CHAPTER 40
They did not fight again until the relationship ended, but in the time of Blaine’s stoniness, when Ifemelu burrowed into herself and ate whole chocolate bars, her feelings for him changed. She still admired him, his moral fiber, his life of clean lines, but now it was admiration for a person separate from her, a person far away. And her body had changed. In bed, she did not turn to him full of a raw wanting as she used to do, and when he reached for her, her first instinct was to roll away. They kissed often, but always with her lips firmly pursed; she did not want his tongue in her mouth. Their union was leached of passion, but there was a new passion, outside of themselves, that united them in an intimacy they had never had before, an unfixed, unspoken, intuitive intimacy: Barack Obama. They agreed, without any prodding, without the shadows of obligation or compromise, on Barack Obama.
At first, even though she wished America would elect a black man as president, she thought it impossible, and she could not imagine Obama as president of the United States; he seemed too slight, too skinny, a man who would be blown away by the wind. Hillary Clinton was sturdier. Ifemelu liked to watch Clinton on television, in her square trouser suits, her face a mask of resolve, her prettiness disguised, because that was the only way to convince the world that she was able. Ifemelu liked her. She wished her victory, willed good fortune her way, until the morning she picked up Barack Obama’s book, Dreams from My Father, which Blaine had just finished and left lying on the bookshelf, some of its pages folded in. She examined the photographs on the cover, the young Kenyan woman staring befuddled at the camera, arms enclosing her son, and the young American man, jaunty of manner, holding his daughter to his chest. Ifemelu would later remember the moment she decided to read the book. Just to see. She might not have read it if Blaine had recommended it, because she more and more avoided the books he liked. But he had not recommended it, he had merely left it on the shelf, next to a pile of other books he had finished but meant to go back to. She read Dreams from My Father in a day and a half, sitting up on the couch, Nina Simone playing on Blaine’s iPod speaker. She was absorbed and moved by the man she met in those pages, an inquiring and intelligent man, a kind man, a man so utterly, helplessly, winningly humane. He reminded her of Obinze’s expression for people he liked. Obi ocha. A clean heart. She believed Barack Obama. When Blaine came home, she sat at the dining table, watching him chop fresh basil in the kitchen, and said, “If only the man who wrote this book could be the president of America.”
Blaine’s knife stopped moving. He looked up, eyes lit, as though he had not dared hope she would believe the same thing that he believed, and she felt between them the first pulse of a shared passion. They clutched each other in front of the television when Barack Obama won the Iowa caucuses. The first battle, and he had won. Their hope was radiating, exploding into possibility: Obama could actually win this thing. And then, as though choreographed, they began to worry. They worried that something would derail him, crash his fast-moving train. Every morning, Ifemelu woke up and checked to make sure that Obama was still alive. That no scandal had emerged, no story dug up from his past. She would turn on her computer, her breath still, her heart frantic in her chest, and then, reassured that he was alive, she would read the latest news about him, quickly and greedily, seeking information and reassurance, multiple windows minimized at the bottom of the screen. Sometimes, in chat rooms, she wilted as she read the posts about Obama, and she would get up and move away from her computer, as though the laptop itself were the enemy, and stand by the window to hide her tears even from herself. How can a monkey be president? Somebody do us a favor and put a bullet in this guy. Send him back to the African jungle. A black man will never be in the white house, dude, it’s called the white house for a reason. She tried to imagine the people who wrote those posts, under monikers like SuburbanMom231 and NormanRockwellRocks, sitting at their desks, a cup of coffee beside them, and their children about to come home on the school bus in a glow of innocence. The chat rooms made her blog feel inconsequential, a comedy of manners, a mild satire about a world that was anything but mild. She did not blog about the vileness that seemed to have multiplied each morning she logged on, more chat rooms springing up, more vitriol flourishing, because to do so would be to spread the words of people who abhorred not the man that Barack Obama was, but the idea of him as president. She blogged, instead, about his policy positions, in a recurring post titled “This Is Why Obama Will Do It Better,” often adding links to his website, and she blogged, too, about Michelle Obama. She gloried in the offbeat dryness of Michelle Obama’s humor, the confidence in her long-limbed carriage, and then she mourned when Michelle Obama was clamped, flattened, made to sound tepidly wholesome in interviews. Still, there was, in Michelle Obama’s overly arched eyebrows and in her belt worn higher on her waist than tradition would care for, a glint of her old self. It was this that drew Ifemelu, the absence of apology, the promise of honesty.
“If she married Obama then he can’t be that bad,” she joked often with Blaine, and Blaine would say, “True that, true that.”
SHE GOT an e-mail from a princeton.edu address and before she read it, her hands shook from excitement. The first word she saw was “pleased.” She had received the research fellowship. The pay was good, the requirements easy: she was expected to live in Princeton and use the library and give a public talk at the end of the year. It seemed too good to be true, an entry into a hallowed American kingdom. She and Blaine took the train to Princeton to look for an apartment, and she was struck by the town itself, the greenness, the peace and grace of it. “I got into Princeton for undergrad,” Blaine told her. “It was almost bucolic then. I visited and thought it was beautiful but I just couldn’t see myself actually going there.”
Ifemelu knew what he meant, even now that it had changed and become, in Blaine’s words, when they walked past the rows of shiny stores, “aggressively consumer capitalist.” She felt admiration and disorientation. She liked her apartment, off Nassau Street; the bedroom window looked out to a grove of trees, and she walked the empty room thinking of a new beginning for herself, without Blaine, and yet unsure if this was truly the new beginning she wanted.
“I’m not moving here until after the election,” she said.
