Public Enemy Read online

  All during the campaign Senator Obama had described himself as a moderate, pragmatic, middle-of-the-road politician. The Right responded in full-throated attack that he was in fact a secret Muslim and a closeted socialist, some kind of Trojan horse and Manchurian candidate rolled into one to destroy the country, while the Left said, in effect, “I think he’s winking at me.” He wasn’t winking, and his self-description turned out to be absolutely accurate, perfectly matching his record in Illinois and in the US Senate if anyone had bothered to look it up. He was super-smart, personable, compassionate, and decent in a thousand ways—all true. He was also a mainstream moderate, as advertised, prepared to sit on the throne of a now-declining empire and command its violent legions.

  He was also unique in several ways: an African American who knew many of the inconvenient truths of American history up close; a community organizer who had spent countless days sitting at kitchen tables with poor and working people listening and learning from their experiences and perspectives; a powerful writer of his own unique story; a proud papa; and a global citizen who could brilliantly evoke, for example, a fleeting but meaningful encounter with a migrant worker in Spain, the sense of a shared story and deeper human solidarity embodied in that chance meeting, and describe the traveler as “just another hungry man far away from home, one of the many children of former colonies . . . now breaching the barricades of their former masters, mounting their own ragged, haphazard invasion.” That was a stunning piece of writing, from Dreams from My Father, as well as a beautiful sentiment reflecting a humane politics that comes straight from the bottom up.

  We were besieged by reporters as we went into the school and as we exited, but we just smiled, waved, and kept on truckin’. Election workers were happy to see us and to shake our hands, everyone feeling a kind of collective joy, and even inside the little school gym the folding bleachers had been opened and were filled with press people who shouted questions: “How does it look to you?” “Will you grant an interview tomorrow?”

  We hung out on our front porch chatting with friends and neighbors and the Japanese news media until the Obamas arrived in a frenetic swirl of lights and color and noise. The cheering began in anticipation, held a high pitch as they waved and embraced neighborhood folks and walked into the school, and lingered until long after they were gone.

  Fox News covered the event with video of Minister Farrakhan voting early, and then a shot of Bernardine and me entering the same polling place, and finally the Obamas coming to vote sometime later. The reporter pointed out the clever sequence and pattern of the parade and then posed the foxy question: “Farrakhan, then Ayers, then Obama . . . coincidence?” I thought, No! It must be a conspiracy! Great investigative reporting: the minister and I had each left voting instructions for the Obamas taped under the tray inside the booth. How else would they know how to vote? And Fox News sniffed it out!

  As I was preparing for class later in the day, David Remnick, the editor of the New Yorker, rang the doorbell. I’d been pretty solid in my silence for months, but I was suddenly unsure if the injunction had now been lifted. I mean, it wasn’t quite after the election—there were several hours to go—but we’d already voted, and it was tough to see how anything I might say or do now could sway the outcome or become fodder for the lunatic Right. It suddenly occurred to me: I’m free! I laughed out loud suddenly and did a little spontaneous jig. Ha! I’m free!

  And then I wondered, but am I really? Could I now run naked in the streets, all shackles dropped and all bets off? Better not, so instead I called Bernardine. She didn’t answer. What to do? I was rusty and unsure, but it was David Remnick for God’s sake, and the New Yorker, and for a small group of people, me included, that’s the pinnacle of something, even though I’m not sure exactly what it’s at the top of. Remnick couldn’t have been any more nerdy—I can’t remember what he looked like at all, youngish middle-aged, I think, khakis and loafers probably, maybe a pocket protector—but I was panting slightly nonetheless, my senses shaky and my vision blurred.

  “Could we talk for a few minutes?” he asked.

  So we sat on the front steps and talked and talked. He was really smart, needless to say, and low-key, and when he asked if he could take notes and pulled out a notebook and pencil, I said, “Sure, why not, of course you can,” and we sat there together, me babbling away. What could I possibly say of interest? No matter, don’t think about it—blah, blah, blah. I was off the leash.

  Barack Obama won the election, in case anyone missed it. Barack Obama was president of the United States. The satirical Onion captured the moment as only it can: “Black Man Given the Worst Job in America.” But now when anyone asked to take a picture with me and uttered the old tired joke, “I guess I can’t run for president now,” I would respond: “What are you talking about? Obama is the president—the worst job in America—and who can say I hurt him in the end? Maybe I gave him just the bump he needed.”

  And it was as if a secret gag order from some undisclosed headquarters was instantly rescinded and an announcement had been sent simultaneously to anyone I’d ever known—the shunning of the past months was suddenly and decidedly over! Colleagues who hadn’t glanced in my direction in months stopped by my office for a chat, neighbors waved and offered cheerful greetings, and folks from near and far called me to check in and see how I was doing. Invariably people offered their heartfelt sympathies for the “hammering you took from the Right.” Most added that they admired “the dignity and resoluteness” I’d shown through the whole ordeal; everyone was buoyed and relieved, with a generous helping of fellow-feeling. Being welcomed back into the community took some getting used to, but it was also pleasant and satisfying. I was happy the madness had passed, even if temporarily.

