"Dreams From My Father" Response

This was a complicated read.

I come from a Democrat family, a house full of liberals. My brother campaigned in Colorado for Obama before the 2012 election. Even my sweet, conservative-ish mother voted for Obama. I'm extremely aware of his speeches, his policies, his campaigning, his staff, the whole business.

As hard as I tried, I couldn't quite separate the voice of the child dealing with racism, acceptance, broken homes, poverty, loneliness and growing up from that voice that speaks about the NSA, foreign policy, and delivers the State of the Union address.

At least at first.

One thing I will say about Dreams From My Father is that it seems consistent. As I read at the beginning, it was a baffling discrepancy to hear that this man, who has become so vocal and defined on so many issues, was so confused by the world growing up. Dreams is certainly a memoir I have a close proximity to, and at first, it really affected my perception of the work. How can a man in charge of United States foreign policy morbidly ask a veteran if killing someone was bloody? How can the first African-American president not understand why black TV characters were never main characters?

As things evolve, however, a better picture of this man starts to appear. As an author, Mr. Obama is guilty of asking outright questions, of none-too-subtly exposing themes and topics. Yet in light of his future and eventual career, it seems almost excusable to spend so much time pondering about whether or not his classroom would accept his Kenyan father.

It almost seems too simplistic, for this "Barry Obama" to wonder and ponder about racism and politics and seizing the day. I was skeptical, too, of the fact that despite the people around him talking like teenagers, but Barry himself remaining somewhat aloof. Maybe he was just that good of a guy, but I feel as though the concessions he does make (such as his descriptions of drugs and alcohol) are calculated to humanize just enough.

That, then, would be my last complaint--that this is a limited-truth memoir. It isn't embarrassing; or if it is, it's just embarrassing enough to be believable. Barry (eventually Barack) is the appropriately fallible youth-turned-adolescent-turned-young man-turned-adult who eventually comes (more or less) to terms with his upbringing. It's not that he disregards his foibles, but instead he downplays them to the point of acceptable growing pains.

His writing style is strong, his memories specific, the characters authentic, and his own observations quiet at first, until culminating into a narrative that reflects his vision of the world and himself. This is not unusual for memoir, but in light of who Barry, then Obamba, then Barack, then Mr. Obama, then Irishman O'Bama, then Professor Obama will become, it seems to have a certain sheen.

It's believable. It's understandable. It's even acceptable. Perhaps my favorite structural device of  Dreams was the way that at the climax of the work, in the final quarter, when Mr. Obama could be at his political preachy best, is where the unpolitical themes of the work come home to roost. As he returns to Kenya, the book is ultimately redeemed as Hawaiian schools and Chicagoan political activism are replaced with African dust and long-lost family members.

To conclude, then, Dreams was imperfect, unrealistically idealistic, with several key details left out, yet charismatic, winning and (as I saw it) inspirational. Exactly as I see its author.