Barack's Been Good, God - Inaugural Prayers for Barack Obama at Ruby's Diner

For our inaugural eve dinner, we hop over to Ruby's Diner down the street for Super Burgers--hamburgers served on grilled Parmesan toast with avocado and the usual fixings. Tasty. Where ever I've gone today while doing errands, the air is simply palpable with excitement. It's truly electric and I feel it even here in Ruby's atmosphere. People are laughing as they wait in line to be seated; they smile at strangers knowingly, as if we're conspirators in a great master plan.

We are seated in a red vinyl booth in the middle of two rows of such booths adjoined on one side. The booths behind, ahead and next to us are already occupied by diners. Two parties chomp happily on their burgers, fries and shakes and the third family is waiting for their food next to us.
This African American family includes two parents and two daughters, one about six and the other near 10 years old. The girls sit next to each other and fold their children's' menus into the toy cars they were designed to become. Their mother sits in the nook of their father's arm wrapped round her shoulders. She wears a large gold cross around her neck.

After we order, the family's food arrives and teases my hunger with the aroma of grilled beef. "Yay!" squeals the young one. Her sister puts her hand over the child's mouth. The parents laugh. The small girl starts to grab a fry and her father stops her hand. "We say grace whether we're at home or away," he tells her. She releases her french fry, all four join hands and bow heads.

Her father prays in a low voice. I cannot hear much and feel rather sleazy listening to someone's prayer. At the end, I do hear a request to bless tomorrow's inauguration. At the end of her Dad's sentence, the youngest daughter says loudly:

"And God, Barack has been very good. Please protect Sasha and Malia's Daddy. Amen!"

An older woman in the booth across from this family, says "Amen", also. A younger couple behind this family clap for the little girl, and others join her in our booth area. I look around at the handful of people clapping, they are white, black, Hispanic people applauding a small child's request to protect this man who assumes his awesome responsibility to protect us, all of us, tomorrow morning.

Barack Obama is Different

I am spending the evening around some of my favorite friends: books. Whether I enter a big box bookseller like Barnes and Noble or a small cramped hole in the wall with stacks and stacks of dusty books, I feel excited and anxious at once. All the possibilities of new worlds and amazing characters between these covers excite me, while looking at the stacks or shelves of books makes me anxious because I'll never have time to read them all.

Tonight I'm navigating around big tables piled high with coffee table books deeply discounted at Barnes and Noble. I look at one called The Complete History of the World, which keeps sliding on the slick glossy covers of the books underneath it because it's nearly two feet tall.

The table also has a selection of books about President Elect Barack Obama - his two bestsellers, a political pundit's analysis of him and a giant picture book of his campaign. Soon two female seniors approach the table. One of them opens the Obama picture book and stops at a double-page spread capturing close-up photos of three black women in the crowd at Obama's victory speech. Tears stream down all three black womens' faces and two of them grip tiny American flags in their clasped hands.

The older white women looking at the book pause at this photo, one smiles softly and the other utters a barely audible 'hhmm':

Smiles: My, my. It must be something to see one of your own finally make it this far.
Hhmm: Yes, well, Obama's not your average black. He's different.
Smiles: How do you mean?
Hhmm: Well, he's not on welfare, a thief or a gang member, is he? And he went to college. And got a job.
Smiles: Ohhh, shhh! Don't say that!
Hhmm: Why? I don't hear you disagreeing with me.

Bail Me Out, Mom

I am at Best Buy electronics browsing all the gadgets I cannot afford. I'm amazed at the ingenuity on display here; everything is smaller, better, faster, cooler. I remember when my first cell phone weighed about one pound. Now, a few ounces in your palm becomes your second brain.

I take my philosophical thoughts and walk to the video game area. I have wanted to get involved in gaming for a while, but am afraid of addiction. Many of my coworkers are World of Warcraft players and well, let's just say they are fully immersed in their online world and have constant cases of red eye.

The aisle buzzes with shoppers. Two young boys play an X-Box game on a system display at the aisle's end. Their eyes bulge with adrenaline. "Yeah!" says one as the other's car flips off the track in a ball of flames. Another young boy stands behind the two, watching a new race begin. Hands in pockets, eyes transfixed on the monitor, his body jerks slightly left and right as the players navigate the turns of the race track.

A bit later, the boy joins his mother in the gaming aisle. He is perhaps eight or nine. His large brown eyes behind small glasses scan the aisle offerings. He bounces from one product to another, running back to his mother with reviews of each discovery.

