I Was There

“We haven’t got there yet,” one middle-aged woman said to the other. We were sitting in the Washington metro red line, going to the Obama Inauguration.

“We have a long way to go,” the other replied.

I thought, given the time and place, that this was a discussion of our nation’s racial history, composed in well-meaning cliché, and so I was ready to reply with the appropriate prayer in this ritual that though there is much distance ahead for us to travel, there is much distance put behind us. Then MLK “Dream” reference for the win.

I was about to voice that sentiment when the first woman said, “Well I’m thinking we get out at Dupont Circle and walk down 17th.”

“Mmm,” the second agreed.

Obviously at this point I realized they were discussing logistics. The mental attitude I and others had was that logistics was a trifling thing; the real force in all discussions were how cool, historic, awesome, etc., etc. (fill in your favorite vague adjective that cannot capture the subjective wonder of a truly great event) this was, with the point being that all this was far too transcendent to worry yourself over earthly concerns.

Sadly earthly concerns always intervene in the search for transcendence. For me, at that moment, it was hunger—it was perhaps 8:30 and I had not eaten, so there was a powerful sharpness in my stomach. Later, as you might be able to guess, the edge of the cold cut more. But it would be a waste to come so far and succumb, so we, the people, persevered to witness some small part of history.
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A question. In the run-up to the inauguration, there was much speculation and hype—truly the food that feeds the media beast—as to the size and bulk of the crowds descending upon Washington, D.C. The initial, enthusiastic estimate of five million was clearly irrational exuberance along the lines of subprime mortgages, but, nevertheless, the reported number of 1.8 million would shatter all inauguration records and record a respectable place in recorded human history for largest mass gatherings. (From what I could tell, the largest appears to be a Hindu holiday on the banks of Ganges, which allegedly brought together seventy million people.) Now, here is the question: what does it mean that the big gatherings of people, both in our history (LBJ inauguration, “I Have a Dream”, etc., etc.) and human history (the aforementioned Papal visit) all center around charismatic figures or religious circumstances, often in conditions of poverty or crisis? All I know is that to overcome the inertia of humanity, it requires a great force.

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Statistics do not matter while experiencing an event. If you had told me, there were 1.8 million people there, I would have nodded and said, “Makes sense.” You also, for that matter, could have said 800,000, 500,000, 2 million, 2.5 million, whatever. It does not matter. The subjective experience is the same, and the effect of that experience is—and let me draw on whatever technical experience I have as a writer, and draw on the wealth of vocabulary that I have tried to amass is—“Wow. That’s a freaking lot of people.” (Note: I would not say freaking.)

Walking down 17th street after leaving the Farragut North station, I could see that humanity populated every space and that we rolled down the street with the steady, forceful application of the tide coming in. Once in a while I would turn back for some reason or another and simply be struck by people, in every conceivable size, shape and color, proceeding inexorably to the Mall.

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You have probably heard about the cold, and it was that. It was not particularly windy, but the cold insinuated itself into every pore, every bone nonetheless. The hand warmers we bought were somewhat effective; the foot warmers, despite their conceptual brilliance, not quite as much.

Naturally, therefore, I saw a great diversity of hats on the Mall, and I am pleased to report that though America has made mistakes—yes, Jay-Z, I am referring to that dead animal wrapped around your head—the state of the hat union remains strong. Special commendations go to the fedoras, which may or may not be making a deserved comeback.

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Practically the only industry undergoing expansion in these troubled times is the memories industry in Washington, D.C. All sorts of memorabilia were sold and given away as a way to mark the occasion, much of it more than a bit kitschy or odd. (I’m thinking specifically of the shirt depicting civil rights leaders as a cowboy posse, with Obama, naturally, leading the posse. However, improbably, Tupac was a member of said posse, which strikes me as, ah, more than a bit incongruous. Then again, I prefer B.I.G.)

At any rate, the most popular piece of memorabilia—in terms of supply, undeniably—was a button saying “I Was There, 1.20.09.” I found this to be a very interesting sentiment. Was the button implying that I was there, don’t you dare to claim you were (Like how half the Boomer population claims they went to Woodstock?) Or was the button implying that the only way you could possibly appreciate the event was to be here, Washington, D.C.? Probably something of both, I suspect, and I hope the latter is true, because otherwise I froze my butt off for nothing.

I froze my butt off for several hours, and when it was finally over, I walked as if on stilts, my legs were so stiff. But I think it was worth it. I cannot add any more worthwhile commentary about the speech, or the festivities as broadcast on TV. What I can say is that despite my distance from the scene—my family was in the shadow of the Washington Memorial—we felt immediately there: with the crowd, with the speeches, with the people. And you could tell the people on the stage were as well, you could see the Senators, Representatives, Governors, and the assorted stars of the firmament were just as impressed and just as awed by our presence as we were; they held up their camera phones, they mouthed “wow” at each other, they stumbled through their assigned roles.

The crowd was too big to manage and too big to ignore. I’ve heard horror stories about the Purple ticket holders. Several times we were told to take a seat by the PA announcer, who presumably meant the people in the capitol, but we laughed derisively. And I’m told some considered it in poor form or poor manners to chant “Na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye” at the outgoing President, but I would have been glad to live up to my responsibility to treat people well if the President had not done worse first. The only argument that I can see as to why we should not have booed the President is that it was a hopeful event and painful reminders of the past ought to be ignored.

It was a good time nevertheless, and democracy demands accountability. There was a call for a new era of responsibility—a cliché, of course—and if true, responsibility for elected officials requires them to welcome derision in response to mistakes just as they would welcome adulation in response to successes.

Obama was a success on that day and so we poured adulation at him, as I’m sure you’re aware. When Justice Roberts administered the oath, he said something like, “Congratulations, Mr. President.” And at that moment, the crowd’s spirits were loosed: the roar of the crowd twisted and grew into a living thing, balloons were loosed and floated adrift into the sky, the crowd swayed and exulted, a flock of birds were startled and sent alight, and in that moment, it seemed that all human unhappiness could be banished. Then, over the hours and days, we all sobered up.