  But it reminded me of a story a friend of ours from Cape Town, South Africa, had told us years earlier. Vivian had been an underground member of the revolutionary African National Congress during the fight for freedom, and he was simultaneously a leader of the Black Business Association. He’d created a way around some of the restrictions of apartheid with the help of a Jewish friend and colleague. Vivian couldn’t operate his jewelry business in an office in a restricted zone, so his colleague—his white cover—took out a lease on an office and signed the papers each year, and Vivian technically became an employee of what was in fact his own business. This arrangement worked for a time, but there came a point when his colleague said it seemed only fair that Vivian pay him a sum for the service of signing the papers. What? Vivian was astonished, argued with his colleague for a time, and then gave in: the papers would be signed for a small fee—a pathetic and corrupting profit from apartheid, Vivian concluded. But, what the hell?

  He hardly saw the man again, but shortly after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison and his election as president of a free South Africa, Vivian ran into his old colleague on the street. The man embraced him warmly and said, “Isn’t it wonderful! We are all free!” Astonished once more, Vivian hugged him back—a bit awkwardly—and marveled at the very human capacity for self-deception. The man had forgotten or suppressed his shabby behavior when it actually mattered.

  The gag order was definitely off, and having neither an agent nor much sense, I jumped quickly at the first chance to tell my story. An editor for a national magazine had invited me to do a long personal essay for a ridiculously high fee, and I agreed, but it fell through as soon I wrote a brief op-ed for the New York Times. “We wanted an exclusive,” he explained.

  The Times piece was short, and some junior editor gave it an idiotic and impossible headline: “The Real Bill Ayers.” Life’s too twisty and forward-charging for that, I thought—the real me was an open question and a work in progress, a many-splendored thing and a chaotic mash-up. We’ll see about the real Ayers, but what the hell—I was happy to speak for myself after being talked about for so long. I was in a hurry, and the Times was ready right away.

  I explained that all the folks recurring in the weird na
rrative that dogged the Obama campaign—the “fiery America-hating preacher,” the “dangerous Palestinian academic,” and the “unrepentant domestic terrorist”—were simply caricatures and fantasies. None of those people actually existed, and flushing out every tie and suggested affiliation with these cartoon characters, which had been big news for months, was nothing but a fool’s errand.

  As the putative unrepentant terrorist, I’d often felt like Goldstein from George Orwell’s 1984—the public enemy projected onto a large screen in the ritual “two minutes hate” scene when the faithful gathered in a frenzy of fear and loathing, chanting, “Kill him!” In the pre-election frenzy I saw no sensible path to a rational discussion, and so I decided to turn away whenever the microphones were thrust in my face. I sat it out.

  But with the election over I wanted to say as plainly as I could that that character wasn’t me, not even close.

  I sent a note to Sarah Palin then, suggesting that we launch a talk show together called “Palling Around with Sarah and Bill.” It was just a joke, but I couldn’t resist. Fox News would be good, I said, but I didn’t have any contacts there, or anywhere else really. I asked if she could check around for us, kind of be my/our agent. I never heard back.

  I went on Hardball, a show I’d never seen before—although I’ve watched like a junkie ever since—and I found Chris Matthews the most fun and entertaining interviewer I’d ever experienced. He ran quickly from one thing to another, throwing out questions helter-skelter, which he mostly answered himself—and that suited me just fine, since I had a cold and a terrible sore throat and was downing cup after cup of Throat Coat tea. He injected little bits of autobiography here and there, and after thoroughly interrogating himself, ended with a judgment: “You’re a good guy, Bill Ayers; I think you’re a good guy.” I figured he prepared for the interview by drinking gallons of espresso, or going off his meds.

  I agreed to an interview on Good Morning America and flew to New York the night before, staying with my kids in order to make the early morning appointment. I didn’t want to get trapped into a silly game of affirming or denying every detail of my relationship with the president-elect—did you meet him at such and such a place? Did you ever have brunch together? Chesa had the smartest answer: “Just say, ‘I knew Barack Obama about as well as thousands of other people—I don’t believe we ever shared a milk shake with two straws; I mean, we weren’t that close—and like millions of others, I wish I knew him much better today.”’ That was true.

  Barbara Walters and Robin Roberts came by the green room to say hello and to chat—I knew that BJ would absolutely freak out; to her, they were not quite Oprah, but in that league—and they were each lovely. When I later told BJ I’d talked with them, she went nuts and made me relate over and over every detail of our one minute together.

  But my on-air interviewer was Chris Cuomo, son of Mario and brother of Andrew, a bit cold and somewhat severe. I realized quickly that he felt compelled somehow to show his audience that he was not seated with a friend—I knew the sad tradition of American journalists assuming a respectful and deferential tone whenever interviewing an ally of the country, every random right-wing Israeli politician, for example, or a dictator like Pervez Musharraf, while an enemy of the state department always got, in effect, an adversarial interrogation and waves of terse toughness. His tone was part of his act, and it changed abruptly when we took a station break. Suddenly, he was kind and relaxed and sympathetic: “I can imagine what you’ve been going through with these attacks and all the guilt by association,” he said. “You know when my dad ran for president, the same thing happened to him—his opponents kept unfairly linking him to the Mafia.” Wait a minute, I thought, are you connecting me to your dad, wrongly smeared, or am I in the Mafia role here?

