Barack Like Me: The Chocolate-Covered Truth

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Grier’s television credits are abundant.   Grier is well known as being a principle cast member of the acclaimed television series “In Living Color,” where he helped to create some of that show’s most memorable characters, and also as a co-star on Bonnie Hunt’s hit ABC comedy “Life With Bonnie.”   He also starred on the hit NBC show “DAG” where he played the title character, as well Keeping his close comedic relationship with the Wayans’ brothers, he co-starred with Damon Wayans in “Damon.” He also starred in the television miniseries “The 60s,” and “King of Texas” for cable television.

In addition Grier has gained recognition for his numerous feature film roles, including “Baadasssss!” for director Mario Van Peebles, “The Woodsman” opposite Kevin Bacon and Mos Def, “15 Minutes,” “Boomerang,” “Bewitched,” “Jumanji” and Robert Altman’s “Streamers,” for which he won a Golden Lion Award for Best Actor at the Venice Film Festival. David also co-wrote, produced and appeared in the independent film “Poker House,” Lori Petty’s directorial debut.

David recently appreared on the hit tv show Dancing With the Stars in which he danced his heart out for four episodes and then had a very public meltdown when he was eliminated that went viral on the internet. Grier also appeared in the Wayans Family's hit 2009 movie, 'Dance Flick' in which The New York Times gushed "Mr. Grier ultimately steals the movie with a tour-de-force". He is currently working on a stand-up comedy tour that may culminate in a special on Comedy Central about the experiences written about in Barack Like Me!!!

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1
SECRETARY OF MIRTH

Yes, we can!

And yes, we did.

We won!

January 2009. Going on two and a half months now and they haven’t taken it back.

I still don’t trust it. Every morning when I wake up I check and double-check. I need confirmation.

First thing I do is blink a couple of times to make sure I’m not dreaming. I lean over and kiss my wife, Christine, kiss and nuzzle my daughter, Luisa, check myself, see if I’m alive, yep, got all my parts, turn on CNN and NPR at the same time, even flip to Fox News, and yes—confirm—it’s still true.

Barack Obama is president of the United States.

It really happened.

Elected in a landslide, too. Over 69 million people voted for him, poked that chad, popped that cherry. Sixty-nine million people.

Incredible. Amazing. Historic.

True.

And here we are, Christine and I, invited guests to the Purple Ball on Inauguration Day, slammed up against the stage in this hangar-sized ballroom, purple neon strobe light stabbing our eyes, a throng of people mashed up against us, waiting for President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle to arrive.

I admit it. I am in awe of this man. Today he will speak and dance at ten inaugural balls. Ten. Tomorrow he’ll be up at 5:00 a.m. to start his presidency. He promises to hit the ground running. Are you serious? I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for three days.

A black president. Can you get your head around that? We’ve had black presidents before, but only on television and in the movies. And the moment a black guy becomes president, the world is about to end. Like in the movie Deep Impact, President Morgan Freeman doesn’t merely inherit the worst economic crisis in a century. No. That would be too easy. He inherits an asteroid flying through space about to blow up the earth.

In the back of my mind, I worry that Barack Obama’s presidency is doomed to fail. A young guy I spoke to on the street in New York said it best: “It’s obviously a plot. It’s rigged.”

I keep hearing those words: it’s rigged. Meaning that the only way that America elected a black man is because stuff is so fucked up, nobody can solve the problems. They put the brotha in to fail. And when he fails, they’ll say, “See? We told you,” and it’s back to business as usual. We’ll be lucky if a black guy gets elected president of the NAACP.

At the Purple Ball, my attention turns to a commotion from somewhere behind the stage. I hear urgent whispers and voices crackling through walkie-talkies, music suddenly blares, cranked up, and screaming, cheering, and applause from the hundreds of people behind me pound me like a thunderclap, and I gasp, I literally gasp, a lump rises in my throat, and appearing through what seems like the blue light of a camera flash, Barack Obama, the president of the United States of America, our president, walks out from the wings, in the words of Stuart Scott on ESPN, as cool as the other side of the pillow, strolling hand in hand with the First Lady, Michelle Obama, who in person, I’m telling you, is so beautiful she weakens my knees.

