The Story of Barack Obama’s Mother

Each of us lives a life of contradictory truths. We are not one thing or another. Barack Obama’s mother was at least a dozen things. S. Ann Soetoro was a teen mother who later got a Ph.D. in anthropology; a white woman from the Midwest who was more comfortable in Indonesia; a natural-born mother obsessed with her work; a romantic pragmatist, if such a thing is possible.

“When I think about my mother,” Obama told me recently, “I think that there was a certain combination of being very grounded in who she was, what she believed in. But also a certain recklessness. I think she was always searching for something. She wasn’t comfortable seeing her life confined to a certain box.”

Obama’s mother was a dreamer. She made risky bets that paid off only some of the time, choices that her children had to live with. She fell in love–twice–with fellow students from distant countries she knew nothing about. Both marriages failed, and she leaned on her parents and friends to help raise her two children.

“She cried a lot,” says her daughter Maya Soetoro-Ng, “if she saw animals being treated cruelly or children in the news or a sad movie–or if she felt like she wasn’t being understood in a conversation.” And yet she was fearless, says Soetoro-Ng. “She was very capable. She went out on the back of a motorcycle and did rigorous fieldwork. Her research was responsible and penetrating. She saw the heart of a problem, and she knew whom to hold accountable.”

Today Obama is partly a product of what his mother was not. Whereas she swept her children off to unfamiliar lands and even lived apart from her son when he was a teenager, Obama has tried to ground his children in the Midwest. “We’ve created stability for our kids in a way that my mom didn’t do for us,” he says. “My choosing to put down roots in Chicago and marry a woman who is very rooted in one place probably indicates a desire for stability that maybe I was missing.”

Ironically, the person who mattered most in Obama’s life is the one we know the least about–maybe because being partly African in America is still seen as being simply black and color is still a preoccupation above almost all else. There is not enough room in the conversation for the rest of a man’s story.

But Obama is his mother’s son. In his wide-open rhetoric about what can be instead of what was, you see a hint of his mother’s credulity. When Obama gets donations from people who have never believed in politics before, they’re responding to his ability–passed down from his mother–to make a powerful argument (that happens to be very liberal) without using a trace of ideology. On a good day, when he figures out how to move a crowd of thousands of people very different from himself, it has something to do with having had a parent who gazed at different cultures the way other people study gems.

It turns out that Obama’s nascent career peddling hope is a family business. He inherited it. And while it is true that he has not been profoundly tested, he was raised by someone who was.

In most elections, the deceased mother of a candidate in the primaries is not the subject of a magazine profile. But Ann Soetoro was not like most mothers.

Stanley Ann Dunham Born in 1942, just five years before Hillary Clinton, Obama’s mother came into an America constrained by war, segregation and a distrust of difference. Her parents named her Stanley because her father had wanted a boy. She endured the expected teasing over this indignity, but dutifully lugged the name through high school, apologizing for it each time she introduced herself in a new town.

During her life, she was known by four different names, each representing a distinct chapter. In the course of the Stanley period, her family moved more than five times–from Kansas to California to Texas to Washington–before her 18th birthday. Her father, a furniture salesman, had a restlessness that she inherited.

She spent her high school years on a small island in Washington, taking advanced classes in philosophy and visiting coffee shops in Seattle. “She was a very intelligent, quiet girl, interested in her friendships and current events,” remembers Maxine Box, a close high school friend. Both girls assumed they would go to college and pursue careers. “She wasn’t particularly interested in children or in getting married,” Box says. Although Stanley was accepted early by the University of Chicago, her father wouldn’t let her go. She was too young to be off on her own, he said, unaware, as fathers tend to be, of what could happen when she lived in his house.

After she finished high school, her father whisked the family away again–this time to Honolulu, after he heard about a big new furniture store there. Hawaii had just become a state, and it was the new frontier. Stanley grudgingly went along yet again, enrolling in the University of Hawaii as a freshman.

