On Wednesday November 4, 2008, Barack H. Obama was elected President of the United States, making him the first African-American to hold our nation’s highest post. A black man had achieved what months ago was considered impossible, and he would go down in history for doing so. As I watched him give his acceptance speech before the multitudes filling Hyde Park, tears sprang to my eyes and only one thought entered my head:
“It should have been me.”
I began my own campaign for U.S. president at the tender age of nine, when I ran for class representative of the fourth grade at Adler Park Elementary School. Winning would propel me onto the student council, the venerable body that met once a month to discuss the important issues—the rising prices of chocolate milk, the construction of a new swing set and the planning of the Adler family carnival. But I was at a steep disadvantage. There were only two black kids in my entire elementary school—me and my little brother—and so I had the task of convincing my white classmates that I should represent them.
It took posters, buttons and blood—mostly from making the buttons—but I won. The next year I ran for student council president and faced the dreaded task of giving a speech before all the third, fourth, and fifth graders. With clear conviction and unwavering resolve, I implored my classmates to choose a leader capable of getting Oregon Trail on all the computers in the library, and letting us play in the snow during recess if we brought snowpants from home. It was a landslide victory.
The next year I entered the big leagues—middle school—and therefore much tougher competition, but my political star continued to ascend. I captured the presidency of the sixth grade class and then the seventh grade class and finally I took the highest post in the National Junior Honor Society. I was on top of the world. I had already achieved so many firsts for my race and I knew in my heart that being the first black president of the U.S. was next.
And then he came. With only the advantage of age over me, a black man from Chicago who went to Harvard (sound familiar?) stole my dream. But a strange thing happened to me as I watched Barack embark on his historic journey to the White House. Since he first announced his candidacy, I could not help but cheer for him because even though I would have to sacrifice my own dream, it would mean the dreams of so many others would be fulfilled. In my mind, only one question remains:
“Has there ever been a black Secretary of Agriculture?”
