Public Enemy (29 page)

Our polling place was in the public school just out the front door and across the street next to the baseball diamonds, and we had been the first to vote in every election for several years. But Election Day 2008 would be different. All night, Chicago police and Secret Service had been checking and rechecking the street, coordinating and deploying their troops while Streets and Sanitation was sprucing up every blade of grass, polishing every sign and fire hydrant, and noisily erecting a grandstand for the press right in front of our house—Senator Barack Obama and Michelle Obama would cast their historic votes in this remarkable election right here sometime in the next few hours. The neighborhood was abuzz. When we stepped out into the dark at 5:59 a.m., there was already a crush of people on the street and a festive line of voters stretching around the block, laughing, sharing coffee and donuts, and singing. This train don’t carry no strangers, and on this day not one of us would be left behind.

I was pumped: for the second time in my life I was going to vote for a Democrat for president. I’d campaigned for LBJ in 1964 before I was old enough to vote or to know better—Johnson had soured me forever on the whole corrupt mess and illuminated for me the stark limits of electoral politics—and I’d voted in primaries over the years, notably for Shirley Chisholm and for Jesse Jackson, but in a general election I had a devilish time choosing to vote for one of the greatest war parties ever built in all of history. I typically voted Green or Socialist if either had a candidate on the ballot, or more often wrote in our son Malik, who would have been a far better president at the age of fourteen than any of the others. And I always found something on every ballot to support wholeheartedly: I voted for Bruce Wright for judge because he set reasonable bail for poor Black men charged with crimes and was derided by the police association as “Turn ’em loose Bruce.” Once I opposed a prison bond initiative that was defeated by a tiny handful of votes only to be reversed by the governor, who magically found money for prison construction, and reversed again when our brother-in-law brought a lawsuit which delayed it for years. I could only stand to vote for a national Democrat once before, in 1972 when I voted against war and for George McGovern. Now I would happily and without any illusions vote for Barack Hussein Obama.

All during the campaign Senator Obama had described himself as a moderate, pragmatic, middle-of-the-road politician. The Right responded in full-throated attack that he was in fact a secret Muslim and a closeted socialist, some kind of Trojan horse and Manchurian candidate rolled into one to destroy the country, while the Left said, in effect, “I think he’s winking at me.” He wasn’t winking, and his self-description turned out to be absolutely accurate, perfectly matching his record in Illinois and in the US Senate if anyone had bothered to look it up. He was super-smart, personable, compassionate, and decent in a thousand ways—all true. He was also a mainstream moderate, as advertised, prepared to sit on the throne of a now-declining empire and command its violent legions.

He was also unique in several ways: an African American who knew many of the inconvenient truths of American history up close; a community organizer who had spent countless days sitting at kitchen tables with poor and working people listening and learning from their experiences and perspectives; a powerful writer of his own unique story; a proud papa; and a global citizen who could brilliantly evoke, for example, a fleeting but meaningful encounter with a migrant worker in Spain, the sense of a shared story and deeper human solidarity embodied in that chance meeting, and describe the traveler as “just another hungry man far away from home, one of the many children of former colonies . . . now breaching the barricades of their former masters, mounting their own ragged, haphazard invasion.” That was a stunning piece of writing, from
Dreams from My Father
, as well as a beautiful sentiment reflecting a humane politics that comes straight from the bottom up.

We were besieged by reporters as we went into the school and as we exited, but we just smiled, waved, and kept on truckin’. Election workers were happy to see us and to shake our hands, everyone feeling a kind of collective joy, and even inside the little school gym the folding bleachers had been opened and were filled with press people who shouted questions: “How does it look to you?” “Will you grant an interview tomorrow?”

We hung out on our front porch chatting with friends and neighbors and the Japanese news media until the Obamas arrived in a frenetic swirl of lights and color and noise. The cheering began in anticipation, held a high pitch as they waved and embraced neighborhood folks and walked into the school, and lingered until long after they were gone.