Mrs. Barack H. Obama Shortly before she moved to Hawaii, Stanley saw her first foreign film. Black Orpheus was an award-winning musical retelling of the myth of Orpheus, a tale of doomed love. The movie was considered exotic because it was filmed in Brazil, but it was written and directed by white Frenchmen. The result was sentimental and, to some modern eyes, patronizing. Years later Obama saw the film with his mother and thought about walking out. But looking at her in the theater, he glimpsed her 16-year-old self. “I suddenly realized,” he wrote in his memoir, Dreams from My Father, “that the depiction of childlike blacks I was now seeing on the screen … was what my mother had carried with her to Hawaii all those years before, a reflection of the simple fantasies that had been forbidden to a white middle-class girl from Kansas, the promise of another life, warm, sensual, exotic, different.”

By college, Stanley had started introducing herself as Ann. She met Barack Obama Sr. in a Russian-language class. He was one of the first Africans to attend the University of Hawaii and a focus of great curiosity. He spoke at church groups and was interviewed for several local-newspaper stories. “He had this magnetic personality,” remembers Neil Abercrombie, a member of Congress from Hawaii who was friends with Obama Sr. in college. “Everything was oratory from him, even the most commonplace observation.”

Obama’s father quickly drew a crowd of friends at the university. “We would drink beer, eat pizza and play records,” Abercrombie says. They talked about Vietnam and politics. “Everyone had an opinion about everything, and everyone was of the opinion that everyone wanted to hear their opinion–no one more so than Barack.”

The exception was Ann, the quiet young woman in the corner who began to hang out with Obama and his friends that fall. “She was scarcely out of high school. She was mostly kind of an observer,” says Abercrombie. Obama Sr.’s friends knew he was dating a white woman, but they made a point of treating it as a nonissue. This was Hawaii, after all, a place enamored of its reputation as a melting pot.

But when people called Hawaii a “melting pot” in the early 1960s, they meant a place where white people blended with Asians. At the time, 19% of white women in Hawaii married Chinese men, and that was considered radical by the rest of the nation. Black people made up less than 1% of the state’s population. And while interracial marriage was legal there, it was banned in half the other states.

When Ann told her parents about the African student at school, they invited him over for dinner. Her father didn’t notice when his daughter reached out to hold the man’s hand, according to Obama’s book. Her mother thought it best not to cause a scene. As Obama would write, “My mother was that girl with the movie of beautiful black people playing in her head.”

On Feb. 2, 1961, several months after they met, Obama’s parents got married in Maui, according to divorce records. It was a Thursday. At that point, Ann was three months pregnant with Barack Obama II. Friends did not learn of the wedding until afterward. “Nobody was invited,” says Abercrombie. The motivations behind the marriage remain a mystery, even to Obama. “I never probed my mother about the details. Did they decide to get married because she was already pregnant? Or did he propose to her in the traditional, formal way?” Obama wonders. “I suppose, had she not passed away, I would have asked more.”

Even by the standards of 1961, she was young to be married. At 18, she dropped out of college after one semester, according to University of Hawaii records. When her friends back in Washington heard the news, “we were very shocked,” says Box, her high school friend.

Then, when Obama was almost 1, his father left for Harvard to get a Ph.D. in economics. He had also been accepted to the New School in New York City, with a more generous scholarship that would have allowed his family to join him. But he decided to go to Harvard. “How can I refuse the best education?” he told Ann, according to Obama’s book.

Obama’s father had an agenda: to return to his home country and help reinvent Kenya. He wanted to take his new family with him. But he also had a wife from a previous marriage there–a marriage that may or may not have been legal. In the end, Ann decided not to follow him. “She was under no illusions,” says Abercrombie. “He was a man of his time, from a very patriarchal society.” Ann filed for divorce in Honolulu in January 1964, citing “grievous mental suffering”–the reason given in most divorces at the time. Obama Sr. signed for the papers in Cambridge, Mass., and did not contest the divorce.

Ann had already done things most women of her generation had not: she had married an African, had their baby and gotten divorced. At this juncture, her life could have become narrower–a young, marginalized woman focused on paying the rent and raising a child on her own. She could have filled her son’s head with well-founded resentment for his absent father. But that is not what happened.

