Dreams from My Father - Barack Obama [113]
But when the day of reckoning arrived, I counted only eight heads in the yellow bus parked in front of the school. Bernadette and I stood in the parking lot trying to recruit other parents as they came to pick up their children. They said they had doctors’ appointments or couldn’t find baby-sitters. Some didn’t bother with excuses, walking past us as if we were panhandlers. When Angela, Mona, and Shirley arrived to see how things were shaping up, I insisted they ride with us to lend moral support. Everyone looked depressed, everyone except Tyrone and Jewel, who were busy making faces at Mr. Lucas, the only father in the group. Dr. Collier came up beside me.
“I guess this is it,” I said.
“Better than I expected,” she said. “Obama’s Army.”
“Right.”
“Good luck,” she said, and clapped me on the back.
The bus rolled past the old incinerator and the Ryerson Steel plant, through Jackson Park, and then onto Lake Shore Drive. As we approached downtown, I passed out a script for the action and asked everyone to read it over carefully. Waiting for them to finish, I noticed that Mr. Lucas had a deep frown carved into his forehead. He was a short, gentle man with a bit of a stutter; he did odd jobs around Altgeld and helped out the mother of his children whenever he could. I came up beside him and asked if something was wrong.
“I don’t read so good,” he said quietly.
We both looked down at the page of crowded type.
“That’s okay.” I walked to the front of the bus. “Listen up, everybody! We’re going to go over the script together to make sure we’ve got it straight. What do we want?”
“A meeting with the director!”
“Where?”
“In Altgeld!”
“What if they say they’ll give us an answer later?”
“We want an answer now!”
“What if they do something we don’t expect?”
“We caucus!”
“Crackers!” Tyrone shouted.
The CHA office was in a stout gray building in the center of the Loop. We filed off the bus, entered the lobby, and mashed onto the elevator. On the fourth floor, we entered a brightly lit lobby where a receptionist sat behind an imposing desk.
“Can I help you?” she said, scarcely glancing up from her magazine.
“We’d like to see the director, please,” Sadie said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“He …” Sadie turned to me.
“He knows we’re coming,” I said.
“Well, he’s not in the office right now.”
Sadie said, “Could you please check with his deputy?”
The receptionist looked up with an icy stare, but we stood our ground. “Have a seat,” she said finally.
The parents sat down, and everyone fell into silence. Shirley started to light a cigarette, but Angela elbowed her in the ribs.
“We’re supposed to be concerned about health, remember?”
“It’s too late for me, girl,” Shirley muttered, but the pack went back into her purse. A group of men in suits and ties came out of the door behind the receptionist’s desk and gave our contingent the once-over as they walked to the elevator. Linda whispered something to Bernadette; Bernadette whispered back.
“What’s everybody whispering for?” I asked loudly.
The children giggled. Bernadette said, “I feel like I’m waiting to see the principal or something.”
“You hear that, everybody,” I said. “They build these big offices to make you feel intimidated. Just remember that this is a public authority. Folks who work here are responsible to you.”
“Excuse me,” the receptionist said to us, her voice rising to match mine. “I’ve been told that the director will not be able to see you today. You should report any problems you have to Mr. Anderson out in Altgeld.”
“Look, we’ve already seen Mr. Anderson,” Bernadette said. “If the director’s not here, we’d like to see his deputy.”
“I’m sorry but that’s not possible. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll have to call Security.”
At that moment, the elevator doors opened and several TV film crews came in, along with various reporters. “Is this the protest about asbestos?” one of the reporters asked me.
I pointed