Fox News covered the event with video of Minister Farrakhan voting early, and then a shot of Bernardine and me entering the same polling place, and finally the Obamas coming to vote sometime later. The reporter pointed out the clever sequence and pattern of the parade and then posed the foxy question: “Farrakhan, then Ayers, then Obama . . . coincidence?” I thought, No! It must be a conspiracy! Great investigative reporting: the minister and I had each left voting instructions for the Obamas taped under the tray inside the booth. How else would they know how to vote? And Fox News sniffed it out!

As I was preparing for class later in the day, David Remnick, the editor of the
New Yorker
, rang the doorbell. I’d been pretty solid in my silence for months, but I was suddenly unsure if the injunction had now been lifted. I mean, it wasn’t quite
after
the election—there were several hours to go—but we’d already voted, and it was tough to see how anything I might say or do now could sway the outcome or become fodder for the lunatic Right. It suddenly occurred to me: I’m free! I laughed out loud suddenly and did a little spontaneous jig. Ha! I’m free!

And then I wondered, but am I really? Could I now run naked in the streets, all shackles dropped and all bets off? Better not, so instead I called Bernardine. She didn’t answer. What to do? I was rusty and unsure, but it was David Remnick for God’s sake, and the
New Yorker
, and for a small group of people, me included, that’s the pinnacle of something, even though I’m not sure exactly what it’s at the top of. Remnick couldn’t have been any more nerdy—I can’t remember what he looked like at all, youngish middle-aged, I think, khakis and loafers probably, maybe a pocket protector—but I was panting slightly nonetheless, my senses shaky and my vision blurred.

“Could we talk for a few minutes?” he asked.

So we sat on the front steps and talked and talked. He was really smart, needless to say, and low-key, and when he asked if he could take notes and pulled out a notebook and pencil, I said, “Sure, why not, of course you can,” and we sat there together, me babbling away. What could I possibly say of interest? No matter, don’t think about it—blah, blah, blah. I was off the leash.

Barack Obama won the election, in case anyone missed it. Barack Obama was president of the United States. The satirical
Onion
captured the moment as only it can: “Black Man Given the Worst Job in America.” But now when anyone asked to take a picture with me and uttered the old tired joke, “I guess I can’t run for president now,” I would respond: “What are you talking about? Obama
is
the president—the worst job in America—and who can say I hurt him in the end? Maybe I gave him just the bump he needed.”

And it was as if a secret gag order from some undisclosed headquarters was instantly rescinded and an announcement had been sent simultaneously to anyone I’d ever known—the shunning of the past months was suddenly and decidedly over! Colleagues who hadn’t glanced in my direction in months stopped by my office for a chat, neighbors waved and offered cheerful greetings, and folks from near and far called me to check in and see how I was doing. Invariably people offered their heartfelt sympathies for the “hammering you took from the Right.” Most added that they admired “the dignity and resoluteness” I’d shown through the whole ordeal; everyone was buoyed and relieved, with a generous helping of fellow-feeling. Being welcomed back into the community took some getting used to, but it was also pleasant and satisfying. I was happy the madness had passed, even if temporarily.

But it reminded me of a story a friend of ours from Cape Town, South Africa, had told us years earlier. Vivian had been an underground member of the revolutionary African National Congress during the fight for freedom, and he was simultaneously a leader of the Black Business Association. He’d created a way around some of the restrictions of apartheid with the help of a Jewish friend and colleague. Vivian couldn’t operate his jewelry business in an office in a restricted zone, so his colleague—his white cover—took out a lease on an office and signed the papers each year, and Vivian technically became an employee of what was in fact his own business. This arrangement worked for a time, but there came a point when his colleague said it seemed only fair that Vivian pay him a sum for the service of signing the papers. What? Vivian was astonished, argued with his colleague for a time, and then gave in: the papers would be signed for a small fee—a pathetic and corrupting profit from apartheid, Vivian concluded. But, what the hell?

He hardly saw the man again, but shortly after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison and his election as president of a free South Africa, Vivian ran into his old colleague on the street. The man embraced him warmly and said, “Isn’t it wonderful! We are all free!” Astonished once more, Vivian hugged him back—a bit awkwardly—and marveled at the very human capacity for self-deception. The man had forgotten or suppressed his shabby behavior when it actually mattered.

