My Breakfast with Barack

I woke at 3:00 a.m. without benefit of aural intrusion. Anticipation of the day to come was all that was needed. In 4 ½ hours, I would be face to face with Himself.

Sleep had come in fits and starts after I climbed into bed seeking the proverbial “good night’s sleep” universally recommended for the night before a Big Day. It would be interesting to learn if any mere mortal has ever achieved such a preparatory slumber. My guess is, like so many other recommendations for daily success in life, it was a guideline based on theory.

Wide awake now, I decided to begin the lengthy task of grooming and dressing myself for an audience with POTUS; the master of Yes We Can, the Great Half-Breed Hope, and the Chicago Jet-Job* who grew up Barry in Honolulu, Hawaii.

What started as a mindless flip through a doctor’s office waiting room magazine morphed into a three-day marathon of writing draft after draft of the essay which would became my submission to the Writing Contest. The prize? A 60-minute private breakfast meeting with Barack Hussein Obama, the 44th President of the United States of America.

Knowing there would be at least one photographer present during the meeting, I was obsessing about which outfit would flatter me most, photograph best, and honor the Office of the Presidency most appropriately. Did I secretly want to impress Barry, the man; the brotha whose smile illuminates the room; who slow dances with the First Lady as if they were in the rec room at a South Side house party; and who sometimes slips into a modified “pimp walk” when he forgets that cameras are watching? Well, of course I did!

I arrived at the White House looking professional and mildly elegant. After clearing security, I was escorted into an anteroom located beside the Oval Office. My mouth was dry; my hands were not. I sneakily rubbed them dry on the expensive-looking upholstery on the sofa and tried to breathe deeply. Gradually I regained my composure.

At the stroke of 7:30 a.m. the President’s secretary approached the sofa, smiling. “The President will see you now.” A wave of giddiness threatened to destroy my resolve to remain calm, but I prevailed.

Barack Obama rose from his desk as I entered the room. He flashed that trademark smile, making me believe he was genuinely glad to see me. Coming from behind the desk, he pulled out a chair beside a small, but beautifully appointed breakfast table. “Please, let’s sit down. I’m dying to have my first cup of coffee. Will you have some with me?”

I looked Barack, the brother, the Chicago homeboy, the fellow *mutt* directly in the eyes and locked in his gaze. He looked bemused, then a tad befuddled. Then he looked away.

When the waiter had served the eggs Benedict with hollandaise sauce, sliced melon and raspberries and quietly slipped out of the room, the President put down his coffee cup, folded his hands on the table and said “You must have worked very hard on that essay, Lezlie. May I call you Lezlie?” I nodded.

My staff was impressed, not only by what you had to say, but by how you chose to say it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. But, no, I didn’t work very hard at all on that essay. I simply spoke directly from my heart.”

“Really.” He sat back in his chair. “So why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you came to say to me.”

I, too, sat back for a few seconds; then I leaned in.

“Sir, your mother and your grandmother have passed on. They were probably the only two human beings on earth who could hold what I call a ‘Come to Jesus’ with you since you are the President. So I’ve come to do it on their behalf.”

Barack’s eyebrows elevated almost imperceptively. A smile played about the corners of his mouth.

“For the next 45 minutes or so, I would appreciate it if we could drop all the protocol and just talk, mother to son. Are you game?”

“Oookaaay… Yeah, sure, why not?” He gestured for the unobtrusive photographer to leave the room. I was more than a little bit terrified, but I was there to say something, and say it I would.

“Barack, when folks saw you speak at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, every last one of them sat up a little bit straighter. They heard in your delivery the sound of a born leader. They heard in your message the words of a clear-thinking man of high intelligence. They heard in their hearts the stirring of a long-lost virtue: Hope.” You made that your definitive word: Hope.

“Then you stormed onto the national stage. You made us all so proud. You boldly announced your intention to become the first non-white President of the United States, and then, by God, you did it. Yes, We Can, we chanted. Si, se puede! You made promises, just like all politicians do. But we believed you. We believed your promises.”

“Now, son, I know you found a hot mess on your desk that first day on the job. Everybody knows that. Nobody was foolish enough to believe you would have an easy time of it. I mean, look at you.”

Barack Obama examined the back of his hand.

“Are you trying to let us down, Barack? Startled, the President’s head snapped upward. For a moment there, I thought I was going to be thrown out on my kiester. Instead, his head dropped to his chest; he stared at the floor.

“Are you going to continue to pander to politics, waltz around Wall Street’s wrong-doing, and weasel word the war strategies?”

His chin remained on his chest.

Or are you going to deliver on your promises to end the military’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy; end the unwinnable wars in the Middle East; and advocate with the full scope of your Presidential powers on behalf of the poor and the powerless who are disappearing under the heels of corporate self-interests?”

“You were taught to be a man of your word. I’m not from Kansas, but I know Kansans. They value integrity. I value integrity, and you told us that you value integrity.”

“After I leave, I want you to go into your fancy private bathroom over there and take a long, hard look in the mirror. Is that the guy we elected? Is that the guy we sent to change things? Is that the guy who we can count on to lead us out of the fine mess we find ourselves in?”

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the President of the United States, the so-called leader of the free world, raised his head and his eyes to display a single, glistening tear begin its descent.

* Jet-job: a term used to describe the rapid ascent of an individual up the traditional career ladder.