Young Mr. Obama

YOUNG
MR. OBAMA

Chicago and the Making of a
Black President

Edward McClelland

Bloomsbury Press

New York        Berlin        London

To the Arden family: Patrick, Esther, Liam, and Joseph

CONTENTS

Prologue:      
“Hello, Chicago!”

Chapter 1:    
The Gardens

Chapter 2:    
Harold

Chapter 3:    
The Asbestos Piece

Chapter 4:    
Project Vote!

Chapter 5:    
The Young Lawyer

Chapter 6:    
Hyde Park

Chapter 7:    
The First Campaign

Chapter 8:    
State Senator Obama

Chapter 9:    
Defeat

Chapter 10:   
“I'll Kick Your Ass Right Now”

Chapter 11:   
“You Have the Power to Make a U.S. Senator”

Chapter 12:   
The Godfather

Chapter 13:   
The Obama Juice

Epilogue:       
The Birthplace of Post-Racial Politics

Acknowledgments

Prologue

“HELLO, CHICAGO!”

T H E   G A T E S   T O   G R A N T   P A R K
'
S
Hutchinson Field were thrown open at a quarter past six, over an hour ahead of schedule. The crowd massing against the metal barriers wouldn't wait any longer. The first of sixty thousand Obama supporters—those lucky enough to score tickets in an Internet lottery—cantered across the softball diamonds, carefree as streakers, racing for a spot near the floodlit stage. It was standing-room-only for the final Obama rally of the 2008 presidential campaign.

They were young, most of them. There was a sense of conquest as they filled the sunken field and raised American flags of all sizes, from desktop squares to bedsheet banners. The last generational shift in American politics had taken place on the same grass they were trampling. The riots at the 1968 Democratic National Convention broke apart the New Deal coalition and began a forty-year-long conservative backlash whose ashes would be blown away by the end of this night. Then, Chicago had stood for dissent and disunion. It was the stage where a nation acted out its angriest divisions since the Civil War. Once again, the whole world was watching Grant Park, but this time, it would represent the values of the man who had chosen this spot, a man who, four years before, on the second-biggest night of his life, had declared, “There's not a liberal America and a conservative America—there's a
United States
of America.”

“It's the transformative night of my generation,” said a twenty-six-year-old Chicagoan. “Obama is going to be the first post–baby boomer president. He's getting us past the sixties. All this stuff about Bill Ayers and the racial issue, I don't give a shit. There's more important stuff out there, like the economy and alternative energy.”

They came from all over the world. A half dozen Sudanese Lost Boys, all gangly six-footers like the half-African candidate, stood together on a patch of infield dirt. An Irish immigrant wore a faded-looking T-shirt:
BARACK OBAMA FOR ILLINOIS STATE SENATE, 13TH DISTRICT '96
. No such campaign memorabilia had ever existed. The T-shirt came from Urban Outfitters. Every few minutes, the young Irishman checked his BlackBerry. His father was texting him with election returns from in front of a TV in Dublin.

No one anticipated Obama's victory with more satisfaction than Chicago's African-Americans. They had raised the man to power. Twenty-three years before, he had arrived in this city as a stranger, unsure even of his place in its black community. But he had organized its poorest residents, had gotten his picture in
Jet
(whose offices overlooked Grant Park) by becoming president of the
Harvard Law Review
, and then returned to the South Side to marry one of its most beautiful, accomplished daughters and represent his fellow blacks in the state senate. Along the way, some had questioned whether he really was black, or just a deep-down white man whose blackness was only skin deep, an accident of ancestry. But now that he was hours away from winning the most powerful office on Earth, they were eager to claim him, and his triumph, as their own. In the VIP tent sat Jesse Jackson and Oprah Winfrey. Almost as much as Obama, they represented what ambitious African-Americans could achieve in Chicago. Like him, they had arrived in the city in their twenties and risen to worldwide fame.

In the crowd stood Ronnie Wickers, better known as “Ronnie Woo-Woo.” An original Wrigley Field bleacher bum, he had altered his Cubs uniform to read
OBAMA 08
and changed his stadium cheer for the candidate.

“Obama! Woo! Obama! Woo! Obama! Woo!” he wheezed, substituting “Obama” for “Cubs.”

“I'm sixty-seven years old,” Wickers said. “Obama's like Jackie Robinson. An African-American got a chance to play baseball back in the day. Obama, he's got a chance to prove himself.”