They bow slightly, like royalty, and then they clap, for us. They are both smiling. Grinning, really. But these are not triumphant smiles. They are modest smiles, smiles of acceptance, smiles of thanks.

Barack wears a black tuxedo. He looks thin and fit, taller than you’d think, his hoop player’s frame tucked into his tux sharp and taut. He would look cool in anything—tuxedo, sweat suit, bathrobe, toga, it wouldn’t matter.

Now Michelle swirls toward us wearing this off-white, one-shoulder, chiffon-y gown created by a young designer named Jason Wu. She is beaming and clapping and then waving, and she is beyond magnificent. She is radiant. The kind of stunning we’ve seen only once before in a First Lady, that being Jackie Kennedy.

I want to cry, but, frankly, I’m cried out. My tears have been flowing freely over the last months, often at the most unexpected and, yes, embarrassing times. But today, at this moment, while I’m moved and the emotions rise up, I feel strong. And proud. No. That’s not quite it. I feel more than proud. I feel—

Right.

Yes.

I feel that what is happening here, what I am witnessing, what I am experiencing is finally… right.

And I know that the journey I took to get here, the one ending at this inaugural ball, a journey that started before I was born, when my grandparents lived in the segregated South, a journey that took my family through backbreaking work in the fields, and riding in the back of the bus, is a journey that lives inside my soul. That’s why this moment feels right.

His smile widening bright enough to light the entire ballroom, President Barack Obama waves his hand to quiet the crowd. Not going to happen. The crowd roars louder. He laughs, enjoying the love that rushes over him and Michelle like a wave. He dips his head, feeling a little humbled and clearly overwhelmed. He waves again, a parade wave, and opens his mouth to speak, laughs, tries to speak again, and then after maybe thirty seconds, except for a few scattered shouts of untamed joy, the crowd quiets.

“I want to thank all of you not merely for helping me get elected,” Barack says. “But I want to thank each and every one of you for what you do to make this country special—”

Huge applause. Foot stomping. Howling.

“And I want to thank each and every one of you—”

Barack suddenly stops. All eyes are on him. Riveted.

“Oh, my God,” he says. “DAG!”

He grins, cocks and loads a finger pistol, lowers it, takes aim, fires off one shot and—bang!—hits me right between the eyes. He laughs.

“Hey, DAG, I have to bring you up and say hi.”

My wife’s mouth opens and closes like a trapdoor.

“Come on up here,” Barack says.

“No, no, Barack, it’s cool, you’re right in the middle of your speech—”

He waves me away. “This speech is nothing. Give DAG a hand, Michelle. Wait. Let’s get Christine first.”

With applause and cheering building at our backs, Barack and Michelle lean down and pull Christine up onto the stage, then guide me as I climb up next to her. I flash the victory sign to the crowd with both hands. Barack beams, shakes his head, and hugs me.

“We did it, man,” he says.

“Yes, we did, Barack. I mean, Mr. President.”

“Don’t be like that now. All formal. You call me Barack. All the time.”

He slaps my chest. I nod. Around us, music comes up, swells. A soaring violin intro to “At Last.” Michelle smiles, sways, taps my wife on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Christine. Do you mind if I dance with your husband?”

“Not at all,” Christine says.

“In that case, may I have this dance?” the president says, bowing to Christine, who curtsies.

I sweep Michelle into a simple box step. She’s light on her feet, an accomplished dancer.

“I loved the Chocolate News,” she says. “I always thought you were underrated. The industry takes you for granted.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind. I don’t know if I’m taken for granted. Okay, maybe a little—”

“Well, we’re big fans at our house,” she says. “And of course the girls adore Jumanji. Their favorite scene is when you get crushed to death in that giant pod.”

“That is so nice,” I say. “I think.”

Michelle laughs, then pulls back slightly. “Oh, DAG, before I...