Dreams From My Father

Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars
On the bright side, the current U.S. president has come a ong way as a writer since he was merely known as Barack Obama, Esquire.

Unfortunately, that also means his first book, the much-lauded Dreams From My Father, is a disappointment. having been moved to tears by Obama's speeches on the campaign trail and afterward, I expected this memoir—the story of Obama's struggle to come to terms with his absent father's legacy—to touch me in similar ways. but as Obama admits in his 2004 preface, written 10 years after the book was first published, given the chance to write it again, he would have cut more.

At first, I thought this was just false modesty, but Dreams could have been half as long (it runs 442 pages) without losing anything essential. The main problem is that while Obama has a fascinating story to tell, of growing up a mixed-race man and discovering the father he met just once, the book reads like a soap opera filled with family squabbles and the small-minded conflict one encounters at work. Some of that is relevant to what makes Obama's life story compelling, but the bulk of it just feels like the unedited pages of a journal.

It's a pity, too, because clearly Obama has something important to tell us—about our rigid racial attitudes and how we might make sense of a deceased parent's mistakes—but extracting those lessons from amidst all of the unnecessary detail included here is much more trying that it ought to be.

It seems President Obama has learned a lot about writing these past 15 years, acquired great speechwriters, or maybe is just an exceptional orator. Whatever the reason, I sit up and take notice when he speaks, but could scarcely pay attention while reading Dreams From My Father.

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Website of the Day #1

earthalbum.com

From their blurb: earth album is a simpler, slicker Flickr mash-up that allows you to explore some of the most stunning photos in the world courtesy of Google maps and Flickr. To begin your journey, just click somewhere on the map, e.g. "India". Note-- since the top Flickr images are used, the images change every few weeks; bookmark this site and check back for a different experience in a month!

A few of the awesome images I found there:

Song of the Day #4

This traditional (i.e., no composer listed) tune has been recorded by many Irish musicians over the years, and I just heard an inspired version of it on Pandora by The Young Dubliners, but for me, the true "owner" of this is Sinead O'Connor, whose rendition is played prior to every Dropkick Murphys show. The visceral power of this song makes an almost-total pacifist like me want to take up arms in defense of Róisín Dubh (he writes, ignoring the fact that Ireland needs an infusion of capital, not willing martyrs, at this point in its history.) Anyway, here 'tis:

The Foggy Dew

As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I
There armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by
No pipe did hum nor battle drum did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out through the foggy dew

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar
And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through
While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that "small nations might be free";
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Valera True
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crack made perfidious Albion reel
In the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine o'er the lines of steel
By each shining blade a prayer was said, that to Ireland her sons be true
But when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew

Oh the bravest fell, and the Requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the spring time of the year
And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew

As back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.