We Were There: Part II- Being There

It has been on the calendar for months. The countdown has ruled the news, and dominated the conversation. On January 20th, 2009, Barack Hussein Obama would be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States, and millions flocked to the country’s capital to see it for themselves, and share in the celebration of our great nation.

A night with too much to do, and a morning that can’t start early enough, results in a Tuesday that doesn’t so much begin, as a Monday that never ends. The bleed of one day into a new one surreally kicks the Inaugural proceedings. There is no sleep to be had given the palpable sense of potential crackling in the air. There’s too much to consider, wonder over, and await for a moment’s rest. The day is pregnant with possibility.

College students began migrating to the subway rails as soon as they opened at 4 A.M. There were rumors that the gates would be swamped from the get-go, leading to a general consensus that there was no “too soon” to head downtown. The threat of paralyzing overcrowding loomed perilously, but trains every running three minutes keeps traffic to a relative minimum. Of course, the closer the train cars got to the heart of the city, the more flushed and desperate the crowds became. More than one passenger shares anecdotes about Tokyo subway-stuffers, whose primary objective is to forcibly maximize the number of rider per car. It got less funny each mention.

The subway ride was an ominous precursor to the downtown area itself. The first hint was as the Federal Center SW subway stop, where Silver level ticket holders were told they would be admitted to their designated area, in between the reflecting pool and the near section of the Mall. However, when the subway pulls in to the stop the doors never open. The station is empty, and we’re off to the next stop. We arrived one stop later at Capitol South, and passengers flood the station.

Chaos seemed imminent, when a Metro employee started a calming chant. “Keep it moving,” she demanded. It was non-negotiable command, but there was no aggression associated. “Keep it moving. Keep it moving.” There were a thousand people pushing through the turn styles and up the escalator, anxious to get their hands on history. Crowds of that size are inherently unruly, but this one had a sense of purpose. The employee gave that purpose. “Keep it moving,” she repeated, until finally, the response came back from the crowd.



“Keep it moving.”
“Keep it moving!” the crowd agreed. The call and response kept everything orderly and on track. She called and we answered, and it wasn’t long before everyone reached the sunny exterior. The faces told the story; everyone was finally There.


The crowds parted in accordance with ticket color, and began their slow lurch to the viewing area. Everyone packed so tight that one person’s lean to became the other’s lean fro. We swayed as one, supporting each other, holding each other up, and sharing the weight and responsibility of the moment.

At the access point on Third Street and Independence Avenue, an ever-denser migratory bottle neck developed. The city was clogged to its max, and it showed. People grew naturally ornery, as expected, but only as tense as they allowed themselves to be. Moments became hours of frustration, but everyone conversed and made the best of things. The crowd was herded into a barricaded area, and anxiously awaited their front seat to history.

Everyone here had a ticket. Some were relative locals from Virginia and Baltimore, whose tickets came from their local representatives. There are out of towners, arriving from California, and Louisiana, and everywhere else across the country. There are D.C. insiders, or friends of friends, with professional ties and access. There were families, couples, and aged activists. Everyone there seemed stunned to even be there, both due to their own personal luck, and the sheer unlikelihood of the event itself.

I cleared security right as the governors took their seats. After the best dodging, weaving, swerving, and lead blocking I had in me, I settled into a viewing spot on Jefferson Drive SW and Third; a massive screen in the foreground, and the Capitol Building’s festivities in the background. Right then, the celebrity seating rounds begin.

The first to receive the crowd’s accolades is Massachusetts’ own senior Senator. Senator Ted Kennedy swore to the Democratic Convention that he would meet them on these steps, and the crowd showed him with love for it. The stars continued to pour out, and the mass of spectators voted their approval with their voices. Beyonce Knowles was a huge crowd pleaser, as was Oprah Winfrey. Connecticut Senator Joe Lieberman was jeered lustily, branded a party traitor, despite the day’s themes of unity. The Clintons seemed to be among the last shown, with the people agreeing that as a melodramatic moment, it was trademark Clintonian. Everyone filtered in. When Vice President Dick Cheney was shown being pushed in a wheelchair, someone pointed out the resemblance he struck to the villainous Mr. Potter of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” It was hard to deny.

Finally, after the former presidents were seated, the motorcade approached, and the throng built to its fever pitch. The door was shown opening, and a shadow of the soon-to-be president appeared on the screen. Cheers abounded. It was finally time.

