However, there's another theory of his parentage that is as amusing as it is implausible. That's that Stanley Armour is not his grandfather, but his father, and that his mother is an unknown black woman whom Stanley Armour came to know through his friendship with Frank Marshall Davis. Wouldn't that be a hoot! But how it would have ever got past Toot is the big question.
However, there's another theory of his parentage that is as amusing as it is implausible. That's that Stanley Armour is not his grandfather, but his father, and that his mother is an unknown black woman whom Stanley Armour came to know through his friendship with Frank Marshall Davis. Wouldn't that be a hoot! But how it would have ever got past Toot is the big question.
Jack Cashill suggested this in his book. I am convinced that Barack has his grandfathers genes. (The similarity of appearance is too striking.) Whether they be through Stanley Ann or Directly from his Grandfather, they are there. If evidence comes out to support the grandfather theory, i'll give it a closer look.
Still “too young to know that I needed a race,” as he describes himself in Dreams, Obama was sent back from Indonesia in 1969 or ’70. Gramps Stanley Dunham began a bizarre project which involved introducing Obama to Frank Marshall Davis and making secret visits to Chinatown’s disreputable Smith Street bars – located one block away from Oka’s Corner Liquor Store. Obama describes the “excitement” of these visits in Dreams, page 77-78:
“Don’t tell your grandmother,” he would say with a wink, and we’d walk past hard-faced, soft-bodied streetwalkers into a small, dark bar with a jukebox and a couple of pool tables. Nobody seemed to mind that Gramps was the only white man in the place, or that I was the only eleven-or twelve year old. Some of the men leaning across the bar would wave at us, and the bartender, a big, light skinned woman with bare, fleshy arms, would bring a Scotch for Gramps and a Coke for me. If nobody else was playing at the tables, Gramps would spot me a few balls and teach me the game, but usually I would sit at the bar, my legs dangling from the high stool, blowing bubbles into my drink and looking at the pornographic art on the walls — the phosphorescent women on animal skins, the Disney characters in compromising positions. If he was around, a man named Rodney with a wide-brimmed hat would stop by to say hello. …”
Frank Marshall Davis too, described adventures on Smith Street at “The Green Goose,” a bar “operated by one of my friends.” Group sex and voyeurism at the Green Goose fill two pages in his pseudonymous porno book, Sex Rebel: Black (Memoirs of a Gash Gourmet), published just before Obama returned from Indonesia.
According to Barry, in “Dreams” gramps sure did like to hang out at black bars with porn on the walls and he took little Barry there with him. How many white grandfathers in the 60’s and 70’s hung out in black bars with walls covered with porn?