While studying here

my father met my mother.

She was born in a town on the other side of the world,

in Kansas.

Her father worked on oil rigs and farms through most of the Depression.

The day after Pearl Harbor,

my grandfather signed up for duty,

joined Patton's army, marched across Europe.

Back home my grandmother raised a baby and went to work on a bomber assembly line.

After the war, they studied on the GI Bill,

bought a house through FHA

and later moved west, all the way to Hawaii, in search of opportunity.

And they too had big dreams for their daughter,

a common dream born of two continents.

My parents shared not only an improbable love;

they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation.

They would give me an African name,

Barack, or "blessed," believing that in a tolerant America, your name is no barrier to success.