I had a chance the other day to revisit one of my former employers from my food service days, an independent downtown seafood restaurant. I worked here nine years during college, off and on, and managed it for four of those nine. I like the place. It’s got a beachy feel, lots of nautical clutter, it and the seafood is first rate, if expensive. I wandered back into the kitchen to say howdy, and unsurprisingly, B was there. B has forgotten more about cooking fish in the last five minutes than you ever will learn. He’s an older black gentleman, he’s been with the joint forever, and when you taste his marinated and grilled tuna steak a heavenly chorus erupts in your mouth.
B has also voted religiously in every election he’s been able to. He’s not an activist, but he’s an extremely loyal and dependable Democrat. He’s as rank-and-file as they come, and I trust his opinion implicitly on such things as who the black community in my strongly-blue city is supporting. Our conversation was interesting.
"Who do you favor, B?" I asked, after catching up on our mutual families and friends.
He turned his head and worked his jaw. He knew the question was coming – we talk politics every time I come in. We also joke, good-naturedly, about him being my "magical negro" and he yanks my chain about it frequently. B is far from magical, unless the subject is fish. He calls me his "magical cracker" because I had the foresight to give him a couple of aspirin one busy night when he was sweating badly and had chest pains, and the doctor said later that that aspirin probably saved his life.
"Well, I was kinda leanin’ towards Hillary," he admitted, finally, as he deftly plated up an order. It was early, and a week night, so I wasn’t keeping him from work. Besides, B can handle a full house by himself, at need, though his son was around to help if he needed it. "But then I got to thinkin’," he continued, softly.
"About what?"
"Well, you know Mrs. ___, right?"
She’s a prominent local black pol, a powerful woman in local black politics. I’ve met her several times, and generally got along with her. She's charming, if militant. She had deep roots in the civil rights movement, served on eight million local committees, and was widely respected across town, even by her political foes. "Yeah, I know her."
"Well we were talkin’ about this very thing the other day," he continued. "And she was pullin’ for Hillary. Hillary, Hillary, Hillary. About how she was the best candidate we could hope for, how it would be just like the 90s again with Bill. And I told her somethin’."
"What?"
"Hillary ain’t Bill." Now, this might seem pretty obvious, and not terribly important in the great political scheme of things. But this was B talking, and B was a window into the black community in my town – not the headline making political class that had been running the local Democratic machine here since the 1970s, but the real black community. The one that got up and went to work every morning. I liked Bill Clinton, even when I was in favor of his impeachment for lying under oath. B LOVED Bill Clinton. But, apparently, not Hillary. I was all ears.
"Is that so?" I asked, because B likes a bit of Socratic dialog.
"Yessir," he continued, a trace of a smile on his face. "Love me some Bill. Best damn years of my life, the nineties. But Hillary . . ." he looked around, conspiratorially as if Hillary people were going to jump out of the walk-in. "She ain’t Bill Clinton. Don’t trust her."
"You don’t trust her?"
"I don’t," he affirmed. "She reminds me of ___," he said, naming a woman we both knew that worked in a firm down the street and came in to the restaurant regularly. She complained constantly about everything, she rarely tipped, and no one liked to wait on her. I thought it was a little extreme – Hillary doesn’t compare with ____, in my opinion – but this was B’s point of view, which is what I wanted. "’Sides, why the hell would I vote for a rich white woman when I got a chance to vote for a black man with a real chance for once?"
"I thought y’all thought he’d get assassinated?" I asked, confused, referring to our last conversation on the subject. That was a widely-held opinion amongst the black community: that any black politician with a decent shot at the White House wouldn’t live to take office. A lot of the local black community had felt burned by the lukewarm reception of Harvey Gant among white Democrats, and by the utter rejection of Jesse Jackson as a candidate way back in history. It had been a depressing admission from him, last time we spoke. He liked Obama, liked his youth, his energy, his enthusiasm. LOVED his wife, too. B said she reminded B of his mother.
"Might," B agreed. "And I didn’t think he’d get far – who’s gonna vote for him besides black folks? But then I was talking to ______ (a local white businessman we both knew who has been a staunch conservative since before Regan) and he said he was an Obama supporter."
I was surprised. I always figured _____ for a Romney man, and I vowed to track him down and get his take. Apparently B had been surprised, too. "And it got me thinkin’ – if he can vote for Obama, why the hell wouldn’t I vote for him? Just cause Mrs. _______ says Hillary’s got our back, ain’t necessarily so."
"Why B, you sound a trifle cynical about politicians!" I teased him. B might vote religiously, but he’s not shy about bitching about the elected officials he just elected, either. He hated the local Sheriff – a black Democrat – and wasn’t too keen on the Mayor, either. Upon that we both agreed. We both laughed. Southern politics is funny like that.
"I don’t know, just seems like all the hell we been through since Clinton left office, we need someone who can bring us together after Bush. Never thought I’d see the day when Mr. ____ is supporting a black Democrat and I was supporting a rich white lady. That I don’t trust," he added. "Told Mrs. _____ that very thing."
"And what did she say?"
"She said I was just sayin’ that ‘cause I’m a man, and that we needed to stick together on this. Said Hillary had the best interest of the African American community at heart. I don't believe her. Ain’t like it’ll be important. By the time we vote, it’ll be all sewn up."
He was right – our state was one of the many who ratified the candidate on Super-Duper Tuesday. "But I did something, Sic," he added, that conspiratorial tone back in his voice. "I gave ten dollars to Obama. First time I ever did that." B was not known for his openhandedness – he worked hard for his money, and had two college-age kids to support. So this admission shocked me. B might vote – because it was free – but to my knowledge he had never given a dime to any candidate. He hated even dropping a five in the plate at church. "Ain’t gonna give my money to Hillary. She got enough of my money."
From there the conversation turned to other things, and I took my leave after a while. It was starting to get busy and I didn't want to distract the man. But the message had been clear: Hillary, despite polls and ads and tireless activism, didn’t seem quite as strong in the African-American community in my town as she would like. Sure enough, when I passed B’s beat-up Ford in the parking lot, there was a shiny new Obama ’08 sticker on his bumper opposite his faded Blue Devils sticker.
Right next to another one. On a Lexus.
We live in interesting times.