During trips to Europe when Barack Obama was president of the United States, I felt like a rock star because, well, he was one, and some of that sheen couldn’t help but rub off on any random American. It was a point his Republican antagonists used to attack him, as though possessing celebrity-style charisma was a bad thing. (If only members of the GOP could have predicted the future, when their own candidate was best known for listing the TV show “The Apprentice” on his thin political resume.)
I fondly remember those trips, when I got a few free drinks and lots of conversation. Those Europeans admired that America, a country with a history of racial segregation and racist violence, could progress enough to elect an African American as its president. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Obama was a man with extraordinary political and personal gifts, and had a picture-perfect family to match.
While neither I nor any Black American I knew bought into the fantasy of a post-racial America — our own experiences and U.S. history taught us better — I felt very protective and proud of my country. I knew their own countries could not claim a parallel achievement and didn’t hesitate to tell them so, even
