Now, please disregard the skin color and look at the facial features of the boy in the airport and the difference of the facial features of the boy with the Christmas tree.
Posted on 07/03/2008 4:35:19 PM PDT by SE Mom
Of course there was no birth weight.
They didn’t want to be liable for setting you up for an eating disorder...
And she signed up for college in WA for the Spring Semester in 1962. Why didn't she continue her education in HI? Especially, with BHO Sr finishing out his last semester.
Wonder if Stanley was sequestered at the Dunham home during her pregnancy, at a relatives in Seattle area, or a home for unwed pregnant teens. She definitely was in Seattle area just a few weeks post Oboma’s birth. She was there late Aug and she was enrolled in college in Seattle and living in an apartment in the Spring semester, 1962. When that didn't work out, she went back to HI. And moved to a Muslim country in 1967.
BHO Sr moved to Boston in the summer of 1962.
Ok, but there are a few problems with that course of events. One of them is that you have her going to Boston to see him in 1961 but he isn't there until 1962.
And why, if she is going from Honolulu to Boston does she go to Seattle--a little out of the way?
To me it makes a lot more sense that she was coming from somewhere else through Seattle on the way to Honolulu.
"They didn’t want to be liable for setting you up for an eating disorder"
LOL! It was because there was no place on the statistics asking for it.
The law is bulletproof. An opinion is here and I believe it is accurate and complete with one small addition: http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/2040753/posts
The illegitimate issue is 8 USCA Sec. 1409. As set out in a post on the above thread, that statute became effective for persons born after November of 1986.
The legal bottom line is that if Obama was born in Hawaii, he is a citizen and eligible to hold the office of President. If he was born in Kenya, he is not either and there is no way around that answer.
Obama should have squelched these rumors months ago.
Why didn't he? Because he's a typical, arrogant Chicago political hack who doesn't respect average Americans.
If he had any respect for the office, he would gladly provide any and all documentation to the citizens of the United States. If Obama or his surrogates attempt to take this very normal request of naturalization and instead throw down the race card for the 1,000,000th time mind you, as a way to squelch all future negative rumors, he and his hacks are in for a surprise. And he needs to stop with the race card, when he has shown he is racist on many occasions.
What that kind of response will show is that Obama and his hysterical surrogates would rather play a political game instead of answering a very simple question. Our former President's must be rolling in their graves based on Obama's lack of patriotism and professionalism.
Obama would rather play political games than answer normal questions from the average voters. He is untrustworthy, and unworthy of the office. It's like interviewing for a job. They ask you for your references and you have to sign an agreement for your future employer to do a background check. Obama is refusing to sign the background waiver. Obama is refusing to sign the document that any new employee has to sign in order for the company to do a background check. Guess he's above all of us. Or is just that Obama is partisan and unpatriotic?
A normal response to anyone running for President if someone questioned if they were a natural born citizen...would be to immediately provide the legal documents via a legal, reliable source. What's Obama’s response?
Ermm, check out my loser website fightthesmears.com. I'm really kewl and can connect with the younger generation by directing everyone on-line to get a quick answer to the Sssmmmmmmeeeearrrszzz. Those nasty Repulicans are spreading Ssssmmmmmeeeeaaarszzz about me, and in order for you to get the truth, you need to get on line and check out my gay website.
Obama is such a loser.
Ssssmmmmeeearrrs...he's such a whiner....they're ssssmearing me. What a crybaby. No bro, we're connecting the dots about your very vague past.
bttt
AJ has proved that the forgery story is bogus. Such proof!
What do those colossi do in real life I wonder? I hope it doesn't involve issues of health and safety or risk to the public and life on the basis of such "proofs"!
>>>Malik is the son of Obama Sr. and his first wife a dark skinned African. That boy in the picture is to light to be the son of two dark skinned Africans. As you can see by the picture of Malik he is very dark skinned.<<<
Question for both of you. Do either of you know how to lighten skin in photo software? And it looks like a camera flash?
Look at the boys face and forearms. It looks like a camera flash. It would have been strong light. That same flash would have been on Obama Sr.’s face, especially his glasses.
"Look at the boys face and forearms. It looks like a camera flash. It would have been strong light. That same flash would have been on Obama Sr.’s face, especially his glasses."
My 3 year old Great-granddaugher asked her daddy the other day. "Are you arguing with me?" He says; "No, you are arguing with me." She then says; "NO! You are arguing with me." He then says; "NO!You are arguing with me." On and on it went. LOL!
What a perfect summary. Mailing it to myself so I won’t lose it.