The buzz of the mob was the expected reaction to the image of our now former President George W. Bush. The easiest parallel to draw would be the Fenway crowd the first day Johnny Damon visited as a Yankee. Ideally, the horde would rise above the pettiness of cat-calling a Commander in Chief, but it was obvious that was not going to happen. The event’s planners clearly expected this, as a concerted effort was made to minimize Bush’s screen time. After Obama was finally revealed to the cameras, Bush was frequently shown on screen at the same time as the new Head of State, as if to confound the masses, and discourage their hearty, embarrassing boos.

After what felt like a lifetime of pomp and circumstance, the ceremony finally began. Dianne Feinstein emcees, and opens the service masterfully. Dr. Rick Warren, despite the controversy surrounding his selection in giving the Invocation, delivered a prayer of cautious optimism, intended to speak all Americans, regardless of political affiliation or faith base.

When Aretha Franklin shared her renowned voice with the Mall, the moment solidified. The crowd swelled with her introduction. The R.E.S.P.E.C.T.-demanding diva’s presence implicitly affirmed the unique celebration of this fifty-sixth Inauguration, and her performance rose to the moment.

Joe Biden’s swearing was warmly embraced the crowd, if a bit overlooked. Biden has been like a passenger to history, faithfully doing his job by being a likable counterpart to the now former ‘Vice.’ Yo-Yo Ma headlined a quartet to a John Williams composition, and the ultimate moment arrived.

The Presidential Oath of Office blurred by, and before anyone knew it, Barack Obama was the forty-fourth President of the United States.

Obama’s Inaugural Address was no surprise to anyone who paid close attention to his speeches of the last year. The masses hushed to a respectful silence, eager to hear, first-hand, the biggest speech in modern media history. It was a scientific distillation of every the best parts of the election’s stump speeches, touched with pragmatism, and a heaping spoonful of the Presidents’ patent-brand eloquent and loquacious public oratory.

This was masterpiece. It was the total sum of a twelve month master thesis on the state and direction of our nation by a brilliant analyst. It touched on where we had come from, what change we’d embraced, and what we need to do moving forward. It was no surprise, then, how effectively Obama rocked his swarm of loyal supporters. He captured everyone from the front row to the cheap seats. He made the moment his own, and he made it for everyone.

After the speech, the crowds broke. Relegated to the rear of the ticketed section, I made my way towards the Capitol Building. The Capitol Reflecting Pool had frozen over, and so people made their way across to take a closer look at the departing party. The moment had passed, although wise attendees paid attention to Reverend Dr. Joseph Lowery’s powerful Benediction. People went their separate ways, exhausted, elated, and changed.

In the twenty blocks from front steps of the Capitol down Independence Avenue to the Washington Monument, people bought kitsch and memorabilia, and reveled in their joy. Busses attempted to leave town, however hopelessly. Everyone soaked it in. There were two million individual voyages that brought this American assemblage together, but now that it was over, there was one story, and one moment shared.

We Can, He Did, We Were there.

We Were There; Part I Getting There

Today, George W. Bush will no longer be president, and Barack Obama will be. That simple fact has been the driving force that has pushed millions of Americans to our nation’s front steps. Personally, on November fifth, I decided I was going to Washington D.C., no matter the cost.

After a letter to Massachusetts’ Sixth District Representative John Tierney’s office, and a huge amount of logistical help from his entire office, I had an access ticket to the Washington Mall, where, in front of indeterminate million people, Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44th president of these United States of America. For months, Americans, and the American media, have exhausting held the conversation of how historic this monumental moment is, and what it means to America in the context of the world at large. Every angle has been covered, now all that’s left is the public promise that Barack Obama will make to honorably serve the American people. As such, millions of Americans are flocking to the nation’s capitol, eager to capture and experience this historic moment for themselves.

My trip starts Sunday with a subway ride to South Station, where I will catch a bus that goes first to New York city, and then on to Washington D.C. I leave at 1 P.M., and am scheduled to arrive at around 11 P.M. I was never optimistic about this arrival time.

As soon as I step in the station, the palpable energy begins to emerge. When a man asks directions to the airport, there is no question as to where he is flying. Everyone seems to have something packed. I see a street person with a garbage bag full of his possessions, and can’t help but wonder if he has travel plans of his own. He seems to- his look of utter resolve suggesting that even a man of his means is making this trek.

The bus ride to New York is hard to read, as one can never really predict why someone is going to New York. As I board, Outkast’s “Rosa Parks,” rolls into my head. A moment later, I realize why. Whites are sitting in the back of this bus on this ride, and the utter irrelevance of that fact is a true testament to this country’s progress.

