Kamala Harris Means More to My Daughters Than Obama
The vice president affirms my daughters’ dreams in ways no man can
One November night in 2008, I found myself with a house full of crying guests.
It’s not like the evening wasn’t festive. There was gumbo and chicken, cake and wine; we chatted and enjoyed each other’s company, even while we waited for the pivotal moment to arrive.
And then it happened: A Black man was elected president. He wouldn’t be just the president of the United States — he would be our president.
I didn’t even know most of my guests that night. I was relatively new to my suburban neighborhood and invited everyone nearby who I thought would share my pride. I’m not talking just any pride. I mean Black pride. The pride tinged with the anger and resentment of 400 years of America’s subjugation of Black people.
I knocked on the doors of my daughters’ Black classmates. I tapped on the shoulders of Black shoppers I saw at stores, Black neighbors I saw on tennis courts. If they were Black, they were invited. For the purposes of this celebration, all lives didn’t matter — only the Black ones.
I approached them with the confidence and privilege of our shared commonality and belief that surely they felt the importance of the…
