He’s a real nowhere man,
Sitting in his Nowhere Land,
Making all his nowhere plans
He’s as blind as he can be,
Just sees what he wants to see,
Nowhere Man can you see me at all?
The article below should be carefully read and seriously taken because the author knows what of she speaks. The woman who uses the nom de plume “Robin of Berkeley” is a Jewish psychotherapist who is a former liberal but now a converted Christian and political conservative. Still living in the belly of the liberal beast, she writes on this subject with personal and professional authority.
A big h/t to beloved FellowshipOfMinds member Doc’s Wife!
By Robin of Berkeley – March 17, 2010
I grew up with a surname that wasn’t my own. My father anglicized it years before I was born, trying to ward off the anti-Semitism that shadowed him.
I grew up without God. My parents had no use for a God who, they believed, had no use for the Chosen People.
My family had escaped the teeming masses in the Jewish ghetto for a suburban Promised Land. Nestled in our cookie-cutter house, we watched television each night in separate rooms.
I left home for college easily and never returned. It’s not hard to leave a place when you’ve never quite arrived.
In my early 20s, I flew across the country to make a home among the homeless in Berkeley. There I found people just like me: people from somewhere else, running away from something or toward something, never quite sure which.
In Berkeley, we use the phrase “family of choice.” It denotes that we have traded our difficult blood relatives for those more to our liking.
After a while of living in Berkeley, though, you discover the downside of living among expatriates. For one, many folks don’t have the social skills to actually get along with others. Friendships can have short half-lives.
As it turns out, people who don’t feel obligated to their real family may not be particularly loyal to their “family of choice.” Consequently, when you need a ride to the doctor, friends may decline if there’s something else they’d prefer to do.
Though it has taken decades, I no longer feel like a Stranger. I’ve learned that I belong, that I am “loved by an Unending Love.” But now, looking out at the political landscape, I have the unsettling experience of beholding the many dispossessed.
The ultimate Stranger in a Strange Land is, of course, Obama. It’s no wonder; given his bizarro family, there was no one with whom to bond. Pitifully, the focal point in Obama’s life story — the brave, oppressed Obama Sr. — is a chimera, all smoke-and-mirrors.
Obama has surrounded himself with other Strangers. His friends are society’s misfits: Van Jones, the self-proclaimed Communist; John Holdren, enthralled with devolution and eugenics. Chicago pals Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn tried to destroy their own nation with terrorism.
Obama has been called a Citizen of the World. While liberals find this appealing, what it actually means is that Obama has come from nowhere and belongs nowhere.
Someone with no country or roots has nothing. Bob Dylan described the predicament and the danger: “When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose.”
This is why Obama can casually throw his grandma and pastor under the bus. And Obama can seamlessly enter into a shady land deal with slumlord Tony Rezko, knowing full well that he deprived black people of heat in frigid Chicago winters.
Obama can profess love for his father but allow paternal relatives to live in abject poverty in the projects in Boston or shacks in Kenya. He can cavalierly end the D.C. school voucher program, cheating poor black kids of a decent education.
Obama’s Strangeness allows him to destroy the Democratic Party by forcing health care legislation that the populace vehemently opposes. If the party crashes and burns, it doesn’t matter much to Obama. He was never one of them anyway.
In therapy lingo, Obama may have an attachment disorder. This diagnosis is often applied to children languishing in orphanages or shuttled among foster homes.
These kids may look normal, but what’s missing is the ability to connect to something or someone wholesome. All grown up, unattached adults may lack empathy and, in extreme cases, a conscience.
A disconnected president puts us all at risk. We’ve survived narcissistic presidents before, even neophytes. But we’ve never seen the likes of Obama.
We’ve never had a president who is angry about everything but passionate about very little. We’ve never encountered a president who hasn’t bonded to his own country.
So who is this Stranger anyway, Barack Hussein Obama? What makes him tick? Whom does he love? What fills his heart with joy?
Grasping the essence of Obama seems as futile as trying to catch snow. Perhaps part of the reason we know so little about Obama is that there may be very little to know.
All the lonely peopleWhere do they all come from?
All the lonely peopleWhere do they all belong?
We may never know where Obama comes from, not even the basic facts of his life.
But those of us paying attention know one thing loud and clear: A Stranger in a Strange Land does not belong in the White House.
A frequent AT contributor, Robin is a recovering liberal and a psychotherapist in Berkeley.