So Michelle Obama says, "Let me tell you something. For the first time in my adult life, I am proud of my country, because it feels like hope is finally making a comeback." And then Cindy McCain says, "I'm proud of my country. I don't know about you, if you heard those words earlier, but I'm VERY proud of MY country."

Right about here I should tell you that the Japanese character for war is two women under the same roof.

But that's the way it played on the extra large screen plasmas in homes and above the booze in bars, as folks in the big lawn and SUV America and the folks on the cement stoop-fire escape America were getting ready to watch reruns of "Survivor."

Michelle Obama, tough, feisty, educated lawyer that she is, probably knew the second the words were out of her mouth what she had done. She plainly forgot that she's not the street lawyer's wife anymore, and that the Fox News network is hanging on her every word.

But before your hair catches fire, let's all admit it was something less than a bon mot and yes, we all wish she hadn't said it, and jump to another word. Consider the word "Country." Michelle Obama's "country" and that of Cindy McCain's have always been rooms with two different views.

Cindy McCain grew up as the daughter of a multimillionaire beer distributor with problems of his own. Her childhood home was a 1951 ranch of 8,300 square feet with 5 bedrooms and 5-1/2 baths. Cindy, born in 1954, grew up to be an Arizona rodeo beauty queen with sunshine in her hair and Pepsodent on her teeth. She lived in a pastel colored American landscape with flags on every pole.

Cindy probably woke up every morning in a perfect sun-filled bedroom to the chirping of birds and a world where black Americans were not prominent figures in her landscape. But that's not Cindy's fault. Hillary Rodham's Rinso White's childhood was more Astor Place than Charles Dicken's Warwick Lane.

Michelle Obama's "country" was quite a different place. Michelle grew up on the South Side of Chicago, the daughter of a city water pump operator who provided for his family while the mother stayed home. Michelle's bedroom was a spot in the living room of their one bedroom apartment, a space she shared with her brother Craig. Michelle's Chicago, and I know it well, was a scruffy place where people of color, at work and in school, stood in a cold rain of white power. Michelle knew as a child that her mother's father lost out on good jobs because as an African American, he was not allowed to join a union. Michelle, born in 1964, certainly wasn't exposed to Jim Crow or the "back of the bus" America, but still, it was a different "country" than a cute blonde from the terraced lawns of Phoenix experienced.

We know that Michelle's parents instilled in her a love of America, and how, only here, it would be possible for her and her brother and future husband to achieve what they did. Michelle knows that, and she's proud of her America as Mrs. McCain is of hers.

Michelle's old neighbors on the South Side, who are still dealing with racism, pretty much know what she meant. They love their country too, and if you check the Vietnam and Iraq death lists, you'll see a lot of Chicagoans of color there.

Michelle misspoke, but people of color in this country, from the barrios of Los Angeles to the docks of Chicago know what she meant. And If Cindy and all those really old white guys in their blue suits and red ties up there on the stage with McCain don't get it, that's their problem.

J.P. Devine, a freelance writer, lives in Waterville.