Inauguration Day 2009

January 20, 2009

My day started at 3:10am when I awoke in a panic about missing my train. I had a very patient cab driver who assured me I wouldn't miss it, despite his being 3 minutes late.

There was only one thing happening at Penn Station at 4:45am: Obama. I took the luxury "Acela" business class train & arrived in DC on schedule at 8:10a, emerging to packed and festive streets with the task of finding brother Richard at "a bus stop across the street from a row of port-a-potties." Miraculously, there he was. We embraced with the exuberance of family members separated by war, reuniting against all odds in a far-away land. From then on, I decided, it didn't matter what happened.

Next task: Find the intersection where "Purple Ticket Holders" would be screened for security. Were we there? Yellows and Purples seemed to have compacted on each other in a mostly cheerful but very cold mass. The gates should open at 9am. Around 8:45a, an older woman passed out. "We need a doctor!" passed from one mouth to the next through the crowd. Somehow, she was revived and cared for. As 9:00 passed with no evidence of movement, some jolly soul struck up "For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain! America!..." These were mostly, after all, field organizers from U.S. history's best foot campaign. As 9:15a passed, the good cheer began to drain quickly. With the benefit of altitude, perched as Richard, his campaign friends Daniel & Emma, and I were on the railing of the National Association of Letter Carriers building at the intersection of Louisiana & First, we realized the "line" such as it was, led to a dead end. In fact, it would have to make a hair-pin left turn on itself to make it to the gate, with no barricades or officials to corral the herds. It was also evident that the thousands who were stuck in the trenches didn't yet realize this bit of poor planning. Would they all make it in? We hoped. But it was now pressing 9:30 and the slow trickle we could see through the gates did not bode well for us. So we busted an ethically questionable move.

We dove into the human crush, linking arms, moving forward in the current because there was no other choice, but sliding sideways all the while, until we broke out into the calm at the center of the hair-pin. Then we simply joined the crush at the top of the far prong of the pin, in other words, we more or less jumped the line. I justified this in any number of ways, but if you think less of me, I wouldn't blame you. The scene at the entrance to security was match-light. One beleaguered fellow called plaintively, "Officer! I've been here since 4:45am! Officer, I volunteered on the campaign for 3 months!" The masses pressed against the stretched metal grating began to chant, "Let us in! Let us in!" to which I quietly proposed Richard & his F.O. friends lead a counter-chant, "Keep Him Safe!" As would be true the rest of the day, you were wise to make friends of neighbors while pressing every inch of your body against these strangers, and in our group, we reminded ourselves that if none of us made it in, the important thing was that the inauguration go forward in an orderly & safe manner. But still, the possibility of coming so far, ticket in hand, to spend the morning freezing in a human log jam with no access to TV or radio did feel unbearable....

Richard and I were separated at the actual gate, as Capitol Police strong-armed the crowd to keep order. But we soon found each other in the relatively serene holding pen of security, which proceeded in a very orderly way. And then all of a sudden, we were walking freely to the North Standing Zone.

A direct view was obstructed by two trees (which, despite our professed environmentalism, we and our neighbors would have run up & cut down ourselves if allowed) and the left flank of stadium seating erected for the ceremony. So alas, we were reduced to "seeing" the Jumbotron jammed between the two offending trees. But who could care at that point? We were in.

The marine band was playing as we settled into our spot, befriending two gentleman from Virginia who stood behind us, comparing Nikons, and laughing at ourselves for taking photos of the Jumbotron, but oh well! The photographer had a 200mm lens, I had only a 105mm. I asked if he would mind emailing me any good ones he got. He said sure, and I gave him my email address. "My last name is Booker," he said, "when you get the email." Booker? Yes, as in Booker T. Washington. Do you have family in New Jersey? I asked. Probably -- my great-grandfather's generation there were 9 brothers and sisters who scattered. A college friend whose last name is Booker lives in New Jersey; you may have heard of him, he's the mayor of Newark now. Oh yeah, did he play football?

As prominent figures arrived -- Jimmy Carter, Al Gore, the Clintons, Dick Cheney, W., the Bidens -- the crowd roared and clapped or booed. Some sang to "Nah, nah! Nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye!" to W. Others of us quietly begged our neighbors not to boo the Bush family, asking under our breaths, "What would Obama do?" When Michelle and the girls arrived, the crowd was on pins & needles, and when Barack arrived, well, he was in the house. A sonic wave of OBAMA! OBAMA! rippled through the crowd.

Aretha Franklin gave goosebumps. For YoYo Ma and Itzhak Perlman's performance, I closed my eyes and turned them to the sun and felt warm to my core. For the actual oath, we all strained to hear. And then an alarming BOOM immediately behind us. My heart skipped. Our crowd turned around. Another BOOM. At last the Jumbotron explained what we could not see but were standing only a few hundred yards from: Canon fire in celebration of the peaceful transfer of power.

As President Obama gave his inaugural address, we were mostly hushed, working to hear every word despite the loudspeakers. From the speakers stretching a mile behind us, the deep seriousness of his voice reverberated....
"The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart -- not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good..."
"...As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.... Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake..."
"To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist..."
"...let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations..."

I had expected tears like the racking sobs of election night, but instead I felt something quieter and heavier. Reverence? Responsibility? I won't be able to blame "it" on Bush any more. Our guy won. We are on the hook now.

