"You cannot live in Jakarta and not have it leave a lasting impression on you," Obama said.
He remembers child paupers on the streets, too tired and ill to beg. He recalls guards in front of high-class houses tossing coins into the street, laughing when the poor would dart into traffic for the money.
In 1970, Ann sent her son back to Honolulu to live with his grandparents and attend school.
Though loved, Obama was always aware of racial tension around him: His family was white, as were many of his friends. Like many young people, Obama spent years wrestling with his identity; he smoked marijuana and tried cocaine.
"It happened. It happens to a lot of young people," he said. "I learned from my mistakes and moved on."
Race is something Barack Obama would love to ignore on the campaign trail. Talk about economics and politics. Talk about anything else. Yet these days, the subject regularly comes up.
Early on a Sunday afternoon, Obama sits inside the Original House of Pancakes in South Chicago. Most of the customers are black, and the chance to see Obama is an unexpected boon.
As the politician butters his chocolate-chip pancakes, a caterer slips Obama a business card, offering to feed people at his next rally "with the best barbecue that'll sizzle your tongue, child." Before he can reach for the syrup, a printer donates downtime on his presses for running off fliers and lawn signs.
After the meal, as Obama makes his way to the exit, some patrons gently probe him about his platform.
He's pro-labor and has introduced bills that would force drug companies to reveal how much of their marketing costs are paid by consumers. He has pushed legislation requiring police to videotape interrogations in cases of capital crimes.
"There've been 200,000 jobs lost in this state since Bush took the White House," he said. "Overtime rights are being threatened for 8 million workers in this nation. Have you lost a job? Has anyone in your family?"
The patrons nod slowly. Then, off to the side, a woman quietly asks, "Will you forget us in Washington?"
Obama simply replies, "I will represent everyone in Illinois. Everyone."
Obama's concern with race and class spawned a passion for activism years ago. After graduating from Columbia University, Obama said, he began exploring politics and wondering how to "breach some walls."
He sent scores of letters to nonprofit organizations across the country and received one reply: the Developing Communities Project, a church-based social action group in Chicago. For three years, he worked with poor residents in South Side neighborhoods, going with them to City Hall to fight for repairs in housing projects and to push for job development.
Obama left to attend Harvard Law School and, in 1990, was elected the first black president of the school's law review. The media cited his achievement as a sign of diversity in the stodgy Ivy League world.
"You don't get to be editor in chief of the Harvard Law Review by affirmative action," said Chicago attorney Judd Miner, a former co-worker and friend of Obama. "You get it by brilliance."
Publishers sought out Obama, and he signed a deal to write the autobiography.
Many students resented the buzz, and the complaints divided along racial lines. Whites were upset about the focus on Obama's race, while blacks complained that he overlooked other African Americans for top spots at the review.
"He just focused on the work," said Laurence H. Tribe, a Harvard professor who specializes in constitutional law. "All he cared about was bringing about change."
After graduation, Obama joined a small civil rights law firm in downtown Chicago, taking complaints by victims of housing and workplace discrimination. He also began teaching part time at the University of Chicago's Law School, in part "to help pay the bills," said Michelle Obama.
Friends approached him in the mid-1990s, suggesting that he add politics to his resume. He ran for state Senate and was elected in 1996. As the years passed in Springfield, Obama earned the admiration of many, even some Republicans.
"He's smart and he's fair," said Illinois state Sen. Kirk W. Dillard, a Republican who has co-sponsored bills with Obama. "You may not agree with his opinion. But you know he's always going to be honest."
Eight years later, Obama sits firmly in the spotlight. His speech, which he wrote longhand on a legal pad, was "finished before all this attention really started," he said. "If I'd realized this was so big, I might have been nervous."
Obama knows that, very soon, the hype over his convention speech will be over, leaving him with a little more than three months to campaign. But in the end, the compressed schedule may not matter; the focus of the race is on the disarray of the state Republican Party rather than his positions on issues.
"Who else are you going to vote for?" said Holly Martinez, 33, a mail carrier from Huntley, Ill., who met the candidate at the Kane County Fair. "I'm an independent, and it doesn't matter. It wouldn't matter if I were a Republican or a Democrat. Barack Obama's the only one talking."
The machinery behind Obama's campaign isn't going to stop any time soon, even when the candidate has little to say. And at times, it simply doesn't matter. The cult of celebrity has kicked in.
TODAY'S KEY SPEAKERS
Massachusetts Sen. Edward M. Kennedy, the party patriarch who has addressed the last 11 conventions.
Howard Dean, the
former governor of
Vermont and early front-runner -- until the primaries.
Teresa Heinz Kerry, the plainspoken wife of Sen. John F. Kerry, who is expected to be nominated Wednesday.
Off the Trail
Rep. Dick Gephardt (D-Mo.), who lost to Kerry in the Iowa
caucuses and then bowed out.
Talk of the Town