S. Ann Dunham Soetoro When her son was almost 2, Ann returned to college. Money was tight. She collected food stamps and relied on her parents to help take care of young Barack. She would get her bachelor’s degree four years later. In the meantime, she met another foreign student, Lolo Soetoro, at the University of Hawaii. (“It’s where I send all my single girlfriends,” jokes her daughter Soetoro-Ng, who also married a man she met there.) He was easygoing, happily devoting hours to playing chess with Ann’s father and wrestling with her young son. Lolo proposed in 1967.

Mother and son spent months preparing to follow him to Indonesia–getting shots, passports and plane tickets. Until then, neither had left the country. After a long journey, they landed in an unrecognizable place. “Walking off the plane, the tarmac rippling with heat, the sun bright as a furnace,” Obama later wrote, “I clutched her hand, determined to protect her.”

Lolo’s house, on the outskirts of Jakarta, was a long way from the high-rises of Honolulu. There was no electricity, and the streets were not paved. The country was transitioning to the rule of General Suharto. Inflation was running at more than 600%, and everything was scarce. Ann and her son were the first foreigners to live in the neighborhood, according to locals who remember them. Two baby crocodiles, along with chickens and birds of paradise, occupied the backyard. To get to know the kids next door, Obama sat on the wall between their houses and flapped his arms like a great, big bird, making cawing noises, remembers Kay Ikranagara, a friend. “That got the kids laughing, and then they all played together,” she says.

Obama attended a Catholic school called Franciscus Assisi Primary School. He attracted attention since he was not only a foreigner but also chubbier than the locals. But he seemed to shrug off the teasing, eating tofu and tempeh like all the other kids, playing soccer and picking guavas from the trees. He didn’t seem to mind that the other children called him “Negro,” remembers Bambang Sukoco, a former neighbor.

At first, Obama’s mother gave money to every beggar who stopped at their door. But the caravan of misery–children without limbs, men with leprosy–churned on forever, and she was forced to be more selective. Her husband mocked her calculations of relative suffering. “Your mother has a soft heart,” he told Obama.

As Ann became more intrigued by Indonesia, her husband became more Western. He rose through the ranks of an American oil company and moved the family to a nicer neighborhood. She was bored by the dinner parties he took her to, where men boasted about golf scores and wives complained about their Indonesian servants. The couple fought rarely but had less and less in common. “She wasn’t prepared for the loneliness,” Obama wrote in Dreams. “It was constant, like a shortness of breath.”

Ann took a job teaching English at the U.S. embassy. She woke up well before dawn throughout her life. Now she went into her son’s room every day at 4 a.m. to give him English lessons from a U.S. correspondence course. She couldn’t afford the élite international school and worried he wasn’t challenged enough. After two years at the Catholic school, Obama moved to a state-run elementary school closer to the new house. He was the only foreigner, says Ati Kisjanto, a classmate, but he spoke some Indonesian and made new friends.

Indonesia has the world’s largest Muslim population, but Obama’s household was not religious. “My mother, whose parents were nonpracticing Baptists and Methodists, was one of the most spiritual souls I ever knew,” Obama said in a 2007 speech. “But she had a healthy skepticism of religion as an institution. And as a consequence, so did I.”

In her own way, Ann tried to compensate for the absence of black people in her son’s life. At night, she came home from work with books on the civil rights movement and recordings of Mahalia Jackson. Her aspirations for racial harmony were simplistic. “She was very much of the early Dr. [Martin Luther] King era,” Obama says. “She believed that people were all basically the same under their skin, that bigotry of any sort was wrong and that the goal was then to treat everybody as unique individuals.” Ann gave her daughter, who was born in 1970, dolls of every hue: “A pretty black girl with braids, an Inuit, Sacagawea, a little Dutch boy with clogs,” says Soetoro-Ng, laughing. “It was like the United Nations.”

