In Laughing it Up With Trump During the Carter Funeral, Was Obama Playing In Our Faces?

I refrained from immediately writing about the image of President Obama speaking to Trump in a relaxed, almost playful manner at President Carter’s funeral. But the moment stuck with me. It was triggering. As a Black man, I couldn’t reconcile how comfortable the two seemed, given the depths of alienation, racism, and xenophobia Trump has wielded against people of color.

Seeing our first Black president — at ease with a man who personifies so much harm felt like a betrayal. Something in me cracked.

Of course, anyone familiar with Washington D.C.’s political culture knows the truth: politics is a game. After 5 p.m., it’s not uncommon to find right-leaning and left-leaning politicians sharing laughs at local watering holes. The public battles may be real, but the relationships rarely get too personal.

But with Trump, it always feels personal. His policies, rhetoric, and sheer disdain for marginalized groups hit differently. They always do. And when I saw Obama not only acknowledge Trump but appear cordial, I couldn’t help but ask: Was Obama playing in our faces, or, simply being the consummate gentleman given the optics?

Seating charts and decorum are the superficial reasons offered to explain Obama’s engagement with Trump. Some argue he had no choice—he would have been pilloried by the media had he ignored Trump. But others didn’t engage. George W. Bush walked in and chose not to entertain Trump. Did his white privilege grant him that option? Or was it simply a matter of choice?

Often heralded for his dignity and grace under fire, Obama consistently opts for diplomacy over confrontation. But in moments like this, I wonder: who does this diplomacy ultimately serve?

Obama has often been criticized for navigating the treacherous waters of respectability politics. As the first Black president, he had no choice but to appear “perfect” in a world ready to scrutinize him. But this adherence to dignity, grace, and palatability has alienated parts of the Black community. It began in office when he declared, “I’m America’s president, not Black America’s president.” He proved this through his Supreme Court appointments, his policies, and the way he publicly admonished Black men.

Respectability politics, as a framework, is rooted in survival. Coined by historian Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham, the phrase describes how Black Americans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries adopted behaviors deemed “respectable” by white society to challenge stereotypes and demand civil rights. It was a survival strategy in the face of Jim Crow violence.

But scholars like Tressie McMillan Cottom and Brittney Cooper argue that respectability politics reinforces white supremacy, demanding that Black people conform to oppressive standards for a sliver of acceptance.

In Obama’s case, his light skin privilege may have played a role in his ability to navigate these politics. Lighter-skinned Black people have historically been afforded more proximity to power and acceptance within white-dominated spaces. Obama’s ability to embody respectability was likely made easier by this privilege. But did his adherence to these politics come at a cost? Did it dilute his ability to fully represent and fight for Black America?

Obama’s insistence on playing the long game — remaining graceful and dignified even in the face of blatant disrespect — feels increasingly hollow. The reality is, Trump’s politics are personal. Every word he utters reinforces systems that harm people like me, my family, and my community. Obama’s decision to engage Trump, even for a moment, feels like a slap in the face to those of us who have borne the brunt of Trumpism.

Yet, as triggering as the image of Obama and Trump was, it’s equally telling that Michelle Obama chose not to attend—and has opted out of attending the inauguration on Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday. While Barack bore the brunt of public scrutiny for the encounter, Michelle’s absence speaks volumes. She has always been unapologetic in her rejection of performative respectability. Her refusal to be part of that tableau felt like a quiet resistance — a reminder that some battles don’t require our participation.

Obama is beloved by many as a trailblazer and symbol of Black excellence. But moments like these remind us of the limitations of his leadership, particularly in how he engaged—or failed to engage—with the Black community. Respectability politics may have helped him survive eight years in office, but at what cost?

As a Black man sitting in Rockefeller Center getting my shoes shined, looking up to see the man I admire laughing with one of the most harmful individuals to occupy the White House, I felt a profound disappointment. Obama’s dignity has often been his strength, but in this moment, it felt like a weakness.

Perhaps it’s time to ask: does respectability still serve us as a community? Or is it merely a relic of white supremacy that forces us to play a game that was never designed for us to win?