Unpackaged by TV, processed sound, and the warmth of my living room, the day became more about us, the people, than about him, the leader. As it should be. Like our 19th and 18th century predecessors, I am filling in the gaps in what I could actually hear, or thought I heard, with what I read in the newspaper. Later I recognized in Rev. Lowery's benediction, thanks to Jordy's email, the final verse from "Lift Every Voice and Sing," the Black National Anthem, which my students and I studied 15 years ago with the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance. As I read the lyrics again at home on my computer, I sang them aloud. Duncan liked it and asked me to sing more.

As the crowd drained from our coveted North Standing Zone, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. "Cory!" I shouted. Cory Booker turned my way. As mayor of Newark, he must be accustomed to virtual strangers calling his name. Cory was a college friend from the dorm next door. Senior year we commiserated through the Rhodes Scholarship process (he got it, I did not, deservedly so for us both, and which let me go to Mississippi instead). A Stanford football player, Cory once lifted me and my friend Elizabeth, one in each arm, victoriously in the Cal end zone at Big Game. I follow him in the NY Times now as he's trying to turn Newark around. When I used to take my boys to the Ikea overlooking the Newark airport, I would often think, "Cory is preventing homicides and attracting new housing to this city. I am eating chocolate cake and watching airplanes." A dozen people separated us in the crowd, but Cory heard me, smiled and waved vaguely. It's been 17 years. I'll write him an email. But there we were again together, victorious in the end zone.

The greatest moment of catharsis, unexpectedly, would be the departure of George and Laura. I didn't anticipate that we would not only get to see him board the helicopter on the Jumbotron (while the actual event transpired on the back side of the Capitol), but that we would then get to see -- even feel -- the wind from the helicopter's blades as it passed directly overhead. The relief was ecstatic.

Richard, Daniel and I went in search of Beer (my fantasy), Wings (Richard's), and Warmth (Daniel's). Walking the city, I thought about the circularity of time and the many threads of life weaving together... 1990, my first journey to Washington, led by Jordy who helped Democrat Dick Swett win a NH congressional seat. 1991, Jordy and friend Elizabeth Bekooy's first work out of college in congressional offices while I headed south. Election night in Crystal Springs with Teacher Corps friend and roommate Mary Virginia, when Clinton won. Felt like anything was possible. We were going to make our country into the Peace Corps, Sesame Street, inclusive, tolerant, just place I was raised to believe in.

Then the long dark shadow. I remembered the rain and darkness, the protesters, Sean among them, whom the TV cameras would not cover on January 20, 2000. I remembered holding Duncan, 22 hours old, in my arms on election day 2004 watching CNN, the nation turning blood red as it renewed Bush's presidency. Where did those years go? When did we lose our way? I can't blame it all on the Bush administration, as much as I'd like. Looking up to my brother, who was 7 when Clinton took office and is now 23, I felt enormous gratitude and humility.

The miracle of Obama, to me, isn't the return to a better time, but the movement forward guided by a vision of a union more perfect than my weakened imagination could muster. Obama will be the first president my children will remember. Here I am, feeling like a little foot soldier in a peaceful revolution, while my kids will grow up thinking this was all no big deal -- just the way it should be.

As the unexpected canon fire after the oath revealed to me, I am jumpy. I brace for loss. As Robin Green said so aptly, "He stirs up feelings I haven't felt since Bobby Kennedy. It's a dangerous thing to love." But I'll hold onto Elizabeth Alexander's words for now (did anyone hear her? This was a gap I had to fill later) - "What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance."

At dusk, Richard and I made our way to DuPont Circle where we found my dear friend Jonathan, who'd flown in from LA for the week. We jumped up and down like giddy idiots at finding each other in the middle of it all. And then, after a bit of a search, found an open table at the "Russian Lounge," of all places, on Connecticut Avenue, where a lovely young Russian woman served us "Pink Panthers" (what else?!) to toast the day.

My train home was delayed. At Union Station, National Guardsmen squatted together eating pizza and laughing. Capitol Police with impressive, nay, scary machine guns, went off duty & waved to their fellow men in uniform as they headed home. Men in tuxes and women in gowns, some with bare toes in sandals, the more prepared in fur boots under their sequins, wandered through the station en route to balls. Travelers exhaled and collapsed on whatever chair or patch of floor they could find. I didn't have the energy to read or even speak.

I arrived back in New York almost 24 hours later, stirring from slumber on the warm train to the biting Manhattan cold to hail a cab. My driver was bummed to get a Brooklyn fare -- almost guaranteed not to get a return. But then, as he drove around the streams of people suddenly emerging from Penn Station, it dawned on him: "Did you just get in from DC?!" Yes. "HOW WAS HE?!" The whole ride home he lamented not being there. His cousin had driven down from Canada. But he had to work, and he didn't trust his wife alone with the kids for too long -- she's so angry. Times are so hard. He didn't speak English when he arrived, but he had studied and passed his ESL requirements. Originally a French speaker, Black, West African I think, he is a trained Respiratory Therapist, but there are problems with his papers and he can't get a job. He's gotten used to riders treating him like he's "stupid," "just a cab driver." He has a 7 and 12-year old at home whom he worries about all the time. Over and over again, the lament for not being THERE, in the crowd in DC. I tried to reassure him that he heard it better by watching on TV. He wouldn't have any of it. "You have to BE there! Be a PART of it." You are part of it, I said, trying to resurrect Obama's words honoring those who are building this country and feeling like a poor plagiarist.

"It has not been the path for the faint-hearted, for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated, but more often men and women obscure in their labor -- who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom."

So now, I suppose, it's time to get to work. Oops -- and time to go get the boys at school. Again, thanks for your messages and thoughts. I love you all. And darn it, at the risk of sounding like the mushpot I am, I really love this country.

Mandy