The sunken meadow was walled on three sides by skyscrapers, whose illuminated windows formed constellations for city dwellers.
VOTE 2008
spelled out the windows of the Associates Center. The CNA Building was a Lite-Brite Stars and Stripes. Diamond Vision screens, as big as billboards, were flashing CNN's carnival-colored election maps. Whenever a state turned blue, a hundred thousand voices rose. (The crowd outside the park was just as big as the crowd inside. Those who hadn't won a golden ticket stood along Michigan Avenue, begging like Deadheads looking for a miracle. “Anyone need a guest?” “I need one. I'm not a scalper.”) When Ohio went for Obama, the roar was as loud as any cheer for a Bears touchdown in Soldier Field, a few blocks to the south. Mathematically, Ohio didn't clinch the election, but that was the moment everyone knew, because Ohio had tripped up John Kerry in 2004.

It became official at ten o'clock Central Time. Obama's partisans counted down the seconds until the polls closed on the West Coast: “Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one.”

It's not the jubilation from that moment that remains in people's minds. It's the tears. Jesse Jackson, who had grown up in segregated South Carolina, moved to even more segregated Chicago, and sought this same office when it was impossible for a black man to win, watched his protégé with reddened eyes. Oprah Winfrey, born in Mississippi, pregnant at fifteen, leaned on a stranger's shoulder. Out in the meadow, Amie Sipp cried too, after she gave up trying to call her father, who was celebrating on the South Side.

“It means change,” the thirty-year-old woman said. “Equal opportunity. No matter what color you are, you can do whatever you want to do, no limitation.”

When Obama finally emerged for his victory speech, his first words were “Hello, Chicago!” It was both a greeting to the city where he had made his political career and a note of gratitude. Obama is a remarkable politician, but if he hadn't come to Chicago, he wouldn't have been standing on a stage, about to address the entire world. His home state of Hawaii is more diverse, the California of his college days more tolerant, New York more cosmopolitan, and Massachusetts more sophisticated. But only in Chicago could a black man have become president of the United States. His rise to power had begun just a few miles away, on the South Side, in the midst of the largest black community in the United States. It couldn't have happened anywhere else.

Chapter 1

THE GARDENS

A L T G E L D   G A R D E N S—
known to its older residents as “the Gardens,” to its younger residents as “the G,” and as “Alligator Gardens” to the cops who have to deal with its drug trade and its shootings—is a housing project in the remotest reaches of Chicago's South Side. Long, low, two-story apartment buildings, built of mud-brown Chicago brick, cover acres of bottomland along the banks of the Calumet River, which defines the city limits. The Gardens looks more like a military camp than a high-rise slum. In fact, it was built in the 1940s, to house blacks with wartime jobs in the nearby steel mills. It was a first home for upwardly mobile laborers, many just arrived in Chicago from Arkansas or Mississippi who would move on to bungalows and two-flats in the city's Black Belt.

Forty years later, Altgeld was something much less hopeful: a reservation for Chicago's poorest blacks. Most housing projects are in the inner city. Altgeld's location seemed designed to keep its residents unemployed and destitute. The Loop was twenty miles north, the Sears Tower invisible over the horizon. The L had never made it down this far; the nearest station was forty blocks away. Half the residents didn't own cars, which made it nearly impossible to find a job that might allow them to buy a car. Babies were born to public-aid mothers and grew up to raise their own children on public aid. There was a grocery store in a crumbling strip mall, but its aisles were so dirty and disorganized, its meat and vegetables so close to spoiling, that anyone with the means left the Gardens to shop at an A&P in Roseland, the closest real neighborhood.

In a way, Altgeld Gardens was the perfect place for Chicago's poorest. It was part of the Calumet region, a crescent of South Chicago and northwest Indiana that collects whatever the rest of Chicagoland doesn't want to look at, touch, or smell. The steel mills were here, broadcasting soot so thick it sifted onto cars and stuck in steelworkers' throats, to be washed away in mill gate taverns. The Gardens lay along a kink in the Calumet River called the Acme Bend, after the tin-roofed factory that lay across the channel and tainted the water with its waste. The dumps were here, too, so when the wind blew in from Lake Michigan, it carried an acrid, mulchy odor that weakened the residents' lungs.

Toward the end of South Langley Avenue, near where the street dead-ends into the river, was the poorest church in the Archdiocese of Chicago. Our Lady of the Gardens was nicknamed OLG by its parishioners, but to residents who depended on its food pantry or its clothing exchange, the church was simply “the Catholic,” as though it were another of the welfare institutions they dealt with on a weekly basis. OLG's fifty families—all of them either from the Gardens or from Golden Gate, a nearby working-class neighborhood—could rarely muster even $200 for the Sunday collection plate. A grammar school, which charged $300 a year, offered a chance for the brightest students to win a scholarship to a Catholic school in the suburbs, although most ended up at all-black Carver High, a Chicago public school.

No diocesan priest would accept a posting at OLG, so throughout the 1970s and the early 1980s, the pastor was a black man from the Carribean island of St. Kitts. Father Stanley Farier belonged to the Society of the Divine Word, whose mission was working with people so poor that only Jesus would acknowledge them.