In 1971, when Obama was 10, Ann sent him back to Hawaii to live with her parents and attend Punahou, an élite prep school that he’d gotten into on a scholarship with his grandparents’ help. This wrenching decision seemed to reflect how much she valued education. Ann’s friends say it was hard on her, and Obama, in his book, describes an adolescence shadowed by a sense of alienation. “I didn’t feel [her absence] as a deprivation,” Obama told me. “But when I think about the fact that I was separated from her, I suspect it had more of an impact than I know.”

A year later, Ann followed Obama back to Hawaii, as promised, taking her daughter but leaving her husband behind. She enrolled in a master’s program at the University of Hawaii to study the anthropology of Indonesia.

Indonesia is an anthropologist’s fantasyland. It is made up of 17,500 islands, on which 230 million people speak more than 300 languages. The archipelago’s culture is colored by Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim and Dutch traditions. Indonesia “sucks a lot of us in,” says fellow anthropologist and friend Alice Dewey. “It’s delightful.”

Around this time, Ann began to find her voice. People who knew her before describe her as quiet and smart; those who met her afterward use words like forthright and passionate. The timing of her graduate work was perfect. “The whole face of the earth was changing,” Dewey says. “Colonial powers were collapsing, countries needed help, and development work was beginning to interest anthropologists.”

Ann’s husband visited Hawaii frequently, but they never lived together again. Ann filed for divorce in 1980. As with Obama’s father, she kept in regular contact with Lolo and did not pursue alimony or child support, according to divorce records.

“She was no Pollyanna. There have certainly been moments when she complained to us,” says her daughter Soetoro-Ng. “But she was not someone who would take the detritus of those divorces and make judgments about men in general or love or allow herself to grow pessimistic.” With each failed marriage, Ann gained a child and, in one case, a country as well.

Ann Dunham Sutoro after three years of living with her children in a small apartment in Honolulu, subsisting on student grants, Ann decided to go back to Indonesia to do fieldwork for her Ph.D. Obama, then about 14, told her he would stay behind. He was tired of being new, and he appreciated the autonomy his grandparents gave him. Ann did not argue with him. “She kept a certain part of herself aloof or removed,” says Mary Zurbuchen, a friend from Jakarta. “I think maybe in some way this was how she managed to cross so many boundaries.”

In Indonesia, Ann joked to friends that her son seemed interested only in basketball. “She despaired of him ever having a social conscience,” remembers Richard Patten, a colleague. After her divorce, Ann started using the more modern spelling of her name, Sutoro. She took a big job as the program officer for women and employment at the Ford Foundation, and she spoke up forcefully at staff meetings. Unlike many other expats, she had spent a lot of time with villagers, learning their priorities and problems, with a special focus on women’s work. “She was influenced by hanging out in the Javanese marketplace,” Zurbuchen says, “where she would see women with heavy baskets on their backs who got up at 3 in the morning to walk to the market and sell their produce.” Ann thought the Ford Foundation should get closer to the people and further from the government, just as she had.

Her home became a gathering spot for the powerful and the marginalized: politicians, filmmakers, musicians and labor organizers. “She had, compared with other foundation colleagues, a much more eclectic circle,” Zurbuchen says. “She brought unlikely conversation partners together.”

Obama’s mother cared deeply about helping poor women, and she had two biracial children. But neither of them remembers her talking about sexism or racism. “She spoke mostly in positive terms: what we are trying to do and what we can do,” says Soetoro-Ng, who is now a history teacher at a girls’ high school in Honolulu. “She wasn’t ideological,” notes Obama. “I inherited that, I think, from her. She was suspicious of cant.” He remembers her joking that she wanted to get paid as much as a man, but it didn’t mean she would stop shaving her legs. In his recent Philadelphia speech on race, in which he acknowledged the grievances of blacks and whites, Obama was consciously channeling his mother. “When I was writing that speech,” he told nbc News, “her memory loomed over me. Is this something that she would trust?” When it came to race, Obama told me, “I don’t think she was entirely comfortable with the more aggressive or militant approaches to African-American politics.”

