“Organizing? That’s some kinda politics, ain’t it? Why you wanna do something like that?”
I tried to explain my political views, the importance of mobilizing the poor and giving back to the community. But Ike
just shook his head. “Mr. Barack,” he said, “I hope you don’t mind if I give you a little bit of advice. You don’t have to
take it, now, but I’m gonna give it to you anyhow. Forget about this organizing business and do something that’s gonna
make you some money. Not greedy, you understand. But enough. I’m telling you this ’cause I can see potential in you.
Young man like you, got a nice voice-hell, you could be one a them announcers on TV. Or sales...got a nephew about
your age making some real money there. That’s what we need, see. Not more folks running around here, all rhymes and
jive. You can’t help folks that ain’t gonna make it nohow, and they won’t appreciate you trying. Folks that wanna make
it, they gonna find a way to do it on they own. How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-two.”
“See there. Don’t waste your youth, Mr. Barack. Wake up one morning, an old man like me, and all you gonna be is
tired, with nothing to show for it.”
I didn’t pay Ike much attention at the time; I thought he sounded too much like my grandparents. Nevertheless, as the
months passed, I felt the idea of becoming an organizer slipping away from me. The company promoted me to the
position of financial writer. I had my own office, my own secretary, money in the bank. Sometimes, coming out of an
interview with Japanese financiers or German bond traders, I would catch my reflection in the elevator doors-see
myself in a suit and tie, a briefcase in my hand-and for a split second I would imagine myself as a captain of industry,
barking out orders, closing the deal, before I remembered who it was that I had told myself I wanted to be and felt
pangs of guilt for my lack of resolve.
Then one day, as I sat down at my computer to write an article on interest-rate swaps, something unexpected
happened. Auma called.
I had never met this half sister; we had written only intermittently. I knew that she had left Kenya to study in
Germany, and in our letters we had mentioned the possibility of my going there for a visit, or perhaps her coming to the
States. But the plans had always been left vague-neither of us had any money, we would say; maybe next year. Our
correspondence maintained a cordial distance.
Now, suddenly, I heard her voice for the first time. It was soft and dark, tinged with a colonial accent. For a few
moments I couldn’t understand the words, only the sound, a sound that seemed to have always been there, misplaced
but not forgotten. She was coming to the States, she said, on a trip with several friends. Could she come to see me in
New York?
“Of course,” I said. “You can stay with me; I can’t wait.” And she laughed, and I laughed, and then the line grew quiet
with static and the sound of our breath. “Well,” she said, “I can’t stay on the phone too long, it’s so expensive. Here’s
the flight information”; and we hung up quickly after that, as if our contact was a treat to be doled out in small
measures.
I spent the next few weeks rushing around in preparation: new sheets for the sofa bed, extra plates and towels, a
scrubbing for the tub. But two days before she was scheduled to arrive, Auma called again, the voice thicker now,
barely a whisper.