(The Guardian) — In less than a month we’ll be electing a new president of the United States. In less than three months, Barack Obama, his wife Michelle, and his daughters Sasha and Malia will be leaving the White House.
I’m not ready. I have loved the Obamas more than I have ever loved another first family. I’ve loved them more than I’ve loved some of my own family. And as the time to say goodbye approaches, I’ve found myself reflecting on the past eight years, and what they’ve meant to me as a black woman.
I still remember the election like it was yesterday. I remember my brother calling me crying, saying: “I could have been president, why didn’t anybody tell me?” I remember looking at my 10-month-old son and thinking that maybe, just maybe, his relationship to our country and our government would be one of inclusion and pride. Realizing that for the first eight years of his life, my son would only know a president that looks like him.
We all embarked upon this with such hope. This was going to be the beginning of change. This was the corner we had turned onto a brighter street. This was the first of many moves to a more just and equal nation.
