It was with a sense of duty that I picked up Obama's Dreams From My Father. One should at least attempt to acquaint oneself with the life and thoughts of the, how-many-times-can-we-hear-it, 'most powerful man on earth', shouldn't one? The sense of responsibility, of social and political obligation, quickly dissipates, however. Or at least for me it did. By the start of the second chapter all thoughts of what 'one' should or shouldn't do are pushed aside by the direct, earnest and slightly clumsy life-story that tumbles out of the book. Nothing feels certain about the narrative Obama constructs from his life so far. This uncertaintly is emphasized by the series of questions that seem to underpin the autobiography...'who am I?'...'where do I belong?'...'what should I do?'...'what are my responsibilities?' - Questions which I peronally find quite demanding and unsettling, and that's perhaps why I found the book so riveting.
It's amazing that given all the benefits of his birth into a white, middle-class, generally happy family, Obama felt so haunted by questions of identity and heritage. The extent to which this intelligent and obviuously remarkable man is tortured by these questions is eye-opening and I have a newfound appreciation of the complexities and difficulties of race relations, both in the US and elsewhere. I know this is odd, and perhaps even insulting, coming from a South African, but at home in South Africa you can sometimes buy into the idea that the rest of the world has the whole race-thing completely under control. This is why Americans attempting to reconnect with their African roots has always seemed so ludicrous to me, the gulf between a relatively wealthy African American and an 'actual' African seeming ridiculously wide. I have a new sympathy for these attempts after reading Obama's book, a new understanding of what the idea of Africa might stand for, what function it might serve in the political and cultural imagination of black people the world over. Despite these realizations, or because of them, I find myself skeptical of the ease with which Obama integrates himself into his African family, but perhaps I am simply jealous of the fact that I have no corresponding community to which I feel I am a part.
Personal reflections aside, I am rooting for Obama from now on, joining the ranks of his cheerleaders, and I'm vaguely embarrassed I ever supported Hillary over him. Mea culpa, mea culpa...
I picked up Dreams from My Father hoping for some sort of programmitic or didactc introduction to the policies and moral philosophy of the president of the United States of America and ended up putting down a highly personal attempt to explain a life in progress, a life that asks demanding questions of my own. As such, the book is inspiring and profoundly unsettling.
Extra Note: On purely literary terms the writing is a little hokey. The endings of many of the chapters feel slightly contrived. Over-dramatized in an attempt, perhaps, to justify the events described, to try and extract some meaning from them. There are few original images or turns of phrase. Fortunately these technical faults do little to dampen the emotional power of the book.
