She’s an Astronaut
A black man and a white woman, arm in arm as a nation watched. 60 years ago, he might have been stoned or arrested. A black man and a white woman, arm in arm. Former rivals and seemingly reluctant partners who developed a fierce appreciation for each other. He hugged her, muttered “I’m so proud” then “come on”, and led her around the stage. Arm in arm. I was proud of them, and proud of us. Hillary looked out at the audience, mouth agape, seemingly stunned by where she stood, the gravity of the moment overpowering her.
I couldn’t help but think of my mother. Born three months after Hillary. A smart, loving, warm woman who wants the best for everyone, and who does the best for everyone she can. A woman who, belying her exterior, is tough as nails: for over 30 years, she counseled the mentally ill, the clinically insane, in conditions I know I would be terrified of; sat across from convicted, guilty criminals knowing they were good, that the system did not work for them; believed whole-heartedly she could help them and did everything in her power to do just that. A woman who has always loved Hillary. I thought of her watching, mouth agape, overjoyed. In my head, her expression mirrored Hillary’s. When my mother was a girl, this wasn’t possible. When Hillary was First Lady, 20 years ago, this wasn’t possible. As this black man, the President, led this white woman, the Democratic Presidential Nominee, around the stage, arm in arm, it felt like anything was possible.