Obama the Elder and Younger: Beer Summit Bullies

Some weeks ago, when detractors of Mitt Romney brought up an incident in which he purportedly bullied a kid who looked “different” (which was assumed to mean gay), supporters volleyed back with a passage from “Dreams of My Father” – demonstrating once again how few had actually read the book – In which he recounted shoving Coretta, a middle school girl because his classmates had teased them about being boyfriend and girlfriend.

I would hardly be one to criticize either man for this sort of thing.  At summer camp, I beat up Herbert Spataccini.  I remember little of Herbert, other than he was a bit plump, and word a striped tee shirt as most of did in the 50s when I looked down as I straddled him.

Why did I do it? Because I could, and like the President, I was embarrassed; in my case because I had already been shoved around quite a bit, and wanted to pass some on.  Herbert Spataccini is an unusual name, but unfortunately, the internet hasn’t found him for me.  I look now and then.  It would be nice to apologize.

        Alice Palmer

I don’t know if Mr. Obama has made any effort to locate Coretta – if she isn’t a composite – but it is clear that he has always had a proclivity to bully, from undermining long time progressive Illinois Senator Alice Palmer, essentially stealing her seat through intimidation by lawyer, to ramming thorough His healthcare “reform” that the majority of the American people did not,and do not want, and his consistently belligerent stance towards any who question him.

President Obama is a bully, and it runs in the family.

Early on in “Dreams,” he recounts this family anecdote about his father “recounting the

The Obamas, father and son.

time that my father almost threw a man off the Pali Lookout because of a pipe…” as they showed an out of towner the sights.

Obama’s mother laughingly speaks of the Senor Obama’s terrible driving, which ultimately killed him. She had given the President’s father a pipe of which he was very fond. His grandfather continues.  The visitor, a newly arrived African student asked to try the pipe, drew on it and fell into a fit of coughing, dropping the pipe, which fell over the railing, coming to rest a hundred feet below.

Barack Sr. waited until the man was through coughing then directed him to retrieve the pipe.  He sensibly offered to buy a replacement instead, at which point his host insisted, then in the face of further refusal, picked the poor young man up and dangled him over the cliff.

Obama writes:“I imagine myself looking up at my father, dark against the brilliant sun, the transgressor’s arms flailing about as he’s held aloft.  A fearsome vision of justice.”

What is fearsome is that the President could possibly construe this horrifying tale as being any way related to a concept of justice. Of course, in the view of the severe narcissist, this would be justice for any who did not acknowledge his superiority.

The rest of us would call it an incidence of troubling and dangerous bullying.

                                  Pali Overlook

“Anyway, after a couple of minutes, Obama’s grandfather continues, “ your   dad set the man back down on his feet, patted him on the back, and suggested, calm as you please, that they all go get themselves a beer.

And there we have it, the original Beer Summit, and the behavior is the same.  The President used his authority to intervene in a matter than was none of his concern, other than his connection to Professor Gates, so as to intimidate the Cambridge Police.

Realizing he had overstepped, he apologized and called it a “teachable moment.” As with his father, the silk glove to the mailed fist was beer and conviviality.

The anecdote concludes with Obama’s father saying to his mother, “Relax, Anna,” he said, I only wanted to teach the chap a lesson about the proper care of other people’s  property.”

Another teachable moment. What it teaches us is that collectivists, and their narcissist vanguard, value their own property and privileges, but no one else’s, and are prepared to use both force and guile to achieve their ends.

Like father, like son.

 

 

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“Dreams From My Father”: Obama’s Fables

I read “Dreams from My Father” about a year ago.  It was pretty much what I expected, and I gave it little further thought.  But now that cynophagy and composite girlfriends have produced virtual reams of electronic copy across the internet, I realize I missed something.  I coudda been a contender.  Few of the millions who bought the book read it closely, if at all.

The juicy cuts have been ingested but, perhaps like a hungry man three days after Thanksgiving I can still pick something of interest from the carcass.

I quote from the 2004 edition, published just as State Senator Obama was in his first – and only – term.–

It doesn’t take long to see that Obama is a fabulist, and not a skillful one.  Anecdotes conveniently support his narrative of alienation and oppression with a clumsy didacticism that one would expect in a Stalin Prize winner.

 

From the Introduction:

 

“My wife’s cousin, only six years old, has already lost his innocence.  A few weeks ago he reported to his parents that some of his first grade classmates had refused to play with him because of his dark, unblemished skin”

This seemed unlikely. It’s just too pat.  The boy’s parents had moved to an affluent suburb so that he might flourish in a better school system and live in safety rather than perish in the gang culture of inner city neighborhood from which his parents came.  In this century with America’s institutionalized concern with race, fairness, and multiculturalism, I’m sure someone would watch out for a boy in such a situation, and I have faith in the general decency of my countrymen, even first graders.

Mr. Obama may have congratulated himself on his nice sense of irony as he wrote this, but I don’t buy it.  Notice that the racial slight is at one remove:  it’s something he heard, so, if it didn’t happen, or was exaggerated, it’s not his fault.

One might think that my reaction is rooted in my antipathy to the President, a feeling I freely acknowledge, but consider an anecdote in the first chapter.  The young Obama, living in a low rent apartment in Manhattan, hangs out on the fire escape where he observes whites from a nearby affluent neighborhood walking their dogs and letting them crap everywhere in an arrogant and demeaning challenge to the poor folk who live there.

Not only is the metaphor overdrawn and cartoonish; it’s simply not believable.  Any New Yorker could tell you this would be a very risky practice.  It’s crap all right.  It didn’t happen.

What did happen is that a publisher first paid well for Mr. Obama’s amateurish mythologizing, and years later, a nation is paying dearly for its belief in him and his empty fables.