The First Black President Blues

Inauguration day, January 20th, and even despite the relative youth of my fifty-three years, the day had been a long one. The swearing in, my inaugural address, the traditional lunch with Congress, and a lengthy parade. Cap it all off with visits to nine different inuagural balls spread all over Washington and the First Lady and I should have been ready to call it a night. But Rachel knew just how much this last inaugural party meant to me and as the helicopter sped us toward Baltimore, the rushing night air served to reenergize us both for what was to come.

As the helicopter set down in Baltimore I was positive my decision to end the celebration on the streets of my youth had been correct. For what better way to lead than by example and what better case to exemplify the vision of my reform legislation than my own poverty to presidential tale. As with all presidents, I'd received my share of death threats by everything from tormented psychotics to international terrorists. In fact, I'm told that thanks to the large increase in threats of a racial tone, I'd long since surpassed JFK for the honor of greatest security risk.

Even I was amazed as we moved onto the basketball court, for with the exception of the cleared security area it was as if we'd been swallowed in a sea of blackness, my security detail and a few brave politicians the only whitecaps in its flawless majesty. The crowd's roar buffeted me, its sheer force rocking me as their wave of approval washed over me with the warmth of innumerable voices.

In the end I was reduced to standing weak-kneed before the crowd, basking in the warmth of their love. But as my eyes cleared I suddenly became aware of the human fence of security personnel standing between me and my people, catapulting me back to the deprivations of my youth and taunting, "not for you, now or ever, not for you." It was at that moment that I at last truly understood why I'd come home. For in my own rise and the complexities of my vision I'd come dangerously close to losing sight of why I'd first begun. Then and there as I swept the face of my people, those unfocused masses, I renewed my vow to guide them, to lead them, and finally make them whole.

Then as I moved off through the crowd I noticed the tingling sensation. I'd just started back toward the stage when all of a sudden there it was, like a bee sting on my neck. But I couldn't lift my hand to touch the spot and my legs grew heavy and leaden. Then I was falling, down, down, down to the pavement so far below. I heard the screams and shouts, bodies closing in around me until I couldn't see anymore and then there was only darkness.