by Eric Reiss - 17 November 2008

Barack Obama’s victory in the 2008 presidential election last Tuesday was very moving for me. And it got me thinking about three experiences I’ve had. The first was in 1958. The second was in 1968. And the third was in 1978. All three relate very specifically to the “experience” of being an American. And I was dramatically reminded of all three during our president-elect’s acceptance speech in Chicago’s Grant Park.

Experience 1 – Jackson, Mississippi, 1958
My father and mother were visiting a fellow physician, Curtis Artz, who had coauthored a book with my father, The Treatment of Burns. Dr. Artz lived in Jackson, Mississippi.

We were all in a supermarket and I was delighted to find a drinking fountain that I could reach – I was four. Usually, my mom had to pick me up, which was always slightly uncomfortable. This time, one of the fountains was quite low. There even was a box on which I could stand. So I did.

Suddenly, I was grabbed by the scruff of the neck, lifted up, plunked down, spun around. A white-gloved hand slapped me hard across the face. A woman I had never seen before was scolding me. She was wearing a pinkish calico dress with a vaguely floral pattern, a pink hat, and white open-toed pumps. She had a matching white purse over her left arm; everything she did was done with her right hand. I can even describe the pattern of the floor tiles. The shock was forever tattooed on my brain.

I cried. Loudly. My parents came running. A big-people discussion ensued. Apparently, I had used a drinking fountain for “Coloreds Only.” Well, I couldn’t read and had never before been subjected to Jim Crow rules. How was a thirsty four-year-old to know?

This scary pink lady haunted me for 50 years. Last Tuesday, I think she finally got filed away in the “history book in my head.” Along with the only slap I’ve ever received.

Experience #2 – Chicago, Illinois, 1968
The Democratic convention was in town to nominate Hubert Humphrey as their candidate. Robert Kennedy had been murdered in June. Eugene McCarthy had lost much of his popular support. Humphrey was last man standing and since Kennedy’s death, I had been active in his campaign. I was fourteen and we lived about an hour north of the city.

Although I had been invited to join the Humphrey people at the Conrad Hilton hotel, my parents, wisely, forbade me from going downtown until the following weekend. Here’s why.

As a protest to the powers that be, Abbie Hoffman, self-proclaimed leader of the Yippie movement (Youth International Party), called on a dissatisfied generation to gather in Chicago and help him nominate a pig as president, Pigasus.

The convention started on Monday, August 26 and demonstrations were planned throughout the week – primarily against the war in Vietnam. Thousands of protesters had gathered in Chicago’s mid-town Grant Park and Lincoln Park a couple of miles to the north.

“Hizzoner” Mayor Richard J. Daley refused to grant the protesters permission to stay in the parks. Ordnung muss sein. The first skirmishes between the blue-helmeted police and the protesters was on Tuesday. Tear gas, mace, and billy clubs were the weapons of choice for Chicago’s finest as they attempted to clear the parks. Pepsi cans filled with urine were the protester’s Weapon of Mass Dissention. My classmate Jeff was there and got a bad bruise, but he never told me how it happened.

On Wednesday, the confrontation came to a head. The television was filled with scenes of bludgeoned and bloodied journalists and bystanders. Some months later, the Walker Commission’s report, Rights in Conflict, rightly asked how we Americans “could keep peaceful assembly from becoming a contradiction in terms.”

By Saturday, when I finally arrived on the scene, things had simmered down. The yippies had dispersed. The clean-up crews were working to restore the battered city. And the police were passing out small white buttons with blue text, “I’m Proud of Chicago”.

I was no such thing. Grant Park had come to symbolize (to me) bad behavior at its worst. From everyone.

Last Tuesday, Grant Park hosted a quarter of a million Obama supporters, not relishing their victory, but reflecting on how they could help build a better America. Clearly, it was time to be proud of Chicago – and a whole lot more.

Experience #3 – Copenhagen, Denmark 1978
I was production manager at a large theater outside Copenhagen. Jakob Holdt, the author of a controversial book, American Pictures, was giving an afternoon lecture in the main auditorium. His message was that the United States was a horribly racist state. And he had photos to prove it.

Holdt’s black business manager discovered I was American and promptly initiated a conversation:

“So where you from?” asked the manager.

“St. Louis and Chicago mostly. But I was born in Texas,” I answered.

“Yeah. You look like a redneck with those pointy boots you're wearing. I know your kind.” he snapped.

Since we’d never met, I was somewhat taken aback by this outburst.

“You fucking crackers are everywhere,” he spat. “That’s why we gotta get our message out.”

Wow. There was no way I was going to turn the other cheek.

“Why should the color of my skin and my place of birth mark me any more than the color of your skin and your place of birth? Prejudice is prejudice.”

There’s not much point in referring the rest of this slightly surreal confrontation. It was nobody’s finest moment.

But I think last Tuesday could prove to be everybody’s finest moment. As Dr. King quoted, “"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Amen.