had ended up, as Mona put it, so “country-fied,” or, most puzzling to them, why anyone would willingly choose to
spend a winter in Chicago when he could be sunning himself on Waikiki Beach. Then they’d offer a story to match or
confound mine, a knot to bind our experiences together-a lost father, an adolescent brush with crime, a wandering
heart, a moment of simple grace. As time passed, I found that these stories, taken together, had helped me bind my
world together, that they gave me the sense of place and purpose I’d been looking for. Marty was right: There was
always a community there if you dug deep enough. He was wrong, though, in characterizing the work. There was
poetry as well-a luminous world always present beneath the surface, a world that people might offer up as a gift to me,
if I only remembered to ask.
Not to say that everything I learned from the leaders cheered my heart. If they often revealed a strength of spirit that I
hadn’t imagined, they also forced me to acknowledge the unspoken forces that retarded our efforts, secrets that we kept
from each other as well as from ourselves.
That’s how it was with Ruby, for example. After our aborted meeting with the police commander, I had worried that
she might back away from organizing. Instead, she had thrown herself headlong into the project, working hard to build
a network of neighbors that could be regularly delivered to our events, coming up with ideas for registering voters or
working with school parents. She was what every organizer dreamed about-someone with untapped talent, smart,
steady, excited by the idea of a public life, eager to learn. And I liked her son, Kyle Jr. He had just turned fourteen, and
in all of his awkwardness-one moment frisky and bumping into me while we shot baskets together in the neighborhood
park, the next instant bored and sullen-I could see all the contours of my own youthful struggles. Sometimes Ruby
would question me about him, exasperated with a mediocre report card or a cut on his chin, baffled by a young man’s
unruly mind.
“Last week he said he was going to be a rap artist,” she would report. “Today he tells me he’s going to the Air Force
Academy to be a fighter pilot. When I ask him why, he just says ‘So I can fly.’ Like I was stupid. I swear, Barack,
sometimes I don’t know whether to hug him or beat his skinny behind.”
“Try both,” I would tell her.
One day just before Christmas, I asked Ruby to stop by my office so I could give her a present for Kyle. I was on the
phone when she walked in, and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw something different about her, but I
couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Only after I had hung up and she turned toward me did I realize that her
eyes, normally a warm, dark brown that matched the color of her skin, had turned an opaque shade of blue, as if
someone had glued plastic buttons over her irises. She asked me if something was wrong.
“What did you do to your eyes?”
“Oh, these.” Ruby shook her head and laughed. “They’re just contacts, Barack. The company I work for makes
cosmetic lenses, and I get them at a discount. You like them?”
“Your eyes looked just fine the way they were.”
“It’s just for fun,” she said, looking down. “Something different, you know.”
I stood there, not knowing what to say. Finally I remembered Kyle’s gift and handed it to her. “For Kyle,” I said. “A
book on airplanes...I thought he might like it.”