They would give me an African name, Barack, or ”blessed,” believing that in a tolerant America your name is no barrier to success. My parents shared not only an improbable love, they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation. Bill, bought a house through F.H.A., and later moved west all the way to Hawaii in search of opportunity.Īnd they, too, had big dreams for their daughter. Back home, my grandmother raised their baby and went to work on a bomber assembly line. The day after Pearl Harbor my grandfather signed up for duty joined Patton’s army, marched across Europe. Her father worked on oil rigs and farms through most of the Depression. She was born in a town on the other side of the world, in Kansas. While studying here, my father met my mother. Through hard work and perseverance my father got a scholarship to study in a magical place, America, that shone as a beacon of freedom and opportunity to so many who had come before. But my grandfather had larger dreams for his son.
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