In the expat community of Asia in the 1980s, single mothers were rare, and Ann stood out. She was by then a rather large woman with frizzy black hair. But Indonesia was an uncommonly tolerant place. “For someone like Ann, who had a big personality and was a big presence,” says Zurbuchen, “Indonesia was very accepting. It gave her a sense of fitting in.” At home, Ann wore the traditional housecoat, the batik daster. She loved simple, traditional restaurants. Friends remember sharing bakso bola tenis, or noodles with tennis-ball-size meatballs, from a roadside stand.

Today Ann would not be so unusual in the U.S. A single mother of biracial children pursuing a career, she foreshadowed, in some ways, what more of America would look like. But she did so without comment, her friends say. “She wasn’t stereotypical at all,” says Nancy Peluso, a friend and an environmental sociologist. “But she didn’t make a big deal out of it.”

Ann’s most lasting professional legacy was to help build the microfinance program in Indonesia, which she did from 1988 to ’92–before the practice of granting tiny loans to credit-poor entrepreneurs was an established success story. Her anthropological research into how real people worked helped inform the policies set by the Bank Rakyat Indonesia, says Patten, an economist who worked there. “I would say her work had a lot to do with the success of the program,” he says. Today Indonesia’s microfinance program is No. 1 in the world in terms of savers, with 31 million members, according to Microfinance Information eXchange Inc., a microfinance-tracking outfit.

While his mother was helping poor people in Indonesia, Obama was trying to do something similar 7,000 miles (about 11,300 km) away in Chicago, as a community organizer. Ann’s friends say she was delighted by his career move and started every conversation with an update of her children’s lives. “All of us knew where Barack was going to school. All of us knew how brilliant he was,” remembers Ann’s friend Georgia McCauley.

Every so often, Ann would leave Indonesia to live in Hawaii–or New York or even, in the mid-1980s, Pakistan, for a microfinance job. She and her daughter sometimes lived in garage apartments and spare rooms of friends. She collected treasures from her travels–exquisite things with stories she understood. Antique daggers with an odd number of curves, as required by Javanese tradition; unusual batiks; rice-paddy hats. Before returning to Hawaii in 1984, Ann wrote her friend Dewey that she and her daughter would “probably need a camel caravan and an elephant or two to load all our bags on the plane, and I’m sure you don’t want to see all those airline agents weeping and rending their garments.” At his house in Chicago, Obama says, he has his mother’s arrowhead collection from Kansas–along with “trunks full of batiks that we don’t really know what to do with.”

In 1992, Obama’s mother finally finished her Ph.D. dissertation, which she had worked on, between jobs, for almost two decades. The thesis is 1,000 pages, a meticulous analysis of peasant blacksmithing in Indonesia. The glossary, which she describes as “far from complete,” is 24 pages. She dedicated the tome to her mother; to Dewey, her adviser; “and to Barack and Maya, who seldom complained when their mother was in the field.”

In the fall of 1994, Ann was having dinner at her friend Patten’s house in Jakarta when she felt a pain in her stomach. A local doctor diagnosed indigestion. When Ann returned to Hawaii several months later, she learned it was ovarian and uterine cancer. She died on Nov. 7, 1995, at 52.

Before her death, Ann read a draft of her son’s memoir, which is almost entirely about his father. Some of her friends were surprised at the focus, but she didn’t seem obviously bothered. “She never complained about it,” says Peluso. “She just said it was something he had to work out.” Neither Ann nor her son knew how little time they had left.

Obama has said his biggest mistake was not being at his mother’s side when she died. He went to Hawaii to help the family scatter the ashes over the Pacific. And he carries on her spirit in his campaign. “When Barack smiles,” says Peluso, “there’s just a certain Ann look. He lights up in a particular way that she did.”

After Ann’s death, her daughter dug through her artifacts, searching for Ann’s story. “She always did want to write a memoir,” Soetoro-Ng says. Finally, she discovered the start of a life story, but it was less than two pages. She never found anything more. Maybe Ann had run out of time, or maybe the chemotherapy had worn her out. “I don’t know. Maybe she felt overwhelmed,” says Soetoro-Ng, “because there was so much to tell.”