My father died on a Saturday morning after a night in which his body had finally broken down and he slipped into a coma. My brother and I went to see him that morning but we did not stay. I know that I should have but he had been dying for six weeks and dying hard; he was gone when we walked into that room that morning; far and away from us and already dwelling in another place. His body just had to finally unwind, to finally stop its labored efforts at staying alive.

I know we should have stayed; I hope he understand why we could not.

We were called less than a couple of hours later and learned he had died. We were calm and we focused on what we had to do next - contact the family (my grandparents were determined to come down for the services), plan the funeral, and deal with the execution of his estate. It was a lot and it was up to us. I was sad - we were both on our way to devastating heartbreak - but we were handling it. And then I called my father's best friend to tell him and the moment he came on the phone we both could not speak. He knew why I was calling - he knew it was the only reason I would call - and the pain suddenly overwhelmed us. We both lost it for a moment and then came back together. It was far harder to speak to him than my aunts or grandparents, mostly I think because he knew my father so well and shared such a big part of his life.

My father was white. His best friend was black.

They ran the waste water treatment plant on the local air force base - both were career civil servants. They spent a lot of days checking pumps, filters and water levels and doing a lot of other things I have never fully understood. They used to joke that along with their buddies they controlled the base and in a lot of ways they did. They liked being a thorn in the side of military brass but when it came down to it they worked hard at a hard job. When the hurricanes came through it was my father's crew who kept the pumps running on the runways until all the aircraft were gone. They were always some of the last to evacuate; it was part of the job that he was happiest to leave behind when he retired.

My father was diagnosed with colon cancer the year he retired, another man he worked with was diagnosed with stomach cancer and died within the year; his best friend was diagnosed with prostate cancer. They worked with a lot of chemicals on the job - none of this surprised us. While his best friend was getting treatment he underwent the implant of radiation "wafers" and had to stay in the hospital. My father went to see him but was told admittance was only for family. He told the nurse he was his brother. My father was very dark skinned from years (decades) of the beach, but he never passed for African American. The nurse didn't know what to say though that wouldn't sound insulting. So down the hall my father walked, yelling "'Lonzo - they won't let your brother in!" He got in and they had another story and being brothers pretty much described who they were and how they felt about each other.

These were two men who worked together for over twenty years. They bitched about the job together, complained about their kids, bragged about their kids and listened to a crazy amount of ball games. At my father's funeral his best friend was there and we were so happy to see him. He knew what we lost; more than most, he knew how much my father, brother and I had always meant to each other.

He was a kind man and together he and my father enjoyed a lot of years at a job that frustrated them both but was the only thing they had and the best way they knew to support their families.

Today I read on CNN the oddest thing though, something that made me realize how the country viewed these two men:

So consider the way the media has been pushing the question, “Can Obama win working class voters?” Or, “Why is Obama having trouble connecting with working class voters?” Both questions ignore that Obama doesn’t have a working class problem—large percentages of the black folks who are turning out to support him at rates of 90% are indeed working class—but rather, a white working class problem.

By implicitly equating “working class” with white, the media reinforces the notion of “hard-working,” average (i.e. normal) folks as white. This then leaves blacks to be viewed either as the decidedly non-working and dreaded “underclass,” or the elitist types that Hillary Clinton wants people to envision when they think of Senator Obama. Either of these images can reinforce racism, either by stoking white fear of the former or resentment toward the latter.

I have been listening to comments on the working class vote for months now and never thought - not for a minute - about anyone other than my father. I never thought of his best friend, as blue collar as he was, as hard working as he was, the same kind of man that my father was. I bought into the societal divisions that the media has been selling. I bought into the belief that we are more different than alike; that even on this fundamental level, at the job a man does, black and white are not the same.

My father would be so disappointed.