  Back on the air he produced a copy of a page from Prairie Fire, the manifesto of the Underground, and suggested that I somehow supported Sirhan Sirhan. I said that that was ridiculous and stupid. He asked how well I’d actually known Barack Obama and I said, “I knew Barack Obama about as well as thousands of other people—I don’t believe we ever shared a milk shake with two straws; I mean, we weren’t that close—and like millions of others, I wish I knew him much better today.”

  Among the laughable highlights from the lunacy tracking me through the presidential race was a photograph bouncing from blog to blog, conspiracy site to paranoid central—it was an early snapshot of Bernardine and me smiling arm in arm with the caption “Bill Ayers and Obama’s mother, ‘Ann Dunham’: Dreams from Which Father?” Dunham and Bernardine were both born in 1942, it’s true, and they were both beautiful and free-spirited women. For a dedicated few, the idea took hold—OMG! We were Barack’s parents, not his pals!

  The story that I had secretly ghostwritten Dreams from My Father, Barack Obama’s beautifully constructed memoir had gone wild in a shadowy corner of the blogosphere. A bunch of cranks fed the fire at first, and soon enough more serious analysts signed on and spoke up about the vast, complex conspiracy that I was orchestrating, perhaps even dictating Obama’s thoughts. How could I ever prove the negative?

  I was walking through Reagan National Airport when a mild-looking middle-aged woman approached me and asked if I were Bill Ayers. “I am,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Anne Leary,” she replied as we walked along.

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a right-wing blogger,” she said without hesitation. “And I’d love to ask you one question.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Shoot.”

  “Did you write Dreams from My Father?” she asked, and I laughed out loud.

  Here we go, I thought, and then—FLASH!—I had an inspiration. We stopped and I turned to face her. I asked her to please quote me exactly. “Of course I will,” she said.

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “OK. I wrote Dreams, every word of it,” I said. “Are you getting this down, Anne? I met with Barack Obama maybe three or four times total on this project, and then I just made the whole thing up, ghostwrote the entire book. I doubt that he even proofed it. Now, if you can help me prove that I wrote it, I’ll split the royalties with you.”

  She wrote furiously and smiled broadly. “Thank you! Thank you!” she repeated, shaking my hand. I thought I’d brought a little ray of sunshine into what I imagined must be a slightly dim and arid space, and I felt great.

  Anne was true to her word. She posted the interview, and her obscure little site got tons of hits and lots of links, soaring upward on a big traffic-ranking site to number 3 and then number 2 and, finally, number 1! Wow! Anne was big time now in her murky little echo chamber, a real hero for finally getting confirmation on a story they all knew to be true but couldn’t prove—until now.

  From hero to goat in a matter of days: first Jonah Goldberg, then National Journal and Rush Limbaugh, and finally the Times, which said that it sounded like “Ayers is jerking some chains.” The story suffered a sudden unanticipated reversal, and they began to bicker and dig a bit of a trough for themselves. If they said I wrote the book, that was an example of courageous and intrepid investigative journalism; if I said I wrote the book, that was just me being a goofball, while making asses out of them. The real story, as Rush saw it, was that I did write the book, but by admitting that I did, I was actually cleverly asserting that I didn’t write the book. Oh, what a tangled web I weave!

  I thought the lunacy of authorship was dead and done when I met Jamie Weinstein, a young and eager reporter with the Daily Caller. After some harmless chatter, he said, “Listen, I know what you’re going to say, but I feel I need to ask you a question, and I’d appreciate an honest answer. Did you write Dreams?” I said I did. “No, that’s what I mean. I don’t want you to make that same joke; I want you to tell the truth—did you write it?” “I did.” “No!” Where would this ever end? I wondered.

  I wrote to Jamie later and suggested that his insistence demonstrated an irony-challenged temperament. He disagreed: “If I was ir
ony-challenged, I would have accepted your answer . . . at face value. . . . I thought the authorship conspiracy was similarly insane—until I came across Christopher Andersen’s portrait of Barack and Michelle’s marriage two weeks ago. Andersen is hardly a right-wing ideologue or conspiracy-monger.”

  In fact, I’d never read Andersen’s book, Barack and Michelle, so I didn’t know if Jamie had it right, but apparently in it Andersen claims I had a major hand in writing Dreams. Jamie went on:

  He [Andersen] claims to have talked to over 200 people close to the president in Chicago and elsewhere. So when I brought it up and you gave me your typical tongue-in-cheek answer, I ignored it and pressed for more . . . My actual question is where could Andersen have possibly gotten the details in the book? You were obviously agitated by the question. There are two possibilities why. One, you have something you are trying to hide. Two, you were annoyed by a question that you felt you have answered and which you considered, perhaps rightly, a wild conspiracy. But my question remains, how did Andersen get it so wrong from his interviews with associates of you and Obama?