Flying back in time on the wings of winning words

I have only been in the physical presence of one American president. That was a long time ago, one wet and windy Irish early summer's afternoon deep in the mist-shrouded Galtee Mountains of Tipperary.

The year was 1984, and Ronald Reagan, the screen actor-turned-California Governor-turned US President had come to Ireland to explore his Irish roots, meet long-lost relatives and also play to the millions of American voters who claim ancestry on the Emerald Isle.

He was conservative to the core, had interfered in Latin America by supporting the contras in Honduras and Nicaragua, railed against the Soviet bloc, and was rebuilding the US with his brand of small-g government.

His grandfather, like millions of his fellow countrymen, fled the heather-covered mountains and the boggy soil to eke out a living digging the canals of Britain, the railways of the US, the harbours of Australia. They were fleeing political and religious oppression, economic deprivation, hunger pains in their bellies.

Ballyporeen is the kind of village you'd miss if you blinked; it's on a road that doesn't come from anywhere, doesn't go anywhere, and is only used by those who'd have business in the local shop, post office, church or pub. Everyone knows everyone else by first name, the doors are left unlocked, the shop's accounts held in a child's exercise book. Life is simple, timeless, uncomplicated.

Weary march

Imagine then the transformation that this sleepy backwater underwent on news that the leader of the free world would be visiting for an afternoon; to browse at the church registry of births; to walk through stone grass-covered stone foundations of a cottage abandoned years before, now lying in small field where cows find it hard to chew between thistle and thorn.

I'm sure now, there's a village in Kenya, where elders meet and goats bleat and chickens scratch at the same soil where Barack Obama's relatives tread between prayer and school, work and chores. Long-lost relatives, forgotten forefathers and prodigal sons have a way of returning to the family fold during the weary march of time. Back in the backwater of Ballyporeen, the village elders also met in a smoky corner of O'Farrell's bar, the peat fire struggling to make a difference in the damp chill of the Galtee air. How to honour the leader of the free world? After several rounds and much tobacco, the idea was hatched: rename O'Farrell's as The Ronald Reagan Lounge. A masterstroke of brilliance which no doubt the licence owner himself precipitated, drawing instant fame in a flash of marketing majesty.

In the coming months the village was painted, the flags hung out, and new clothes were bought by one and all as the national school choir and the local band practised the Star Spangled Banner.

On that appointed June day the world's press assembled as Secret Servicemen talked into their cuffs in a village where neighbours had previously shared the few telephones.

I was there as the 40th President of the United States spoke to the crowd, accepted the honour and had a bar named after him, visited the haggard field and viewed the registry of births. He was warm, engaging and played the part well of the returning son of the native soil.

Sense of occasion

But for all the honesty of the setting of Ballyporeen, there was a lack of sincerity in his visit; his words were predictable, his actions choreographed.

I spoke briefly with him in O'Farrell's, exchanged pleasantries as he sipped on a beverage. The residents of the village were happy, no doubt; the choir was in tune, the crowd controlled, the band kept pace one and all. Soon, Ballyporeen would return to its sleepy existence, always savouring the tales of the day the President dropped in for a visit.

Here's the thing, though.

On Wednesday, as I listened to the 44th President of the United States make his victory speech before 240,000 assembled in a Chicago Square, my mind drifted a long way to Tipperary to that day.

I did not feel moved by Ronald Reagan. I was excited, yes, but only in the sense of occasion, not by the man himself.

I felt moved by Barack Obama.

There is an honesty of character that moves me; There is a charismatic charm that I am forced to believe in; There is a hope that comes in listening to his words, an inspiration, a relief. His voice reassures, his oratory overcomes.

I also have a fear. I am afraid that the forces of evil and race and hate will be unable to live with Obama. History tells us that the US has a sad habit of devouring those who offer hope and inspiration, charisma and belief. John F. Kennedy; Abraham Lincoln; Martin Luther King.

Those Secret Service men had better make sure those cuffs are working overtime.