Op-Ed Columns

A transition in social and political norms that has been going on for some time has altered the national dialogue, a welcome change from race-centered to post-racial politics, which eventually will affect relations in hometowns like mine.

Barack Obama exemplifies the new wave.

One way to measure this generational change is the heat of Jesse Jackson, who talks almost exclusively about race, and the coolness of Obama, who seldom mentions race-specific issues.

The distance between the two men widened when Jackson was overheard offering to emasculate the senator in a most unpleasant way. Jackson's son, Jesse Jr., was incensed, "deeply outraged and disappointed."

Referring to his father icily as "Reverend Jackson," he chided the elder Jackson in his own language. "He should keep hope alive and any personal attacks and insults to himself."

A very human evolution is going on here: the old king feels unappreciated, jealous of the popularity of the confident, composed pretender who sees the world with eyes adjusted to the realities of his own time.

Disagreements and tensions between father and son have been going on since fathers scratched complaints about wrong-headed sons on sheets of papyrus. My own father was progressive; he believed in equality, but in parallel societies that evolved until one sweet day in the faraway future they would merge. He thought my own views were a bit too advanced.

Obama couldn't possibly see the world as Jesse Jackson Sr. does. He wasn't on that motel balcony when Dr. Martin Luther King was shot down beside him. Obama was only 2 years old when King gave his "Dream" speech, 3 when John Lewis was beaten in Selma.

In his formative high school years Obama lived with white grandparents in Hawaii, a society so multi-ethnic that there were no minorities, differences invisible. He went to predominantly white Columbia and Harvard.

It was between Columbia and Harvard that he first worked as a community organizer in Chicago's South side, which had been impoverished by the closing of the steel plant. It had sustained the community; its closure meant those who could leave did: department stores, restaurateurs, theaters, dentists, doctors and lawyers.

Obama arrived at Harvard Law School aware of what it meant to be black in a jobless urban environment and was instantly immersed in the multi-cultural, 40-member Law Review. Classmates talked him into running for president. He was elected when conservatives, their first choice defeated, swung to him.

He was a popular leader of a staff that was diverse in every way but brains, who showed their affection for him by this parody of his life: "I was born in Oslo, Norway, the son of a Volvo factory worker and part-time ice fisherman," a mock self-tribute begins. "My mother was a backup singer for Abba. They were good folks." In Chicago, "I discovered I was black, and I have remained so ever since."

This is the world in which Obama and his contemporaries grew up. He never saw "white" and "colored" drinking fountains, never marched for voting rights, never was sealed in the all-black cell of legal segregation.

Perhaps that is why he joined the Congressional Black Caucus but seldom attended its meetings. He did not see politics the same way older members did.

A contemporary who sees things as Obama does is Michael Nutter, mayor of Philadelphia. He won a majority of black and white votes and speaks with concrete realism. "In the context of what I do for a living, I've not figured out a black or white way to fix a pothole."

Another post-racial politician is the 39-year-old mayor of Newark, Cory Booker. Asked by New York Times magazine if he thought of himself as a leader of the black community, he said, "I'm Popeye; I am what I am. I don't want to be pigeonholed … I want people to ask me about nonproliferation … I don't want to be the person that's turned to when CNN talks about black leaders."

The problem for men like Booker — Rhodes Scholar, Stanford and Yale law graduate — is that he is beyond racial politics, but Wolf Blitzer and "the best political team on TV" aren't. They are so excited, "Wow, a real live black man has the nomination. Wow. We're going to talk a lot about that."

You can almost see Booker and Nutter and Obama shaking their heads and muttering, "Oh, no, not more racial politics. When are they going to get beyond that stuff? It's not a story anymore."

As evident as the transition may be to national leaders, including Alabama's U.S. Rep. Artur Davis, it hasn't reached all small towns yet.

Anniston's black community used to be led by the Rev. John Nettles and the Rev. Nimrod Q. Reynolds. If they agreed on something, it happened, but Nettles died, and Reynolds has aged and is in ill health.

In the absence of respected leaders, the chaos of "the street" has filled the void, swirling with gossip, jealousies and suspicion. Men and women with rank in the black community have screamed at each other over marginal issues. A big, likeable councilman can see no color but black.

In time the passing of the torch from Jesse Jackson's generation to Obama's generation will happen at the hometown level, CNN will see it's telling an old story, and older voters will "get it" the way their children and grandchildren do.

The big question is: will they get it by Election Day?