dedalus_1947 | Inauguration 2: Today’s Sharp Sparkle (Reply)

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,

any thing can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

(Praise Song for the Day, Inaugural Poem by Elizabeth Alexander)

In the pre-dawn chill of Inauguration Day, sitting together on the flat, frigid, and windswept plain, there was little desire to move, talk, or joke. Communication and action was reduced to the barest essentials to conserve warmth. We spoke in quick questions and statements; like, “What’s the time? My toes are frozen. When will the sun come up?” Instead of sharing impressions of the dawn, our thoughts were internalized, and we concentrated on the temperature, and how our bodies were reacting to it. I had never spent so much time completely at the mercy of the glacial elements of winter, without shelter or external covering. Our only defense against hypothermia was the clothing we wore. Together, Prisa and I passed seven hours on the National Mall waiting for the Swearing-In ceremony and speech. During that time, I gained a new appreciation for arctic gear and a healthy respect for the vagaries of freezing conditions. My personal observations were that cold seems to come in waves of intensity, and the sun doesn’t help much. There were intervals when I felt very cold and then, not-so-cold; periods when it seemed that the people around us were human generators of heat and warmth, and then a gust of frigid air would blow out their pilot lights and turn them into icicles radiating frost. I noticed this tendency mostly with my fingers and toes. Even when I wasn’t exposing my digits to the open air to adjust my camera or take a picture, my fingers (and toes) would alternate between feeling stiff, aching, and frostbitten, to being soft, flexible, and whole. I couldn’t understand it. Whether using mittens (as I did) or gloves (as Prisa did), there was no way to control the undulating phases of cold. We came to the fatalistic conclusion that no amount of clothing or insulated layering was adequate defense to the unrelenting rhythms of cold. Our only hope was the certainty that the morning would end. However, the rising sun didn’t make that much difference. The day turned sparkling and sharp, but the undulating rhythms of cold continued throughout. Looking back at how we fared during those seven hours, I think 3 factors helped us survive: woolen scarves and hats, music, and human company.

As a Los Angeles native, and a lifetime Southern California resident, I never used knit caps and scarves for the cold. I considered those items snow gear, ill suited for the infrequent rainfall and rarely cold mornings and evenings of a semi-arid, desert climate. I especially didn’t understand them as gifts. I considered scarves to be bright and wooly ladies neckwear, which women used to accessorize their coats and sweaters. I believed that scarves, like neckties, were decorative, and not at all functional. These notions shattered like thin ice on the morning of January 20. It did not matter that the sun was up, or that Washington D.C. was a southern city, my ears, nose, and throat (mouth) were the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of my anatomy, and they were taking a beating in this weather. With temperatures ranging in the mid to low 20 degrees, and wind chill blasts driving it occasionally lower, I constantly thanked God for the flannel cap that covered my head and ears, and my scarf, which covered my mouth and nose. Yet even these key accessories couldn’t compare with the beneficial effects that music had on the beleaguered spectators. At about 8:30, event technicians began testing the sound system on the Mall. Instead of a disembodied, monotone voice chanting “Check, check, check”, the speakers would suddenly explode with music and songs. We couldn’t tell if the music came from a radio or MP3 player, because it never lasted long. However, those intermittent and brief snippets of music were enough to lift our spirits and give us hope. We would sing along and rock with the longer, more popular pieces, and then boo when the testing terminated and the music stopped.

“The organizers could be really helpful if they just let the music play” Prisa said in a muffled voice, through her neck-scarf.

“Really” I agreed. “It would sure help to keep our minds off the cold”.

“It would; you know, I heard that they were thinking of showing the entire HBO Concert from last Sunday”.

“Wow that would be great” I said, praying that this was more than a rumor.