Eventually, he stops next to me at the Nintendo Wii display. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look me over:

Him: Are you getting this?
Me: No, just looking. Cool, isn't it?
Him: Really cool. It's the best one. But it costs a lot. See?
The boy points to the price, nearly $300.
Him: It's sold out online. My Dad said. So you have to get it here. In the store.

His mother calls him back. "Sorry," she says to me. No problem, I tell her, and compliment her son's product knowledge. A few moments later, when his mother is ready to leave:

Son: Mom, the Wiis are gonna be all gone really fast. We should get one now, before they're ALL GONE.
Mom: Nice try, honey. The store has more. We're not buying anything tonight, remember? Just looking.
Son: But it's important! I need this. It's the only thing on my Christmas list.
Mom: Well, yeah, it better be. It's a lot of money. Just wait and see what Christmas brings, okay?

The boy sighs deeply, spins around and jams his hands into his pockets. He again approaches the Wii display and touches the price tag with one finger. As his mother passes behind me, he grabs her arm with urgency:

Son: Mom! Wait! Maybe you could bail me out.
Mom: What? What do you mean?
Son: You know, bail me out, like on TV for banks. But instead for Wii.
Mom: Oh my god. Michael, that's for big businesses that are going to close if they don't get money to help.
Son: Well, why can't I get money to help?
Mom: Michael! Stop it. It doesn't work like that. Just wait and see what Christmas brings.
Son: Well, it's not fair. I'm gonna write a letter.
Mom: Who are you going to write?
Son: The president of the United States. He is getting his kids a new puppy and he will understand why I need a Wii.

Dying to Vote

I am soaking my feet in warm sudsy water in the little basin below my chair at the nail salon. A pedicure is the one cosmetic luxury I refuse to surrender to my tightening budget for a couple of reasons: one, my lower back issues make straightening my leg after contorting to paint my toes a slow burn and, two, my little piggies take on a life of their own if they are not professionally maintained. I'll give up dinner and drinks before I cancel the pedicure.

The afternoon's heat hangs in the salon. My eyes burn with the day's computer work and I let my heavy lids fall. The more the foot bath vibrates, the farther away my cares go. The pedicurist lifts my foot onto the platform and goes to work. Little pangs of ticklishness make me smile.

A young girl's shrill voice rings out. I pop my eyes open and see two teenage girls bouncing through the door. Their energy shows through radiant smiles and easy giggles. They are white, tall and long-haired, one blond, one brunette, with thin jean clad legs and the requisite flip flops for pedicured toes. They take empty chairs on either side of me and continue their conversation seamlessly. After some chatter about last night's episode of "90210":

Brunette: I'm soooo tired of watching it on the small screen in my room. My Mom keeps hogging the flat screen to watch all that economy junk.
Blond: Ugh. Seriously. If I have to hear about that Main Street Wall Street stuff again, I'm gonna kick the screen!
Brunette: Haha! Ha! Yeah, and all the election crap? I mean, who cares? Politics are boring!
Blond: Thank you! That's what I tell my Dad and he's all, you should care about your future -
Brunette: Heehee! Whatever. It's boring.

The pedicurists working on the girls' feet do not take their eyes off the job at hand. They are young Asian women, perhaps mid-20s. They are simply dressed with minimal make-up. Their shiny black hair shrouds their faces as they continue working, stooped over on small stools.

Blond: My Dad keeps telling me I better to register before Monday.
Brunette: Well I'm not voting either. What's one vote gonna matter? Plus Obama and McCain are both weird!

The woman working on the brunette's feet looks up at her, and then to her coworker who says something in their native language. The woman again looks at her customer. In broken English she says, "You vote. You must vote. In my country, people they die to voting."

The girls look at each other and laugh. The woman's coworker says something to her. She looks down and resumes working. As I leave the salon, I notice a little alter in the corner with a Buddha, some fruit, incense sticks and a small American flag.

I Pooped!

I'm enjoying a tall stack of cinnamon raisin pancakes this morning in an outdoor neighborhood eatery that overlooks a little of the bay. Fellow breakfasters also brave the cold weather with me, refusing to accept this unseasonal chilly Memorial Day in Southern California. My friend and I chat about her cousin, a Marine serving in Iraq. He's especially on her mind today.

As she speaks, I absent-mindedly pour some more delicious maple syrup on my pancakes (nothing beats original maple flavor). Looking down I see the bottom two pancakes are completely submerged in syrup. Perfect.