Blaine nodded before she finished speaking; of course she would not move until they had seen Barack Obama through to his victory. He became a volunteer for the Obama campaign and she absorbed all of his stories about the doors he knocked on and the people behind them. One day he came home and told her about an old black woman, face shriveled like a prune, who stood holding on to her door as though she might fall otherwise, and told him, “I didn’t think this would happen even in my grandbaby’s lifetime.”
Ifemelu blogged about this story, describing the silver streaks in the woman’s gray hair, the fingers quivering from Parkinson’s, as though she herself had been there with Blaine. All of his friends were Obama supporters, except for Michael, who always wore a Hillary Clinton pin on his breast, and at their gatherings, Ifemelu no longer felt excluded. Even that nebulous unease when she was around Paula, part churlishness and part insecurity, had melted away. They gathered at bars and apartments, discussing details of the campaign, mocking the silliness of the news stories. Will Hispanics vote for a black man? Can he bowl? Is he patriotic?
“Isn’t it funny how they say ‘blacks want Obama’ and ‘women want Hillary,’ but what about black women?” Paula said.
“When they say ‘women,’ they automatically mean ‘white women,’ of course,” Grace said.
“What I don’t understand is how anybody can say that Obama is benefiting because he’s a black man,” Paula said.
“It’s complicated, but he is, and also to the extent that Clinton is benefiting because she’s a white woman,” Nathan said, leaning forward and blinking even more quickly. “If Clinton were a black woman, her star would not shine so brightly. If Obama were a white man, his star might or might not shine so brightly, because some whit
e men have become president who had no business being president, but that doesn’t change the fact that Obama doesn’t have a lot of experience and people are excited by the idea of a black candidate who has a real chance.”
“Although if he wins, he will no longer be black, just as Oprah is no longer black, she’s Oprah,” Grace said. “So she can go where black people are loathed and be fine. He’ll no longer be black, he’ll just be Obama.”
“To the extent that Obama is benefiting, and that idea of benefiting is very problematic, by the way, but to the extent that he is, it’s not because he’s black, it’s because he’s a different kind of black,” Blaine said. “If Obama didn’t have a white mother and wasn’t raised by white grandparents and didn’t have Kenya and Indonesia and Hawaii and all of the stories that make him somehow a bit like everyone, if he was just a plain black guy from Georgia, it would be different. America will have made real progress when an ordinary black guy from Georgia becomes president, a black guy who got a C average in college.”
“I agree,” Nathan said. And it struck Ifemelu anew, how much everyone agreed. Their friends, like her and Blaine, were believers. True believers.
ON THE DAY Barack Obama became the nominee of the Democratic Party, Ifemelu and Blaine made love, for the first time in weeks, and Obama was there with them, like an unspoken prayer, a third emotional presence. She and Blaine drove hours to hear him speak, holding hands in a thick crowd, raising placards, CHANGE written on them in a bold white print. A black man nearby had hoisted his son onto his shoulders, and the son was laughing, his mouth full of milky teeth, one missing from the upper row. The father was looking up, and Ifemelu knew that he was stunned by his own faith, stunned to find himself believing in things he did not think he ever would. When the crowd exploded in applause, clapping and whistling, the man could not clap, because he was holding his son’s legs, and so he just smiled and smiled, his face suddenly young with joyfulness. Ifemelu watched him, and the other people around them, all glowing with a strange phosphorescence, all treading a single line of unbroken emotion. They believed. They truly believed. It often came to her as a sweet shock, the knowledge that there were so many people in the world who felt exactly as she and Blaine did about Barack Obama.
On some days their faith soared. On other days, they despaired.
“This is not good,” Blaine muttered as they went back and forth between different television channels, each showing the footage of Barack Obama’s pastor giving a sermon, and his words “God Damn America” seared their way into Ifemelu’s dreams.
SHE FIRST READ, on the Internet, the breaking news that Barack Obama would give a speech on race, in response to the footage of his pastor, and she sent a text to Blaine, who was teaching a class. His reply was simple: Yes! Later, watching the speech, seated between Blaine and Grace on their living room couch, Ifemelu wondered what Obama was truly thinking and what he would feel as he lay in bed that night, when all was quiet and empty. She imagined him, the boy who knew his grandmother was afraid of black men, now a man telling that story to the world to redeem himself. She felt a small sadness at this thought. As Obama spoke, compassionate and cadenced, American flags fluttering behind him, Blaine shifted, sighed, leaned back on the couch. Finally, Blaine said, “It’s immoral to equate black grievance and white fear like this. It’s just immoral.”
“This speech was not done to open up a conversation about race but actually to close it. He can win only if he avoids race. We all know that,” Grace said. “But the important thing is to get him into office first. The guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. At least now this pastor business is closed.”
Ifemelu, too, felt pragmatic about the speech, but Blaine took it personally. His faith cracked, and for a few days he lacked his bounce, coming back from his morning run without his usual sweaty high, walking around heavy-footed. It was Shan who unknowingly pulled him out of his slump.
“I have to go to the city for a few days to be with Shan,” he told Ifemelu. “Ovidio just called me. She’s not functioning.”
“She is not functioning?”
“A nervous breakdown. I dislike that expression, it has a very old wives’ tale vibe to it. But that’s what Ovidio called it. She’s been in bed for days. She’s not eating. She won’t stop crying.”
Ifemelu felt a flash of irritation; even this, it seemed to her, was yet another way for Shan to demand attention.
“She’s had a really hard time,” Blaine said. “The book not getting any attention and all.”
“I know,” Ifemelu said, and yet she could feel no real sympathy, which frightened her. Perhaps it was because she held Shan responsible, at some level, for the fight with Blaine, for not wielding her power over Blaine to let him know he was overreacting.