But what is pathetic and beyond reproach is his response to a very legitimate question. Why is he unwilling to provide proof outside a lame website, which is only 2 weeks old.
It just continues to confirm that Obama is immature, deceitful and arrogant. He has lied about his background. What person running for President of the United States wouldn't be interested in understanding their own background in order to give the American public an honest portrayal about their upbringing?
Barrack Hussein Obama. He don't care.
He could care a less about finding out about the truth about his Muslim Father's background and his Atheist Mother's background. He thinks he can write 2 books, and rewrite history. Are Oprah's marketing managers on his paid staff? Because his campaign reeks of a slick marketing campaign full of holes.
His initial book about his Father had to be tweaked in a post 9/11 world. Hmmm, wonder why? His campaign is disgusting. He just might be a modern day wolf in sheep's clothing.
David, yes there appears to be some smoke, but the date filed is not it. I was born on such and such a date and the date mine was filed was 14 days later. It all depends on how long the orginal information gets to Health Dept Vital Statistics to be filed.
Now, please disregard the skin color and look at the facial features of the boy in the airport and the difference of the facial features of the boy with the Christmas tree.
If you can’t be honest about yourself with others who have a right and duty to know those parts of you, you will come not be honest with yourself in a time of crisis and stress, and you will flail about with no stays and be a danger to all.
>>>>My 3 year old Great-granddaugher asked her daddy the other day. “Are you arguing with me?” He says; “No, you are arguing with me.” She then says; “NO! You are arguing with me.” He then says; “NO!You are arguing with me.” On and on it went. LOL!<<<<
I will be certain not to respond to a post of yours again. If you don’t want me to answer your questions, don’t ask.
Posting this excerpt from his book - because that’s where the majority of the dates and info has come from:
images at link
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-512970/Barack-Obama-How-I-haunted-father.html
In this extraordinarily vivid and poignant memoir, Barack Obama tells how abandonment by his father, racism and drugs forged the man who would be President
A few months after my 21st birthday, a stranger called to give me the news.
I was living in New York at the time, in a small apartment with slanting floors and irregular heat and a buzzer downstairs that didn’t work.
The telephone line was thick with static.
“Barry? Barry, is this you? This is your Aunt Jane. In Nairobi. Can you hear me? Listen Barry, your father is dead. He was killed in a car accident.”
That was all. The line cut off, and I sat down on the couch, smelling fried eggs burn in the kitchen, staring at cracks in the plaster, trying to measure my loss.
At the time of his death, my father remained a myth to me, both more and less than a man.
He had left my mother and myself in Hawaii back in 1963, when I was only two years old.
As a child, I knew him only through the stories that my mother and grandparents told.
They all had their favourites, each one seamless, burnished smooth from repeated use.
After each telling the stories would be packed away, like the few photographs of my father that remained in the house - old black and white studio prints that I might run across while rummaging through the closets in search of Christmas ornaments.
At the point where my own memories begin, my mother had already begun a courtship with the man who would become her second husband, and I sensed without explanation why the photographs had to be stored away.
But once in a while, sitting on the floor with my mother, the smell of dust and mothballs rising from the crumbling album, I would stare at my father’s likeness and listen.
He was an African, I would learn, a Kenyan of the Luo tribe, born on the shores of Lake Victoria.
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Obama with his mother Ann and sister Maya
My father grew up herding his father’s goats and attending the local school, set up by the British colonial administration, where he had shown great promise.
He eventually won a scholarship to study in Nairobi, and then was selected to attend university in the United States, being sent forth to master Western technology and bring it back to forge a new, modern Africa.
In 1959, at the age of 23, he arrived at the University of Hawaii as that institution’s first African student. He studied econometrics, and graduated in three years at the top of his class.
In a Russian language course, he met an awkward, shy American girl, only 18, and they fell in love. The girl’s parents, wary at first, were won over by his charm and intellect.
The young couple married, and she bore them a son. He won another scholarship to pursue his PhD at Harvard, but not the money to take his new family with him - or so I was told. A separation occurred, and he returned to Africa to fulfil his promise to the continent.
There the album would close, and I would wander off content, swaddled in a tale that placed me in the centre of a vast and orderly universe.
That my father looked nothing like the people around me - that he was black as pitch, my mother as white as milk - barely registered in my mind.
There was only one problem: my father was missing. Nothing my mother or grandparents told me could obviate that single, unassailable fact. Their stories didn’t tell me why he had left. They couldn’t describe what it might have been like if he had stayed.
Obama’s father was killed in a car accident in Nairobi
Later, I’d become troubled by questions. Why didn’t my father return? But at the age of five or six, I was satisfied to leave these distant mysteries intact.
