I looked at Obama, and what did I see?
I almost saw Derek Jeter, after he'd run full sprint and dived into the third row of seats for a game saving play. Coming up cool "as the other side of the pillow," walking calmly out of the game to the hospital. I look from his green eyes to the red blood on his pinstripes, to his tan skin and back to the red bleeding American Yankee into the white and the blue cotton under the hot lights on a summer night.
And he's still not black, and he's still not white, he's just Derek, and he's beautiful and he leads OUR team by example.
That's what I saw in Barak Obama, except he's black, because he says he's black. He's gotten the pitch in a dozen interviews this week, and he puts the definition ball in play the same way every time. He's black because that's where he could most comfortably fit in. Black, I heard (read?) him say because that is how police will see him in the vicinity of a crime.