In a sense, then, Will was right: I did feel that there was something to prove-to the people of Altgeld, to Marty, to my
father, to myself. That what I did counted for something. That I wasn’t a fool chasing pipe dreams. Later, when I tried
to explain some of this to Will, he would laugh and shake his head, preferring to attribute my grumpy attitude that day
at the ribbon cutting to a case of youthful jealousy. “See, you like the young rooster, Barack,” he told me, “and
Harold’s like the old rooster. Old rooster came in, and the hens gave him all the attention. Made the young rooster
realize he’s got a thing or two to learn.”
Will seemed to enjoy the comparison, and I had laughed along with him. But secretly I knew he had misunderstood
my ambitions. More than anything, I wanted Harold to succeed; like my real father, the mayor and his achievements
seemed to mark out what was possible; his gifts, his power, measured my own hopes. And in listening to him speak to
us that day, full of grace and good humor, all I had been able to think about was the constraints on that power. At the
margins, Harold could make city services more equitable. Black professionals now got a bigger share of city business.
We had a black school superintendent, a black police chief, a black CHA director. Harold’s presence consoled, as
Will’s Jesus consoled, as Rafiq’s nationalism consoled. But beneath the radiance of Harold’s victory, in Altgeld and
elsewhere, nothing seemed to change.
I wondered whether, away from the spotlight, Harold thought about those constraints. Whether, like Mr. Anderson or
Mrs. Reece or any number of other black officials who now administered over inner city life, he felt as trapped as those
he served, an inheritor of sad history, part of a closed system with few moving parts, a system that was losing heat
every day, dropping into low-level stasis.
I wondered whether he, too, felt a prisoner of fate.
It was Dr. Martha Collier who eventually lifted me out my funk. She was the principal of Carver Elementary, one of
the two elementary schools out in Altgeld. The first time I called her for an appointment, she didn’t ask too many
questions.
“I can use any help I can get,” she said. “See you at eight-thirty.”
The school, three large brick structures that formed a horseshoe around a broad, pitted dirt lot, was at the southern
border of Altgeld. Inside, a security guard showed me to the main office, where a sturdily built, middle-aged black
woman in a blue suit was talking to a taut and disheveled younger woman.
“You go home now and get some rest,” Dr. Collier said, throwing her arm over the woman’s shoulder. “I’m gonna
make some calls and see if we can’t get this thing sorted out.” She led the woman to the door, then turned to me. “You
must be Obama. Come on in. You want some coffee?”
Before I had a chance to reply, she had turned to her secretary. “Get Mr. Obama here a cup of coffee. Did those
painters arrive yet?”
The secretary shook her head, and Dr. Collier frowned. “Hold all calls,” she said as I followed her into her office,
“except for that good-for-nothing building engineer. I want to tell him just what I think of his sorry ass.”
Her office was sparsely furnished, the walls bare except for a few community service awards and a poster of a young
black boy that read “God Don’t Make No Junk.” Dr. Collier pulled up a chair and said, “That girl just leaving my