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On page 323 Davis continues:

Hawaii is not for those who can be happy only in Soul City. This is no place for those who can identify only with Afro-America. "Little Harlem" is only a couple of blocks of bars, barbershops, and a soul food restaurant or two. When I arrived, the local establishment was trying to shunt black servicemen, gamblers, pimps, dope peddlers, and prostitutes into this area....

Because Smith Street was the closest Hawaii had to a black ghetto, it became a focus of work for the Communist Party in Hawaii. When attempting to lead a hostile CPUSA takeover of the NAACP in the late 1940s, Davis pointed to Smith Street as an example of segregation in Hawaii. And just as Davis described joining the CPUSA in "Sex Rebel: Black", he also described interracial group sex and voyeurism in the back room of a Smith Street bar he called the "Green Goose". (p278-80)

Obama describes Davis as playing a very intimate role in his life from age 9 to 18. When Barack returned to Honolulu from Indonesia in 1970, grandpa almost immediately took Barack to meet Davis. Davis was to serve as a father figure to the young Obama for much of his youth and adolescence. In light of the Communists' bizarre focus on Smith Street, Obama's description of meeting Davis for the first time at age 9 or 10 in 1970 or 1971 takes on new meaning:

...by the time I met Frank he must have been pushing eighty, with a big dewlapped face and an ill-kempt gray Afro that made him look like an old, shaggy-maned lion. He would read us his poetry whenever we stopped by his house, sharing whiskey with gramps out of an emptied jelly jar. As the night wore on, the two of them would solicit my help in composing dirty limericks. Eventually, the conservation would turn to laments about women.

"They'll drive you to drink, boy," Frank would tell me soberly. "And if you let ‘em, they'll drive you into your grave."

I was intrigued by the old Frank, with his books and whiskey breath and the hint of hard-earned knowledge behind the hooded eyes. The visits to his house always left me feeling vaguely uncomfortable, though, as if I were witnessing some complicated, unspoken transaction between the two men, a transaction I couldn't fully understand....

Then Obama immediately segues into a description of Smith Street:

....The same thing I felt whenever Gramps took me downtown to one of his favorite bars, in Honolulu's red light district.

"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....

...Our presence there felt forced, and by the time I had reached junior high school I had learned to beg off from Gramps's invitations, knowing that whatever it was I was after, whatever it was that I needed, would have to come from some other source.

In essence, when the young Obama returned from Indonesia, Gramps set about teaching him the CPUSA version of what it meant to be black. That is why Obama was introduced to Davis and that is why gramps took him to Smith Street until Obama finally stopped accepting the initiations.

This also explains Gramps' reaction when Madelyn Dunham is hassled by a black panhandler while waiting for a bus. Instead of agreeing to give his wife a ride to work, Gramps is consumed by the fear that Madelyn, (or Toot, as Obama calls her) is a racist. Gramps reports this to Obama who then goes to talk to Davis in an effort to sort it all out. (Dreams p 87-91) For Obama, the incident was so shattering that he found himself talking about it on the campaign stump several times in March, 2008 and calling his grandmother "a typical white person."

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DON'T TELL YOUR GRANDMOTHER!

IMO Stanley Armour wanted to be seen and accepted as a radical and he probably prostituted/compromised his grandson in the process. Remember, Stanley Armour was there amongst the welcoming committee when Obama Sr arrived in Hawaii in 1959, almost a full year before Stanley Ann graduated, and her mother left the mainland to join her husband. Stanley Armour Dunham has a lot to answer for...but it's too late to point that out to him.

Pop

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.

— Barack Obama

http://thebestamericanpoetry.typepad.com/the_best_american_poetry/2008/09/pop-by-barack-o.html