I was too young to realise that I was supposed to have a live-in father, just as I was too young to know that I needed a race.
In 1960, the year that my parents were married, miscegenation - the interbreeding of races - was still described a felony in over half the states in the U.S.
In many parts of the South, my father could have been strung up a tree for merely looking at my mother the wrong way. Even in the more sophisticated northern cities, the hostile stares and whispers might have driven a woman in my mother’s predicament into a backalley abortion.
Between the ages of six and ten, I lived in Indonesia where my mother had moved with her second husband.
When I was sent back to my grandparents in Hawaii for my education, I was greeted at school with a loud hoot from other pupils, like the sound of a monkey. A ruddy-faced boy asked me if my father ate people.
One day, I came across a picture in Life magazine of a black man who had tried to peel off his skin. He had received a chemical treatment, which went wrong, leaving him an uneven, ghostly hue.
I imagine other black children, then and now, undergoing similar moments of revelation.
Perhaps it comes sooner for most - the parent’s warning not to cross the boundaries of a particular neighbourhood, or the frustration of not having hair like Barbie no matter how long you tease and comb, or the tale of a father’s humiliation at the hands of an employer or a cop, overheard while you’re supposed to be asleep.
Maybe it’s easier for a child to receive the bad news in small doses, allowing for a system of defences to be built up - although I suspect I was one of the luckier ones, having been given a stretch of childhood free from self-doubt.
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Promise: Obama’s parents separated when he was just a baby
When I was ten, my father came back from Africa to visit us for Christmas. After a week of my father in the flesh, I decided that I preferred his more distant image, an image I could alter on a whim - or ignore when convenient. If my father hadn’t exactly disappointed me, he remained something unknown, something volatile and vaguely threatening.
Like my mother, he had remarried, and I now had five brothers and one sister living in Kenya. There was so much to tell, so much explaining to do.
And yet when I reach back into my memory for the words of my father, the small interactions or conversations we might have had, they seem irretrievably lost.
I’m left with mostly images that appear and die off in my mind like distant sounds.
We stand together in front of the Christmas tree and pose for pictures, the only ones I have of us together, me holding an orange basketball, his gift to me, him showing off the tie I’ve bought him. He stayed a month, then he was gone.
The next five years were a placid time marked by the usual rites and rituals that America expects from its children, part-time jobs at the burger chain, acne and driving tests.
My mother separated from her Indonesian husband, Lolo, and returned to Hawaii with my sister, Maya, and I moved in with her.
I was also engaged in a fitful interior struggle. I was trying to raise myself to be a black man in America. No one around me seemed to know exactly what that meant.
The feeling that something wasn’t quite right stayed with me, a warning that sounded whenever a white girl mentioned in the middle of conversation how much she liked Stevie Wonder, or when a woman in the supermarket asked me if I played basketball.
Where did I fit in? I grew tired of trying to untangle a mess that wasn’t of my making.
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Through the years: Obama plays as a child
I learned not to care. Marijuana helped, and booze, maybe a little cocaine when you could afford it.
Not heroin, though - Micky, my potential initiator, had been just a little too eager for me to go through with that. Said he could do it blindfolded, but he was shaking like a faulty engine when he said it.
Maybe he was just cold, we were standing in a meat freezer in the back of the deli where he worked.
But he didn’t look like he was shaking from the cold. Looked more like he was sweating, his face shiny and tight. He had pulled out the needle and the tubing, and I looked at him standing there, surrounded by big slabs of salami and roast beef, and right then an image popped into my head of an air bubble, shiny and round like a pearl, rolling quietly through a vein and stopping my heart.
Junkie. Pothead. That’s where I’d been headed: the final, fatal role of the young would-be black man.
The high could push questions of who I was out of my mind, something that could flatten out the landscape of my heart, blur the edges of my memory. And if the high didn’t solve whatever it was that was getting you down, it could at least help you laugh at the world’s ongoing folly and see through all the hypocrisy and bull**** and cheap moralism.
That’s how it had seemed to me then, anyway. At the start of my senior year in high school, my mother marched into my room. My friend Pablo had been arrested.
I had given her a reassuring smile and patted her hand and told her not to worry, I wouldn’t do anything stupid. It was usually an effective tactic, another one of those tricks I had learned.
People were satisfied so long as you were courteous and smiled and made no sudden moves. They were more than satisfied, they were relieved - such a pleasant surprise to find a wellmannered young black man who didn’t seem angry all the time.
Except my mother hadn’t looked satisfied. She had just sat there, studying my eyes, her face as grim as a hearse.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little casual about your future?” she said.