The gag order was definitely off, and having neither an agent nor much sense, I jumped quickly at the first chance to tell my story. An editor for a national magazine had invited me to do a long personal essay for a ridiculously high fee, and I agreed, but it fell through as soon I wrote a brief op-ed for the
New York
Times
. “We wanted an exclusive,” he explained.

The
Times
piece was short, and some junior editor gave it an idiotic and impossible headline: “The Real Bill Ayers.” Life’s too twisty and forward-charging for that, I thought—the
real
me was an open question and a work in progress, a many-splendored thing and a chaotic mash-up. We’ll see about the real Ayers, but what the hell—I was happy to speak for myself after being talked about for so long. I was in a hurry, and the
Times
was ready right away.

I explained that all the folks recurring in the weird narrative that dogged the Obama campaign—the “fiery America-hating preacher,” the “dangerous Palestinian academic,” and the “unrepentant domestic terrorist”—were simply caricatures and fantasies. None of those people actually existed, and flushing out every tie and suggested affiliation with these cartoon characters, which had been big news for months, was nothing but a fool’s errand.

As the putative unrepentant terrorist, I’d often felt like Goldstein from George Orwell’s
1984
—the public enemy projected onto a large screen in the ritual “two minutes hate” scene when the faithful gathered in a frenzy of fear and loathing, chanting, “Kill him!” In the pre-election frenzy I saw no sensible path to a rational discussion, and so I decided to turn away whenever the microphones were thrust in my face. I sat it out.

But with the election over I wanted to say as plainly as I could that that character wasn’t me, not even close.

I sent a note to Sarah Palin then, suggesting that we launch a talk show together called “Palling Around with Sarah and Bill.” It was just a joke, but I couldn’t resist. Fox News would be good, I said, but I didn’t have any contacts there, or anywhere else really. I asked if she could check around for us, kind of be my/our agent. I never heard back.

I went on
Hardball
, a show I’d never seen before—although I’ve watched like a junkie ever since—and I found Chris Matthews the most fun and entertaining interviewer I’d ever experienced. He ran quickly from one thing to another, throwing out questions helter-skelter, which he mostly answered himself—and that suited me just fine, since I had a cold and a terrible sore throat and was downing cup after cup of Throat Coat tea. He injected little bits of autobiography here and there, and after thoroughly interrogating himself, ended with a judgment: “You’re a good guy, Bill Ayers; I think you’re a good guy.” I figured he prepared for the interview by drinking gallons of espresso, or going off his meds.

I agreed to an interview on
Good Morning America
and flew to New York the night before, staying with my kids in order to make the early morning appointment. I didn’t want to get trapped into a silly game of affirming or denying every detail of my relationship with the president-elect—did you meet him at such and such a place? Did you ever have brunch together? Chesa had the smartest answer: “Just say, ‘I knew Barack Obama about as well as thousands of other people—I don’t believe we ever shared a milk shake with two straws; I mean, we weren’t that close—and like millions of others, I wish I knew him much better today.”’ That was true.

Barbara Walters and Robin Roberts came by the green room to say hello and to chat—I knew that BJ would absolutely freak out; to her, they were not quite Oprah, but in that league—and they were each lovely. When I later told BJ I’d talked with them, she went nuts and made me relate over and over every detail of our one minute together.

But my on-air interviewer was Chris Cuomo, son of Mario and brother of Andrew, a bit cold and somewhat severe. I realized quickly that he felt compelled somehow to show his audience that he was not seated with a friend—I knew the sad tradition of American journalists assuming a respectful and deferential tone whenever interviewing an ally of the country, every random right-wing Israeli politician, for example, or a dictator like Pervez Musharraf, while an enemy of the state department always got, in effect, an adversarial interrogation and waves of terse toughness. His tone was part of his act, and it changed abruptly when we took a station break. Suddenly, he was kind and relaxed and sympathetic: “I can imagine what you’ve been going through with these attacks and all the guilt by association,” he said. “You know when my dad ran for president, the same thing happened to him—his opponents kept unfairly linking him to the Mafia.” Wait a minute, I thought, are you connecting me to your dad, wrongly smeared, or am I in the Mafia role here?