I Never Danced For My Granny

Excerpts from the up and coming blockbuster book from Barry Obama

"..I remember as if it were but yesterday. I had just finished my thesis on those people who don't know quite what to do when the guilt goes away, and how some of them actually stop thinking of committing suicide and therefore cannot really be called liberals. She turned to look at me and it was if a giant fist was cracking ice cubes in the pit of my bowels. My legs went numb except for a tingling in one little toe when she opened her mouth to speak. "Barry", she said, "a drunken hobo accosted me today wanting money. He tore off my blouse and threw me to the ground while rustling inside my handbag for the scant pennies I'd saved to take the bus each day so I could work and feed you."

I felt as if someone had torn the eyes out of my head and was using them to shoot marbles with. I sat there with my spoon stuck in the oatmeal bowl, awaiting the final punch to my soul and she didn't wait long before scoring my spirit as if she'd stolen the Angel Gabriel's fiery sword of justice and slashed it into my genitals.

"Barry, the man was black. I don't know if he was just dirty black or negro black but he was so, so black. His fingernails were foul and broken and oozed something hideous and green. The strange thing was the fact that his shoes were new and shiny. I could see them quite clearly as he kicked me to the ground and the last thought I had before losing consciousness was thinking how much I loved you."

There, she'd said it. My head felt as if it couldn't help but explode from the shame, the guilt, the horror of imagining her being mugged by someone dirty or negro. I knew in that explosive searing instant that she felt all negroes were dirty and oozing green from their fingernails as they mugged and raped and stole from old white women. My testicles felt as if the jaws of Cerberus were clamping down upon them, and how apt and just was that? There are white people, there are black people, there are white and black people like me. Me, the three-souled mongrel boy from the jungle who was forced to listen to the insane ravings of a racist old white woman.

What next would she ask of me? Was I now to dance, to be her personal Bojangles? To don motley and act the fool simply because she wasn't sensitive enough to give her last cent to a black man who obviously needed it far more than she?

But wait. Maybe he wasn't really a true black man. Maybe he was just a dirty old hobo she'd mistaken for a negro. How dare she even think of giving our hard earned money to a white man masquerading as an African Prince?

Thank heavens that on the morrow I'll get to speak with Uncle Jeremiah about all of this. He's told me time and again not to listen to that cupid old stunt, and how if she really loved me she'd get a part time job in order to tithe to his church and maybe then he wouldn't need to kiss up to those white contractors every time there was a leak in the roof. He says that the Jews never pay retail so neither should the blacks, or half-black wannabes such as me. I know in my heart of hearts that he means me no ill will when complaining about my white mother and grandmother. It's merely his way of getting me to try harder, just like when we play his favorite game of gargle the devil's tail. My knees begin to hurt after a while but I believe him when he says that it builds character. I know that it is weak of me to worry about how all that tugging and pulling will wear upon my head but Uncle Jeremiah says that jug-ears are a status symbol amongst true black men and that I should be proud of his wishing to turn me into a real negro...

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