Hello, Mister President

Barack Obama just rode past my house in a presidential limousine.

Seriously.  He’s slated as Guest Speaker at today’s Coast Guard Academy graduation ceremony taking place two-and-a-half miles down the road.

I missed attending the ceremony by thismuch.  My friend Jake (who I wrote about the other day) would be graduating today if he had stayed in the Coast Guard instead of opting for the Army.  If Jake had remained in New London, I would be sitting in the bleachers right now, waiting to see President Obama in person and hear him speak.  But I’m not.

Thanks a lot, Jake.

Just kidding.  It’s okay.  I’d have liked to see  Mister Obama, sure, but it’s not imperative.  I’d much rather have him over for tea, make some oatmeal scones to go alongside, tell him to put his feet up and take a load off.  Maybe gift him with a copy of my book.

(If there was ever a man in the world who deserved a little escapism through fantasy, it’s him.)

When the first motorcycle cop went by, and the roar of helicopters began overhead, I stood at the dining room window and waited, and waved as the President’s car went by.  Hi, Mister Obama.  Welcome to Connecticut.  I had thought about going outside earlier, hanging out in the yard and waiting by the end of the driveway, but who the heck wants to look suspicious to the Secret Service?  Not me.

I’m not much into celebrity, anyway.  I’ve never quite understood it.  Seems we make gods and goddesses out of those we think are better than us or more talented or smarter or more beautiful.

It’s all rubbish.

We’re all golden.  So-called celebrities are just as flawed as the rest of us (although they — sometimes — hide it better).  We hold as much potential as they.  Could we do what they do?  Sure, we could.  We might not want to, but we have the potential.  We may not believe we can (and therein lies the rub), but CAN we?  You bet.

I hope things go well today.  I hope the protesters of one sort or another stay away (fat chance).  I hope no one boos the President.  I hope he apologizes for dissing the USCG earlier this year.  And (what the heck), I hope he stops by later looking for a cup of tea and a  hot scone.

I can do that.


About Melissa Crandall

Longer ago than I care to admit--although I will--I cut my writing teeth on fanzines and media tie-in novels. Since then, I've moved on to narrative nonfiction, speculative fiction, and essays. I write to explore and understand the world around me, the things I see and experience nearby or from a distance. If I shake myself up, cool. If I shake you up, even better. Not gratuitously--what's the point in that?--but to set what I know, or think I know, on end and realize, "Well, doesn't it look different from this side!" My work is neither sexually explicit nor graphically violent. Let's face it - your imaginations will come up with things far worse than anything I could write, no matter how descriptive. Besides, it's just not my thing. I live in Connecticut with my supportive husband Ed, a cat named Ruby who might just think she's a dog, and an epileptic Australian shepherd named Holly who isn't quite certain anymore who she is, except she knows she loves her mommy.
This entry was posted in Barack Obama, Coast Guard, Connecticut, Essays, Independent Writers, Melissa Crandall, New London, Writer, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Hello, Mister President

  1. Brittany says:

    I’d love to get a five minute discourse with the President sometime. A confidential, no-strings-attached conversation, just to understand where he’s coming from. You can never get the whole truth, no matter how honest or frank someone is being, through a speech.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s