Popsicle Kid

     President Obama was sweating bullets.
     So was I. A pillow case--my sweat rag--hung like a tail from a back pocket of my jeans.
     Last Friday I photograped Obama's campaign swing in Ohio. The temperatures hovered near one hundred degrees.
     I stood among a crowd in Sandusky waiting for the motorcade to arrive. A voice caught my attention.
     "Hey mister. Have you got a dollar?"
     A black youngster around seven years old looked up at me.
     I said to him, "Why should I give you a dollar?"
     "I want to buy a Popsicle."
     "Doesn't your dad have any money?"
     "He forgot his wallet."
     I assumed his father was somewhere in the crowd. Surrounding us were women.
     Why was the boy asking me and nobody else for money? Was it because I was white and stood out in a crowd that was mostly black? Was it because my camera made me conspicuous?
     The kid wasn't hustling me for cash. All he wanted was a Popsicle. An ice cream truck was parked nearby. Other kids were getting refreshments.
     I told the boy we'd go and get a Popsicle if his dad permitted it.
     At that moment, the women standing beside us admonished the child.
     "Don't you be asking strangers for money!"
     Were they regarding me, an outsider to their community, with suspicion?
     Disappointed, the boy and I wandered away in opposite directions.