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Obama admits in his autobiography entitled Dreams from My Father, that his grandfather on his mother's side, Stanley Dunham, was a close friend of father Frank.
Frank and Stanley played cards together and they would often drag young Obama with them to the red light district:
There was one exception, a poet named Frank who lived in a dilapidated house in a run-down section of Waikiki. He had enjoyed some modest notoriety once, was a contemporary of Richard Wright and Langston Hughes during his years in Chicago—Gramps once showed me some of his work anthologized in a book of black poetry. But 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 conversation would turn to laments about women. (Obama, Dreams from My Father, pp. 76-77).
The memoirs of Frank Marshall Davis entitled Livin' the Blues were published in 1992—5 years after the death of Mr. Davis in Hawaii.
Frank Marshall Davis was born on December 31, 1905, in Arkansas City, Kansas. His father left soon after his birth and his mother also left him and moved to California 2 years later....He was raised by his great-grandmother, Mrs. Amanda Porter. Here is a quote from the autobiography of Mr. Davis entitled: Livin' the Blues:
My old man, Sam Davis floated into town from some place in the state of Arkansas. An itinerant barber and musician (he blew baritone horn, undoubtedly with a heavy seasoning of the blues), he met and married my mother, fathered me, hung around long enough to see what he and God had wrought, then drifted on. They were divorced before I was a year old, and I've never heard of him since. For all I know, the old boy played similar gigs in several towns, and I may be related to a lot of other people never heard of.
I was Mother's first and last child. Possibly I discouraged her, for when I was two she left with a white family for California to work as their maid for a couple of years. Since Aunt Hattie had already split the ho-hum prairie scene for Kansas City where there was more action, that left my care and feeding to Mrs. Amanda Porter, my great-grandmother.(Davis, Livin' the Blues, p. 7).
Obama's father graduated from Arkansas City high school in 1923.
Upon graduation, he attended Friends University in Wichita, Kansas, and then attended Kansas State University in Manhattan, Kansas.
Obama's father was a journalism major, and a very talented poet and writer
Originally posted by j2000
Can we at least try to be abjective this time? Really we had enough on the attacks.
Just look at what is presented and lets find the holes, or what is solid
Originally posted by Kaleokualoha
Does "Dreams" say that Obama visited the redlight district with Davis or only his grandfather? Sounds like fabrication and speculation. There is no evidence Davis is Obama's father. It is pure juvenile speculation.
Originally posted by autowrench
reply to post by j2000
Hey, it looked good to me! Another man in the picture? wouldn't surprise me in the least. I just wish this issue would be laid to rest, I am getting tired of hearing about it, but I know that the Constitution provides that only a Natural Born American can be president.
Originally posted by j2000
It says direct quote,
I was intrigued by 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. 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.
But by the time I met Frank he must have been pushing eighty…