The bus is, for an event like this, is for the truly committed. There is no pretending that it will be pleasant, or any less than a ten hour pledge altogether. Beyond that, when taking a bus, there is a far greater risk of delays and headaches. The New York bus’s crowd seems steeled to this, and no one is surprised when, within moments of pulling out of Penn Station, passengers learn there will be no overhead lights on this ride. There is nothing to do but sleep, however tenuously, and wait.

The silent understanding of all the travelers is telling. There is no doubt to anyone’s destination, and motivation. For Bostonians, it is a familiar feeling. A decade of sports dominance has spoiled the city with Championship celebrations. Red Sox Nation, Patriots’ pledges, and Celtic faithful have all had their chance to take to the streets and revel in showers of victory. Today, it is America at large that celebrates. One needn’t have voted for Obama, or support his politics, to appreciate how much America is enjoying this moment, and how much that suggests we needed it. Maybe his mandate will be mismanaged, and the optimism soured, but today there is nothing to do but hope.



The bus arrives in D.C. minutes after midnight, making good time. Unfortunately, those moments cost riders their shot at the city’s last subway. To make matters worse, the streets are flushed with tuxedos and ball gowns, all recently departing their various galas. The result is a dearth of cabs, with hundreds fruitlessly milling about the streets. Curiously, there are empty cabs refusing fares, (although my estimation is that they have been paid off by high rollers to be available at a moment’s notice).

After nearly an hour of futility, my traveling companion and I secure a taxi. When the man next to us, himself failing to get a ride, is visibly distraught over being spurned, our cabbie asks if we’d mind doubling up with an additional passenger. We quickly agree, as an hour in the cold will make anyone sympathetic. We pick up one more struggling pedestrian, filling the cab.

In the cab there is no explicit discussion of the Obamanon surrounding us, instead focusing on the city’s overload, and the impossibility of managing it. When the conversation turns to the wayward cabs that are refusing service, I observe that it is hard to believe anyone would refuse money in this economy. Soon everyone is lending their opinions on the downturns’ origins. The driver, a part time real estate agent, talks of bank foreclosures and lowered resale prices. The front-seat passenger, a New York City broker, lays blame on shady, back-room dealings. The other guest-rider, a student at nearby George Washington, bites her tongue; almost as if she knows that she doesn’t have enough information available to say anything definitive.

We share an enjoyable ride, and bid friendly farewells. D.C.’s intuitive grid-layout makes the route direct, despite three destinations, and the taxi driver’s ingenuity makes him a killing.

Our destination is a consummate crash pad. It is a seven roommate house, and a total nexus of youthful exuberance. It has basically become a hostel, with everyone there friends of friends. No one bothers to suppress their excitement. Socializing, I gripe about the difficult journey I’ve just finished, only to learn that the person I was telling my troubles to has only just arrived from Omaha, via Philadelphia. A quick calculation later, and my suffering is obscured by their twenty-three hour sacrifice.



One beverage later, and it is time to retire. An air-mattress on the laundry room floor ain’t the Ritz, but that doesn’t make the sleep any less rejuvenatingly satisfying. The next day is a lazy one of recovery and preparation. Everyone in the District is in a holding pattern, collectively holding their breath and waiting for Tuesday’s early morning festivities. The energy nears critical mass, with lines just to get subway passes in advance of Tuesday’s assured chaos.

I take the day to meet up with a cousin, a freshman at nearby American University. On November fourth, it was he and his peers who flocked to the gates of the White House, cheering in celebration. I reflect to him that when I was a freshman we were a year removed from 9/11, and on the cusp of invading Iraq. His college experience is mostly familiar to my own at UMASS. There are floor-wide games of HALO, posters of Bob Marley, and not twenty minutes after my arrival to the dorm, crazy relationship drama unfolds, apparently involving every person on the floor. It is the quintessential American experience at American University, except that history is happening in their backyard.

My early years at UMASS-Amherst were full of Boston-sports related massive celebrations, that some have called ‘riots.’ Those events were great, but were ultimately all of their positivity were locally limited, and came at the cost of someone else. These kids’ experience is similar, but the victory they celebrate is one, not of regional success, but the triumph of America as a whole, and as an ideal. It is reassuring that they all appear to be sufficiently appreciating it.

It is an early night for everyone, with Tuesday morning itineraries starting no later than 5 A.M. The anticipation across the globe is reaching critical mass, and no one can wait to be at its epicenter.

In a few hours, George W. Bush will no longer be president, and Barack Obama will be. What that means to every U.S. citizen is distinct and unique. But for the millions that have flocked to Washington D.C., it can’t come fast enough.