Washington Babylon — August 24, 2009, 10:37 am

The Myth of the Obama Movement

“Grass-Roots Battle Tests The Obama Movement,” ran a headline in the Washington Post yesterday atop an article that looked at why health care reform has bogged down. The story examined the work of activist Jeremy Bird, who “became one of the people most responsible for validating Obama’s campaign ethos: that grass-roots support can power government and shape legislation.”

Wake up, people. There never was an Obama movement. There was merely a rhetorically gifted candidate who inspired a lot of people who should have known better (admittedly, it was easy to believe given the alternatives) and who foisted on to Obama their fondest hopes and desires, which were largely delusional. Now, Obama is disappointing them just as thoroughly as did Bill Clinton, the last candidate liberals stupidly fell in love with, and not just on healthcare but pretty much across the board.

Yes, Obama was the best candidate and yes, he may even accomplish something decent here and there over the next four years. But let’s not talk about an Obama movement, because that’s a fantasy.

What’s sad is how many liberal Obama supporters continue to believe and insist that he’s the real thing. One even hears progressives saying that health care reform would have worked out differently if only Tom Daschle had been confirmed as secretary of health and human services. Yes, Tom Daschle, the Democratic hack, industry advocate and tax cheat would have been able to get through health care reform, maybe even a single payer system.

And you thought the Republicans lived in fantasyland.

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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