That's what I meant by your slogan. You didn't sign up in 1957, did you?
I'll grant you this much. You seem to have finally woken up at that Ann S Obama isn't necessarilly Stanley Ann Dunham, and heaven only knows who ANNA OBAMA was.
But it was important enough to confuse the issue and blend their names into one person, as Ayres did in that chapter in 'Dreams' in which her father and mother and the kenyan call her by the names ANN and ANNA and call Madelyn TOOT, all in the weirdest converation I have ever read in my life. Ayres had to resort to a writers contrivence (composite characters) to present FOUR people as ONE.
ANN S OBAMA.ANNA OBAMA. STANLEY ANN DUNHAM. ANNA TOOT.
And what about the letter the kenyan wrote home to his father, to tell him he had married a woman named ANNA TOOT?
They hung that name on Madelyn! With the excuse that when zero was born she thought she was too young to be called granny, so they called her TOOT! It all fell through when it became obvious his bc was a fake and she coulnd't have seen her 'grandson' until his nanny showed up in 1963.
Ayres is laughing. He knows, if he can get people to believe that BS, they will believe anything. The book was written in 1995. The 'conversation' took place before zero was born...so that's 35 years after the 'event' and he's telling it word for word as it happened...
I'll post it again later. Meanwhile, you might as well stop making suggestions as to what others should do, it gets you nowhere. This doesn't need cheerleaders, you need to provide some new information. Go and find Anna.
STANLEY ANN DUNHAM. ANN. ANNA. TOOT.
At the time of his death, my father remained a myth to me, both more and less than a man. He had left Hawaii back in 1963, when I was only two years old, so that as a child I knew him only through the stories that my mother and grandparents told. They all had their favorites, each one seamless, burnished smooth from repeated use. I can still picture Gramps leaning back in his old stuffed chair after dinner, sipping whiskey and cleaning his teeth with the cellophane from his cigarette pack, recounting the time when my father almost threw a man off the Pali Lookout because of a pipe. …
“See, your mom and dad decided to take this friend of his sightseeing around the island. So they drove up to the Lookout, and Barack was probably on the wrong side of the road the whole way over there—“ “Your father was a terrible driver,” my mother explains to me. “He’d end up on the left-hand side, the way the British drive, and if you said something he’d just huff about silly American rules—“
“Well, this particular time they arrived in one piece, and they got out and stood at the railing to admire the view. And Barack, he was puffing away on this pipe that I’d given him for his birthday, pointing out all the sights with the stem, like a sea captain—“
“Your father was really proud of this pipe,” my mother interrupts again. “He’d smoke it all night while he studied, and sometimes—“
“Look, Ann, do you want to tell the story or are you going to let me finish?”
“Sorry, Dad. Go ahead.”
“Anyway, this poor fella—he was another African students, wasn’t he? Fresh off the boat. This poor kid must’ve been impressed with the way Barack was holding forth with this pipe, ‘cause he asked if he could give it a try. Your dad thought about it for a minute, and finally agreed, and as soon as the fella took his first puff, he started coughing up a fit. Coughed so hard that the pipe slipped out of his hand and dropped over the railing, a hundred feet down the face of the cliff.”
Gramps stops to take another nip from his flask before continuing. “Well, now, your dad was gracious enough to wait until his friend stopped coughing before he told him to climb over the railing and bring the pipe back. The man took one peek down the ninety-degree incline and told Barack that he’d buy him a replacement—“
“Quite sensibly,” Toot says from the kitchen. (We call my grandmother Tutu, Toot for short; it means “grandparent” in Hawaiian, for she decided on the day I was born that she was still too young to be called Granny.) Gramps scowls but decides to ignore her.
“—but Barack was adamant[8] about getting his pipe back, because it was a gift and couldn’t be replaced. So the fella took another look, and shook his head again, and that’s when your dad picked him clear off the ground and started dangling him over the railing!”
Gramps lets out a hoot and gives his knee a jovial slap. As he laughs, I imagine myself looking up at my father, dark against the brilliant sun, the transgressor’s arms flailing about as he’s held aloft. A fearsome vision of justice.
“He wasn’t really holding him over the railing, Dad,” my mother says, looking to me with concern, but Gramps takes another sip of whiskey and plows forward. “At this point, other people were starting to stare and your mother was begging Barack to stop. I guess Barack’s friend was just holding his breath and saying his prayers. Anyway, after a couple of minutes, your dad set the man back down on his feet, patted him on the back, and suggested, calm as you please, that they all go find themselves a beer. And don’t you know, that’s how your dad acted for the rest of the tour—like nothing happened. Of course, your mother was still pretty upset when they got home. In fact, she was barely talking to your dad. Barack wasn’t helping matters any, either ‘cause when your mother tried to tell us what had happened he just shook his head and started to laugh. ‘Relax, Anna,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to teach the chap a lesson about the proper care of other people’s property!’”
Gramps would start to laugh again until he started to cough, and Toot would mutter under her breath that she supposed it was a good thing that my father had realized that dropping the pipe had just been an accident because who knows what might have happened otherwise, and my mother would roll her eyes at me and say they were exaggerating.
“Your father can be a bit domineering,” my mother would admit with a hint of a smile. “But it’s just that he’s basically a very honest person. That makes him uncompromising sometimes.”
Wow, I didn’t realize ayers did all this. I always thought he was the one who told Obama, don’t worry that you aren’t really a citizen. After all, Ayers was on record saying getting new identities was as easy as pie. And it sure was, for Obama. His proof of identity to the American people, his BOSS, was as phony as if I went to the airport with a passport I made out of crayons. But this is really clever, getting the cover names all mixed in just a few short lines. Ayers can write, gotta give him that, the terrorist.