Dreams from my father
Dreams from my father
In this realistic and expressive biography that captures the reader's entity. The son of an African man and an American woman is looking for a true meaning in his life as a black American.
I could neither wait, I carried my things down again and sat at the entrance of the building, and after some
I put my hand in my back pocket, and i took out the letter I was carrying with me since I left Los Angeles: my beloved son was a really pleasant surprise to receive a letter from you after all this time. I'm fine doing those things that you know are expected of me in this country. I just got back from London where I was interested in doing some government work and discussing finance and more. In fact, I rarely write to you because of these many travels, and in any case, I think the situation will improve from now on.
You will be happy to know that all your brothers and sisters here are fine, send you their greetings, and they have so much welcomed the decision to return home after graduation just like me, and when you come, we decide together how long you want to stay. Barry, even if the visit lasts only a few days, it is important that you know your people and know where you belong.
Please take care of yourself, say hello to your mother, grandmother and Stanley, and I hope to receive letters from you soon.
love, your father folded the letter and brought it back to my pocket. It was not easy to write to him, as all correspondence between us had been interrupted over the past four years. In fact, I put several drafts for the speech, and I deleted the full lines, and I was struggling to write in the right tone and resist the urge to explain a lot of things, I did not know how to start the speech: "My dear father" or "My dear father" or "Dear Dr. Obama", and here he answered my speech with joy and calm ness and advised me to know where I belong, and made it seem like the employee answered you in the service of the company's queries:
"Queries, any city?"
"I don't know... I wish you'd tell me, the name is Obama, where do I belong?" I imagined my father sitting at his office in Nairobi, an important man in the government with staff and secretaries giving him papers to adopt, a minister calling him asking for advice, a loving wife and children waiting for him at home and his father's village a day's drive away. This image made me somehow angry, and I tried to put it aside and focus instead on the sound of "salsa" music coming from an open window somewhere in the apartment complex, but the same ideas kept coming back and continuing like my heart beat. Where
do I belong?