“It was like a village in itself,” Farier would remember years later, after he had left the priesthood. “Self-enclosed, often abandoned in a sense, transportation-wise. When I was there in the seventies, you would tell people where you worked, and they would say, ‘Oh, Altgeld Gardens.' It had that kind of a name: drug ridden, crime ridden, and poverty ridden. There was a gang problem, too. There was no job that you could get in Altgeld, except teaching in the school. If you had a job outside, if you didn't have a car, you couldn't hold down a job.”

Because they had no jobs, the people of Altgeld Gardens were scarcely affected by the crisis that struck the Calumet region in the early 1980s: the steel mill closings. The southeast side of Chicago once forged so much steel that it was known as the Ruhr of America, although that was hardly fair, since weapons built of Chicago steel defeated weapons built on the original Ruhr. At its wartime peak, in 1944, the U.S. Steel plant on Lake Michigan employed eighteen thousand men and women—nearly a division of industrial labor. But U.S. Steel had a newer plant in Gary, Indiana, and, slowly, the company allowed its Chicago mill to die of old age. In 1980, it still employed seven thousand steelworkers. Three years later, only a thousand remained. Nearby Wisconsin Steel expired even more abruptly. One afternoon, the workers were simply told to go home, because the mill was bankrupt. The furnaces went cold, the gates were padlocked, the innards sold for scrap.

The steelworkers refused to admit the jobs weren't coming back. But Jerry Kellman, a dark-haired, tight-featured, intense community organizer, could see it. Raised in a Jewish family in the New York City suburbs, Kellman had followed a radical's path to the South Side. While attending the University of Wisconsin—where he demonstrated against the school's ROTC program—he road-tripped to the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. After watching Mayor Richard J. Daley's police go wild on his fellow protesters, Kellman decided Chicago was not a place he ever wanted to live. But he returned a few years later, to learn about organizing poor people from one of Daley's nemeses, Saul Alinsky. Alinsky had founded the community organizing movement in the 1930s by working with progressive Catholic churches to organize meat packers in the city's notorious stockyards.

Alinsky's model of building political power was based on the local Democratic Machine and was one of the Machine's few rivals in an era when Chicago was becoming a one-party town. The churches were the dominant institutions in most people's lives; if you asked a Chicagoan where he lived, he'd name his parish, not his neighborhood. Liberal priests believed in Pope Leo XIII's encyclical on labor: A worker had a right to organize for a wage that would “maintain himself, his wife and children in reasonable comfort.” As a result, Alinsky's Industrial Areas Foundation received large grants from the archdiocese.

Kellman stayed on in Chicago and was working for a group that organized Latino churches when he got an idea for his own campaign. Why not work with churches in the Calumet region to find new jobs for steelworkers who'd been thrown out of work by the recession that coined the term “Rust Belt”? Kellman, who had converted to Catholicism the year before, set about visiting parishes on the South Side and in the south suburbs. Alinsky's model could still work in the mid-1980s, even though religious and neighborhood ties were weaker by then.

“I need board members,” he told the priests, “you, and two parishioners.”

At OLG, Father Dominic Carmon, the Blessed Word priest who had succeeded Stanley Farier as pastor, appointed Loretta Augustine and Yvonne Lloyd—two middle-aged mothers who helped the church sodality raise its meager budget by putting on plays and organizing fund-raising cruises on the lake. Augustine was the grade school's Girl Scout leader, sang in the choir, and sat on the school's board.

“I can't think of any two people I'd rather have than the two of you,” Carmon told the women.

The Calumet Community Religious Conference, as Kellman's new organization was called, was an immediate success, winning a $500,000 state grant to open a job bank at a local college. But Augustine and Lloyd felt out of place at the meetings, which were held at a suburban church. The job bank was nice, they thought, but the Gardens didn't have any steelworkers. The Gardens had people who had never held a job in their lives.

“Loretta and I would go to the meetings, and we'd sit there, and we knew what was needed,” Lloyd would recall years later. “The Gardens was going down and there was so many problems over there. But they were focused on stuff suburban people focused on, like how much you fine someone if they didn't cut their grass, and the garbage cans had to be put out on the curb. I didn't care about that. I had enough kids to pick up garbage cans and put 'em in the yard.”

Father Carmon was concerned about the landfill. The residents constantly complained that the fumes made them ill. One of his fellow priests had developed cancer.

Kellman agreed that his South Side and suburban churches were unequally yoked. He decided to split the urban parishes into a separate group, which he named the Developing Communities Project. He realized the group needed a black organizer. While he searched for one, he placed it under the aegis of a colleague named Mike Kruglik. Kruglik was an experienced organizer, but he was also Jewish, Princeton educated, and spoke with a sharp-voweled white ethnic accent. Even though the DCP's board members knew Kruglik was temporary, they bridled at his leadership.