“One of your friends was just arrested for drug possession. Your grades are slipping. You haven’t even started on your college applications.”
My mother’s worst fears didn’t come to pass. In the end, I graduated without mishap, was accepted into several respectable schools, and settled on Occidental College in Los Angeles. I would go on to read law at Harvard.
Eventually, my mother - who died of ovarian cancer in 1995 - would tell me the truth about what had happened between her and my father.
“It wasn’t your father’s fault that he left, you know,” she said.
“I divorced him. When we got married, your grandparents weren’t happy with the idea, but came to feel it was the right thing to do.
“Then Barack’s father - your grandfather Hussein - wrote Gramps this long, nasty letter saying that he didn’t approve of the marriage. He didn’t want the Obama blood sullied by a white woman, he said. Well you can imagine how Gramps reacted to that.
“And then there was a problem with your father’s first wife. He had told me that they were separated. But it was a village wedding, so there was no legal document that could show a divorce. She paused.
“Even then, it might have worked out. He received two scholarships, one in New York, which paid enough to support all three of us.
“Harvard had just agreed to pay tuition.
“’How can I refuse the best education?’ he told me. That’s all he could think about, proving that he was the best.”
She stopped and laughed to herself.
“Did I ever tell you that he was late for our first date? He asked me to meet him in front of the university library at 1pm. When I got there he hadn’t arrived. It was a nice day, so I laid out on one of the benches, and fell asleep.
“Well an hour later - an hour! - he shows up with a couple of his friends. I woke up and heard your father saying, serious as can be: ‘You see, gentlemen. I told you that she was a fine girl, and that she would wait for me.’”
She saw my father as everyone hopes that at least one other person might see him. She had tried to help me, his son, see him in the same way.
And it was the look on her face that day that I would remember when a few months later, in 1982, I called to tell her that my father had died and heard her cry out over the distance.
I didn’t go to the funeral, but later I would go to Kenya to meet the other half of my family. There, I would discover that after falling foul of the government and losing his job in the Ministry of Tourism, my father had descended into drink.
All my life, I had carried a single image of my father, one that I had sometimes rebelled against but had never questioned, one that I had later tried to take as my own.
The brilliant scholar, the generous friend, the upstanding leader - my father had been all of those things.
All those things and more, because except for that one brief visit in Hawaii, he had never been present to foil the image.
The fantasy of my father had at least kept me from despair. Now he was dead, truly. He could no longer tell me how to live.
A year after his death, I dreamt of him.
“Barack. I always wanted to tell you how much I love you,” he said.
He seemed small in my arms now, the size of a boy. I awoke still weeping, my first real tears for him. I remembered his only visit, the basketball he had given me and how he had taught me to dance.
And I realised, perhaps for the first time, how even in his absence his strong image had given me some bulwark on which to grow up, an image to live up to, or disappoint.
? Extracted and adapted by Zoe Brennan from Dreams From My Father: A Story Of Race And Inheritance by Barack Obama (Canongate).
I don’t think you are not correct regarding the effective date...here is the language and the cite for the 1952 act.
INA: ACT 309 - CHILDREN BORN OUT OF WEDLOCK
Sec. 309. [8 U.S.C. 1409]
(a) The provisions of paragraphs (c), (d), (e), and (g) of section 301, and of paragraph (2) of section 308, shall apply as of the date of birth to a person born out of wedlock if-
(1) a blood relationship between the person and the father is established by clear and convincing evidence,
(2) the father had the nationality of the United States at the time of the person’s birth,
(3) the father (unless deceased) has agreed in writing to provide financial support for the person until the person reaches the age of 18 years, and
(4) while the person is under the age of 18 years-
(A) the person is legitimated under the law of the person’s residence or domicile,
(B) the father acknowledges paternity of the person in writing under oath, or
(C) the paternity of the person is established by adjudication of a competent court.
(b) Except as otherwise provided in section 405, the provisions of section 301(g) shall apply to a child born out of wedlock on or after January 13, 1941, and before December 24, 1952, as of the date of birth, if the paternity of such child is established at any time while such child is under the age of twenty-one years by legitimation.
(c) Notwithstanding the provision of subsection (a) of this section, a person born, after December 23, 1952, outside the United States and out of wedlock shall be held to have acquired at birth the nationality status of his mother, if the mother had the nationality of the United States at the time of such person’s birth, and if the mother had previously been physically present in the United States or one of its outlying possessions for a continuous period of one year.
http://www.uscis.gov/propub/ProPubVAP.jsp?dockey=cb90c19a50729fb47fb0686648558dbe
Bump.
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