Before I tell you how much I love Michelle Obama, let me tell you what I have against her. The former first lady is a woman capable of muddying your stance on things you stood firmly against. First on the list is the very concept of a first lady. Just think about this. For feminists, or anyone frankly with a 21st-century grasp of gender equality, it is a highly troublesome concept. It is a position that involves a woman – no matter the glorious complexity, glittering accomplishment or human drama of her prior life – being shoehorned into a role that is, by definition, about the man to whom she is married.
Her role has never been defined, because, I suspect, to do so would involve the awkward truth – that it’s essentially to make her husband look good. First ladies both feed into, and reflect, our patriarchal values, and so, in this world still so intolerant of female domination, making their husbands look good inevitably involves diminishing themselves, and a decoupling from their own achievements, so as not to outshine the president.
Obama is both the ultimate first lady and has also, which is the second issue, been folded into a narrative of the American dream. This is problematic from a black perspective because, as Malcolm X so pithily expressed it, “I don’t see any American dream. I see an American nightmare.” Obama’s role has been in the American dream of both the future, and the past. It’s often remarked that African Americans are the only Americans who do not have any “good ole days”. Because which period of American history could they be nostalgic for? The state sponsored terror of slavery, and segregation? The long, painful battle for civil rights? Or the enduring economic disadvantage and racism that all three left behind?
But it is precisely amid the dark chaos of these conundrums that we find the irresistible light of Michelle Obama. In Becoming – the first book that tells her story from her own perspective – she reveals that her life is a form of alchemy. Her childhood, growing up on the South Side of Chicago, is recalled with an essentially American kind of wholesomeness: a strong nuclear family of four, sharing a one-bed apartment upstairs while the one below was occupied by her piano teacher great aunt Robbie. Her family worked hard and kept things moving upwards.
If Obama were British, this would be a class tale. She describes herself in her early years as “the striver”. Later, campaigning for the first time with her husband, she recounts the moment she realised that her task is mainly to share this story with “people who despite the difference in skin colour reminded me of my family – postal workers who had bigger dreams just as [her grandfather] Dandy once had; civic-minded piano teachers like Robbie; stay-at-home moms who were active in the PTA like my mother; blue-collar workers who’d do anything for their families, just like my dad. I didn’t need to practice or use notes. I said only what I sincerely felt.”
For more read The Guardian
