I've been thinking a lot about Obama of late, specifically about the extraordinary amount of self-possession the man must have to not only survive a presidential campaign, but flourish. And that's when the candidate runs under the most favorable of circumstances. It must be doubly hard when the proverbial deck is stacked against you. People are ruthless during campaigns; not only the Karl Roves of the world, but the little people who snicker and say terrible things about you out of party loyalty, ignorance or blatant pettiness.
Self-possession is one of the more elusive facets of personality in that it's easy to feign, but not so easy to achieve. However people slight you, whether to your face or behind your back, the cumulative effect of getting torn down can take its toll. To keep one's eyes on the prize -- to soldier on toward the ultimate goal with confidence and conviction, without disintegrating into a million pieces or assuming the pettiness of one's rival -- that my friends takes a true leader.
Obama's strength of character during his run for #44 reminds me about an anecdote from my own life.
Winter 1977. I'm headed off to School, bundled up in my snow gear, except for a hat. I open up the drawer where mom keeps all the winter accessories and spot the knitted Big Bird Hat that my two-year-old brother wears, the hat I have coveted since my mom unwrapped it on Christmas Day. I decide to wear it to school (though a toddler, my brother's freakishly large head is roughly the same circumference as mine, so the hat just about fits).
My mom comes into the room to see me off for school and spots the hat. "You're wearing Buddy’s cap?" I nodded. "It's a baby's hat, you know." I shrug. Fearing that my classmates might ridicule my sartorial choice, my mom broaches the subject as gently as possible. "Sally, don't you think that maybe the other children in your classroom may not like the hat?"
According to the lore, I looked up at her and said without emotion, "I really don't care what they think," then kissed my mom goodbye and headed off to second grade.
I walked to school, and my path took me by my grandmother's house the same time every morning. She would often make a point to peek out the window as I passed by. This wintry morning, she was shocked to see me marching off to school with my baby brother's hat on, Big Bird's beak bopping up and down with every step. She immediately called my mom. "Isn’t Sally afraid the children will make fun of her at school?" My mother restated my response, and my grandmother shook her head, perplexed.
Later that afternoon I returned from school. I stood in the shed methodically disrobing all my winter gear while my mom hovered in the kitchen, worrying over a cup of tea. "How did it go today?" Fine, I told her (never giving a second thought to the hat) then went up to my room to do homework.
31 years later and I do not, nor have I ever recalled anyone harassing me that day at school. My classmates and teacher may have thought it was unusual that I chose to wear a baby hat to school, but ostensibly the conviction with which I carried myself into the classroom that morning was so strong that no one dared make fun of me.
And so a week after the election, as I look back on the remarkable campaign and wonder at the man, I resolve that Obama's grace under pressure is fueled by the same kind of self-possession that guided me that February day so many years ago.
Perhaps I shall knit him a Big Bird Hat of his own...
Image not the actual hat, but just as obnoxious. I was a weird kid, what can I say?
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