I Have A Dream Today

I am and have always been my father's daughter. I would follow him around the yard, accompany him wherever he would go, and do everything in my power to make him proud - be it in the classroom, on the softball field, or riding a horse. We look almost exactly alike, and I have even been accused of being his favorite (which I dispute, because after all, there is my brother, the lone boy among three girls).

But we have not always agreed. Sure, there were teenager disputes and political discussions, but perhaps our biggest sticking point, for as long as I can remember has been race. Before I go further, let me be clear, my father is not a hate-monger or outwardly demeaning to anybody. He is one of the kindest and most diplomatic people I know. However, growing up I remember the N-word being thrown around; it was not frequent, but enough to the point that once I was old enough to know better, I scolded him for it, demanded that he at least bite his tongue around me.

This was, as you can imagine, very difficult for me. He was my dad. My hero. So why did he have this terrible, awful flaw?

As a teenager, I resented him a lot for this. I may have even rebelled on purpose. Whatever the motivation, I definitely flirted with boys from other races. I also remember being confronted by my mother in the laundry room one night because I had danced with a black boy at Homecoming, and "what" on earth was she going to tell my father?! I know. That's the dirty South for you.

In college, I became more and more "liberal" and more and more outspoken about our differing beliefs, which now spanned a whole host of topics, but manifested in our feelings about race. Although my father had mellowed DRASTICALLY from what I remember as a child, one Christmas breakfast was ruined for the entire family when he and I got into an argument; I don't know what it was about, but it definitely had to do with my perceptions of African-Americans versus his.

Eventually he began to respect my position, even if he didn't agree with me. Eventually I forgave him for his views. I realized that he grew up in a completely different era. He is 68 years old. He grew up in rural Georgia. In his childhood, the "negroes" had separate water fountains, separate high schools, separate restaurants. His only contact with people of another race was with the rough kids who lived near his house (an area of town which is now extremely poor and well-known for drug activity). This did not excuse his using racial epithets, but it sure did explain a lot for me.

So I let it go. I quit challenging him overtly and tried a more subtle tact. I would talk about socio-economic conditions and injustice instead of simply telling him he was wrong. I stopped getting angry and instead responded with eye-rolls when he feigned a racial joke or comment.

We sort of reached an understanding that we were different, but it was okay.

Then I spoke to my mom on the phone the other day. We started talking politics, as I have been trying my damnedest to coerce her into voting Obama. I don't even bother with my dad. He doesn't vote, never has, and well, it would be futile.

As I'm going over the debate with my mom, she says, "You'll never, ever guess who your dad thinks would be a good President and Vice-President." I pause for the drama and then concede, "Who?!"

"Obama and Palin."

I beamed with pride. Well, dad. At least you got one of them right.

Yes We Can change this nation, and I like to think that maybe I sort of did.