There's a steady din of conversation around us, punctuated with seagull squawks now and then. Suddenly, a toddler's voice breaks out above the rest:

"Mommy! Mommy! I pooped! I pooped in the potty!"

He's a round little bundle with pink cheeks chilled by the crisp air. A small green cap atop his head says, "ARMY". He wears tan cargo pants and the feet inside his brown hiking boots stomp quickly toward his mother, who sits next to us at a table with an older woman and man. The teenage girl bringing him back to their table laughs loudly and claps.

Another man at a nearby table also claps. A woman joins in, a girl, another man. The applause makes the boy stop in his tracks. His mother stands up and goes to him, also clapping. A high pitched giggle bursts forth from him as mom picks him up and snuggles his face with hers.

She wears a dark green sweatshirt. It says, "Support Our Troops" on the back. As she settles him back in at the table, she sits down and I see, "ARMY" across the front of her sweatshirt. My friend and I wonder who has missed this joyous occasion, a father, a boyfriend, a brother, a son? All of the above?

A small boy's poops in the toilet - something we laugh about and take for granted; another event to write him about.

No Christmas List This Year

Tonight it's raining in Southern California. The newscasts all have 'storm watch' for us fragile sun worshipers. We decide to fight the cold with some delicious hot Italian food for dinner and motor over to a popular ristorante down the street. It's Friday night crowded and we're seated in a booth behind another family with young teens. The kids, a teenaged girl and younger boy, sit behind me across from their parents. They are white, the females are blond and the males brunette. The dad talks on a cell as we're seated. The children joke and laugh with each other. Their father cannot hear his caller and tells them firmly to be quite. The call ends and their conversation resumes. After several moments:

Daughter: Mom, at lunch we were all talking about what we want for Christmas?

Mom: Yeah?

Daughter: Yeah, and I'm all, I really really really want a Juke. And Megan goes, me too! Isn't that funny? It's a really cool phone and it does so much stuff!

Mom: Yes, I know honey. You've told me that.

Daughter: Haha! I know but it's just sooooo killer. But do you know what's weird? Megan's friend Jen was all quiet and we're all, 'What are you asking for, Jen?' and she's like, I don't know. So we kept asking her and then she said her Mom said no Christmas list this year. She's not allowed. Can you believe that?

Mom: Well, maybe they're having trouble -

Dad: There's no reason to have financial trouble if the man of the house is a good provider. Simple as that. What does this girl's father do? Does he work?

Daughter: She said her Dad's in Iraq.

No God

I took today off work and strolled on the pier for a while. The sun sparkled on the water and the wind was just brisk enough to remind me it's November in California. There were more people on the pier than I'd expected for a Monday afternoon. Many fished, standing in silence with their poles and staring at the green blue sea. Seagulls circled overhead, squawking and diving after fish guts thrown over the rails by men cleaning their catches.

In the middle of my reverie a male voice says, "Here you go, God bless you" as he hands me a small booklet. We exchange smiles and I thank him. He comments on my St. Jude medallion and asks me if I'm secure in my faith. I say I am. He wishes me well and moves on. He walks to a bench next to a fish sink not 10 feet away. A young man sits there with white iPod ear buds on. The middle-aged evangelist taps him on the shoulder:

Evangelist: Hey, hi. Here you go. God bless you.
Boy: What? (removes ear buds) What's this?
Evangelist: Hi, how you doing? Please read this, it's explains how you can know Jesus Christ personally. Do you have a relationship with the Lord?
Boy: What? Yeah, I have a relationship with the Lord. I hate him, alright? So take your damn papers and leave me the hell alone.
(The young man stands up and hurls the booklet over the railing. It flutters down to the sea)
Evangelist: I'm sorry you're angry. Maybe you can tell me about -
Boy: Maybe you can shut the hell up and leave me alone! There is no God, okay? Get over yourself. Frickin' loser.

The young man jams his ear buds back into his ears, slings a dark green messenger bag across his shoulders and walks off. The bag says "ARMY" on the flap. The evangelist sits down on the bench. A few people stare at him. He looks out to the sea for a moment and bows his head.

Mercy

An older man walks slowly on the beachwalk. Cyclists and rollerbladers whiz past him. He walks toward me and squints at the sun. He is in shorts and a t-shirt with "Semper Fi" on it. His tennis shoes are bright white. He walks a beagle alone. A group of young black boys walk past me, shirtless with pants hanging below their hips and underwear sticking out. They are laughing loudly with each other. The man stops and stares. The beagle pulls forward.

"Mercy", he says, under his breath.