My little girl, Violet, was born on President Barack Obama’s first day in office.
Me and her mom have always been proud of that little nugget.
There we were, in the middle of the finest moments of our lives, as our country was in the midst of something beautifully progressive, something a long long time in the making.
And I still look back on that day as one of the best in my life. In one wintery afternoon: my first kid/my wonderful little baby daughter, and our first African-American President: a man who seemed to know the value of things a lot of men had seemingly forgotten.
Things that should be essential in men who seek lead people, like respectfully listening when someone else was speaking. He seemed to us to be constructed of boundless grace and dignity and charm.
Finally, we sighed to each other.
Finally a man we could believe in. Or simply, a man we could believe.
Finally, a Presidential Man for our long and lovely land whose eyes didn’t flit all over the place like the eyes of so many of his opponents: candidates to lead the free world, whose faces, if you could open them up like a cabinet, would reveal a nest of writhing rattlesnake babies rubbing all up against the back of those eyeballs. Vipers jiggling the peepers of this sketchy fella and that one until it seemed that the last good honest glare might be the dust in Lincoln’s tomb .
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