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This is a look at an early poem, Pop, written by 19 year old Barack Obama about Frank Marshall Davis. This was a friend of Obama's (white) Grandfather who thought Davis would be a good influence on Obama and teach him how to be a black man. Davis was NOT a suitable role model and should never have been influence over a young troubled kid.
The pre-teen Obama had been abandoned by his father, neglected by his step-father, and dropped off at his grandparents house so his mother could go do her thing. Twice divorced at this point, his mother was more interested in her research and post graduate work than she was in raising her two kids.
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
Fail to pass.I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.
This is truly chilling on many levels and I find that my spirit cries for this boy. There are serious undertones of sexual abuse in this poem, especially the part about screaming, and his smell "coming" from the boy. Frank Marshall Davis was an alcoholic, communist, pedophile.
The more I read about Barak Obama's early life, the more disturbed I become at the emotional trauma that was inflicted upon him by those he should have been able to trust. I am no psychologist, but I have been researching a lot of web sites by people who are and the picture that is emerging is chilling. Regardless of your politics, we need to pray for this man in a serious fashion - if not the man, then this little boy.
