccupied between them. Outwardly he learned how to get  along, to behave in ways that brought him recognition and acceptance;  inside he lived on the margins of both the black world and the white  one. His strange-sounding name morphed from Barack to Barry as he sought  to find common ground with those around him. But a name is more than  just a name; it identifies us, tells us who we are, where we belong.  It’s not easy for anyone to own a new name. But for Obama, embracing the  Barry who replaced Barack was made more difficult by his emerging  identity struggles and the reality that nothing could replace the color  of skin.
VERY INTERESTING, the sociologist says, but what does all that have to  do with the mess he inherited and the politics of the world in which he  has to govern? You know as well as I do that it’s the context that  counts.
  Yes, that’s true, the psychologist replies, and that’s what I’m  trying to do—to put his life experience into context. Can you at least  grant that the external social world Obama now has to manage is as  divided as his internal psychological world has always been—and that  this has made a difference in how he navigates the tumultuous waters  that surround his presidency? Take a look at Robert Kuttner’s excellent Huffington  Post article, “A Tale of Two Obamas.” After attending the  president’s jobs summit, he limns the political man: his “pitch perfect”  responses to difficult questions versus his actual behavior.  “I was  reminded, first hand,” Kuttner writes, “what drew so many of us to the  promise of this remarkable outsider...[and] I came away even more  bewildered and dismayed at the reality.”
  This is the puzzle Obama presents: the duality between what seems to  be sincere belief and the behavior that doesn’t follow. Sure, he’s  responding to the difficult and tendentious politics of our time. Yes,  the music slowed at least partly because he started his reelection  campaign the day after his inauguration. And maybe, as some argue, he  has always been a centrist, and we just didn’t want to believe it.
  But, however true all this may be, it doesn’t preclude another truth:  that Obama is a charming presence with an easy smile who keeps his own  counsel, who stands apart, always aloof, cool, reasonable. The same man  who was a community organizer—a job that requires the ability to walk  across several worlds, to hold out a conciliatory hand, to seek ways to  help people cross the chasms that separate them. A perfect fit with the  man who, as president, repeatedly extends his hand to an intransigent  opposition, not just because he seeks bi-partisanship for political gain  but because he’s compelled to try to bridge the divide now as he did  then.
  These are the tools and skills Obama developed early on—tools that  brought him so successfully from boyhood to manhood, from community  organizer to Harvard Law School and editor of the Harvard Law Review,  and from there to the Senate and the presidency. And as he looks out  from his internal world, it surely seems that he still needs them. For  even as the President of the United States, he remains a stranger. 
  Okay, I get it, grumbles the sociologist, but I don’t wholly buy it.   And while I think about it, tell me how you explain his decision to  send 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan if not as a response to  unwavering opposition and pressure from the generals. I have no answer  that will satisfy either of us, only that it’s what he does—offering  something for everybody, not fully satisfying anybody, probably not even  himself.  Did I once believe in this man, love him? Is it all gone? No.  But my heart weeps for what seems like a vanishing dream. And I live  with the fear that it may be Barack Obama’s tragedy—and ours—that the  very qualities that helped him rise so high will ultimately bring him  down. 
  “You can’t leave it there,” a reader of an earlier version of this  article insisted passionately. “We can’t just ask Obama to have a  different personality. Where are the picket lines outside the White  House calling for a pullout from Afghanistan? Where are the picket lines  in front of Wall Street banks and investment houses?”
  She’s right, of course. With the election of Barack Obama, liberals  and progressives have become the new silent majority. Or perhaps I  should say the silenced majority—a silence we’ve imposed on  ourselves out of fear of damaging this presidency. It’s time to face it:  this is the president we elected, and until we make our voices  heard—this is the president we’ll get. As FDR said to John L. Lewis when  he reminded the new president that it was his promise to labor that  energized a nascent union movement to help ensure his victory, Roosevelt  replied, “That’s right; now go out and make me do it.”
  Lillian B. Rubin is with the  Institute for the Study of Social Change, University of California,  Berkeley. She is a sociologist, psychologist, and author of numerous  books, the latest of which is 60 on Up: The Truth about Aging in  America (Beacon Press, 2007).