“I know you're trying,” Lloyd told Kruglik, “but you're in the city, and most of the churches in the city are black, and they're not gonna listen to what you say, because they feel like you're not in tune with the things that we need to survive.”

Throughout early 1985, Kellman was searching frantically for a permanent organizer, taking out ads in the Chicago papers, trade journals, even the
New York Times
. He brought more than one black candidate before the board, but none of them had the right combination of brains and idealism. The problem, Kellman reflected, was that anyone smart enough to be an organizer was too smart to be an organizer. The bright ones had better opportunities. He was frustrated, the women were frustrated, the priests were frustrated.

“I have some people in mind,” he told a board meeting, “but so far, I haven't found a black organizer.”

“You're gonna have to go back,” a black priest told him, “ 'cause there's somebody out there.”

In a reading room at the New York Public Library, an unemployed, twenty-three-year-old Barack Obama picked up a magazine called
Community Jobs
, a “do-gooder publication,” as he thought of it, that carried classified ads for community organizers. He had quit his job as an editor at a business news service because it made him feel like a corporate sellout and was trying to break into organizing by taking part-time gigs in Harlem with the New York Public Interest Research Group, an organization affiliated with Ralph Nader.

Obama had tried once before to get a job in Chicago, writing to the city's newly elected black mayor, Harold Washington. He never heard back. If he couldn't work in city hall, close to the mayor, maybe he could work on the South Side. Obama was looking for a job in an African-American community, and the South Side—home to nearly a million blacks—was the largest African-American community in America. He mailed his résumé to Kellman.

Kellman was impressed enough to schedule an interview with Obama the next time he visited New York. They met in a Lexington Avenue coffee shop, where Kellman was relieved to see that, in spite of his foreign-sounding name, Obama was an African-American. It was immediately obvious to Kellman that he'd found the right candidate, so he started pitching Obama on the job, telling him about the devastation in the Calumet region. The steel mills were hot, dangerous, and dirty, he said, but people desperately wanted to work there, because it was a job for life. Now that the mills were gone, disillusionment and bitterness were corroding the community. The worse he made it sound, the more Obama would feel needed there, Kellman figured. Obama was so desperate to become an organizer in a black community that Kellman could have talked him into a job in Newark. They struck a deal at the table: Obama would start at $10,000 a year, plus a car allowance. A week later, he was headed to Chicago in a $2,000 Honda beater.

Loretta Augustine and Yvonne Lloyd first saw their new organizer at a rally in a suburban high school, thrown to celebrate the CCRC's half-million-dollar job grant. It was a big night, with eight hundred people packed into the gym to hear a speech by Cardinal Joseph Bernardin, the archbishop of Chicago.

Oh, my God, Augustine thought as Kellman introduced her to the gangly young man, he's got this kid. Is he even going to be up for this? He looks so young.

Obama won her over quickly. In the short time he'd had to prepare, he'd done some research on the South Side. As soon as he started talking, describing his vision for the neighborhoods, Augustine looked at Lloyd and they nodded to each other.

“Loretta, that's the one,” Lloyd said.

“Sure is,” Augustine replied.

Obama admitted to the women that he knew nothing about community organizing, but at least he was honest about that, they thought, and he was respectful. In spite of his obvious intelligence and his Ivy League degree, he didn't condescend. Later, Lloyd and Augustine took him on a tour of the neighborhood's boarded-up houses. They could tell he was going to fit in at the Gardens when he sat down with an OLG nun who was a notoriously bad cook and ate her pie. Not even the church ladies would do that.

Obama's new office was two rooms in the rectory of Holy Rosary Church, on 113th Street. A soaring, vaulted church, with its own convent and grade school, Holy Rosary had once been a cornerstone of the Roseland neighborhood, filled with prosperous families. Now it was struggling to serve a multiracial congregation composed of blacks, Latinos, and older whites. In the 1970s, no Chicago neighborhood changed from white to black more rapidly than Roseland, which had taken its name from the flowers planted by its original Dutch settlers. The shopping strip on Michigan Avenue told the story: The tall marquee of Gately's Department Store was still bolted to a brick storefront, but the business had closed a few years before, unable to compete with suburban malls. The shoe emporium followed, then the hardware store, then the restaurants. They were replaced by wig shops and sneaker boutiques, owned by Koreans who drove in from the suburbs each morning to raise the gates on their ghetto businesses—like a daily invasion of locusts, some residents thought resentfully. While the streets west of the railroad tracks still maintained a middle-class, even stately appearance, the drug trade was part of the new commerce on Michigan Avenue.