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So did he feel that Obama's campaign wouldn't have quite so much momentum had Jackson not cleared the way for it? "I can't be so presumptuous as to say that, but I think each of us builds upon the last generation's struggles. All roads lead from Selma, really." We certainly weren't arguing with that, so we moved on: Had he and O talked since Iowa? "No," said the Rev, simply. Well, what would he say to O if they did talk? Would he give O some strategic advice? "It's not appropriate to give free advice," he said, somewhat Wilde-ishly. "I talk to him every so often, but I don't want to say what I would say. That's inappropriate."
He gave us the faintest, weariest smile that clearly signaled he thought we were inappropriate. So we moved on: Did he and his wife have bitter Obama–v.–Hill fights? Or, perhaps, loving, affection fights? "There's been no fights at all," he said. Debates, even? "We've had some debates. But, um...it's just beautiful, really." Beautiful? "Different points of view. It doesn't affect us personally at all."
Oh. Truth be told, we'd been meaning to ask the Rev if he was hurt or angry by all the Obama-is-the-un-Jesse commentary. But in that moment, a strange, unjournalistic humanness crept over us as we looked at the tired Rev, sporting his tarnished RainbowPUSH lapel pin, who'd been talking for five days about the gravity of the foreclosure crisis for African-American homeowners. So instead we shook the Rev's meaty hand, thanked him, and left him the hell alone. —Tim Murphy
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