Bellwether -- Part I

Last Tuesday, our nation elected its first African-American president. Django & I spent our election night banded together with a few other like-minded families. When eyes weren’t glued to toddlers they were glued to the television, watching nervously as the map of states got colored in, a red one here, two blue there. When the media finally called the race for Barack Obama, we all whooped and cheered. We clinked glasses of champagne and went home feeling hopeful. And, largely, I still do.

I’m incredibly lucky. I get to show Django these photos and tell him the story of how he was kissed by a man who went on to make history. Who knows, I may even be able to get my hands on some footage from our roundtable meeting back in January. With or without the extra visual aid, though, Django will know that his mama was there to speak for all low-income, single mamas. He will know I told President-Elect Obama that I honestly didn’t know how we would continue to make financial ends meet. And, largely, I still don’t. But that’s not why I sat in the dark of the parked car on election night, listening to Obama’s victory speech on the radio, crying quietly at the wheel while Django slept peacefully behind me.

I cried because Obama’s words were moving and because the moment was so momentous. But I also cried because I don’t know how to explain to Django why it took this long to put a person of color in the White House, or how much longer it might take before there will be a woman there, or a gay for heaven’s sake. I don’t know how to explain why so many voters in California want to keep his Uncle Jon from marrying the man he loves, or why so many also keep trying to take away the right of newly pregnant women – especially young ones – to decide when (or if) they are actually ready to take on the enormous responsibility of raising a child. In short, I don’t know how to teach Django to believe in American democracy, even – perhaps especially – when as far as it comes it still comes up short.