The testing continued for 15 more minutes and then stopped completely. A little later, as we were hopping up and down, and bouncing from foot to foot, trying to increase circulation; the giant monitor jumped suddenly to life. The title on the screen read “We Are One: The Obama Inaugural Celebration”, and the bundled masses on the Mall broke into wild cheers and muffled clapping. Prisa’s information had been correct, for over 90 minutes we were treated to a reprise of the HBO concert that took place two days before in front of the Lincoln Memorial. It was only then that we felt the sun’s presence, and the day’s promise. Our thoughts moved away from ourselves, the cold, and our discomfort, and focused on the speakers, the musicians, and the music. It was wonderful – from Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising”, through Garth Brooks’ renditions of “American Pie” and “Shout”, to U2’s singing “In the the Name of Love” - we traveled the breadth of American’s gospel, soul, folk, and rock and roll music . We sang, we swayed, and we danced; more important we warmed. The heat wasn’t coming from the sun, but from the beaming smiles, infectious laughter, and bounding energy of the people around us. Bodies were moving and walking again. There was a renewed migration of individuals, pairs, and bands of people from the back of the Mall to the front. This new wave of “squatters” was looking for better locations and closer views. They filled every nook and cranny of empty space they could find. Ground that was used for lounging and sleeping during the darkened hours of the morning now filled with late arriving settlers. The crowd became denser and friendlier. As James Taylor and Pete Seeger performed, I focused my camera on the faces of the men and women around me, the young, the old, the cheery, and the intense. I wanted to record the faces of these witnesses, the people who had come from far and near to be here today. When the concert ended after 10:30, the video screen transitioned into showing a procession of dignitaries and guests. We saw Dustin Hoffman, Oprah Winfrey, the diplomatic corps, Steven Spielberg, and countless people who had gained the preferred seating areas under the Capitol portico. However, nothing was more impressive, or received the biggest cheer, than the live, overhead views of the Mall itself with its miles and miles of people. From the Capitol Building to beyond the Washington Monument, men, women, and children cheered and waved flags at the sight of themselves. We learned later that we totaled over 1.7 million spectators in this vast, sprawling area. At the time, we simply felt as One.

The official Inaugural ceremonies began at 11 o’clock with musical selections by the Marine Band and the Boys and Girls Chorus of San Francisco. During this interlude the video broadcast would break off to show the arriving members of the House and Senate, new cabinet members and former presidents. The only negative sound to emanate from the viewing throng during the entire experience was the booing at the pictures of President Bush and Vice-president Cheney. The moment was awkward and embarrassing, because it reminded me of how I scold my students at election assemblies to always cheer FOR candidates, never against them. We choose by our vote, I tell them, we don’t demean candidates, or former officers, by booing and catcalling. The lapse in decorum passed as soon as the camera shifted to a picture of Barack Obama, in the hallway of the Capitol, waiting to enter. This initial part of the agenda served as an audio and visual countdown to the Swearing-In, and like a late morning rocket launch, it generated a growing build-up of anticipation. The tension finally climaxed as the trumpet fanfare signaled the start of the events, and whoops and cheering greeted Senator Dianne Feinstein as she stepped to the podium to call the convocation to order and guide the proceedings. In a multitude of almost 2 million people, I was struck by the noticeable hush that descended on the Mall when the program started. Without hum or murmurings, all eyes and ears were locked on the giant screens, with an occasional glance at the Capitol building and portico. Up until this moment, I had felt bonded with the crowd by our common desire to be there, and having withstood the arduous morning. In the eerie stillness, my excitement faltered. From our distant location on the Mall, we could barely see the miniscule figures on the ledge in front of the Capitol. They were so far away and so tiny. If we couldn’t actually SEE Barack Obama, what were we doing here? Why had I travelled 2,000 miles, missed two days of work, and suffered the ravages of the raw elements? The self-pitying questions surprised me, but I managed to push them aside when I scanned the confident and happy faces of the people around me. Their expectant and excited features reassured me that my feelings were crazy, and a symptom of fatigue.

The introduction of the Reverend Rick Warren also distracted me from my doubts. His selection to give the Invocation had caused considerable controversy in the media because of some earlier criticisms of homosexuality, and I wondered if any of the previously manifested anti-Bush sentiment would reappear. There was none. In fact the “padre” helped vanquish my self-doubts by encapsulating the reasons for our presence on that Mall with a prayer. He carefully and thoughtfully constructed a psalm for our new president. Tears welled up in my eyes at the power of the words sent directly to God’s ear:

“Let us pray… The Scripture tells us, Hear, oh Israel, the Lord is our God; the Lord is one. And you are the compassionate and merciful one. And you are loving to everyone you have made.

Now today we rejoice not only in America’s peaceful transfer of power for the 44^th time. We celebrate a hinge-point of history with the inauguration of our first African-American president of the United States.

We are so grateful to live in this land, a land of unequaled possibility, where the son of an African immigrant can rise to the highest level of our leadership.

And we know today that Dr. King and a great cloud of witnesses are shouting in Heaven.

Give to our new president, Barack Obama, the wisdom to lead us with humility, the courage to lead us with integrity, the compassion to lead us with generosity. Bless and protect him and his family.

Help us, oh God, to remember that we are Americans, united not by race or religion or blood, but to our commitment to freedom and justice for all.

When we focus on ourselves, when we fight each other, when we forget you, forgive us. When we presume that our greatness and our prosperity is ours alone, forgive us. When we fail to treat our fellow human beings and all the Earth with the respect that they deserve, forgive us.

And as we face these difficult days ahead, may we have a new birth of clarity in our aims, responsibility in our actions, humility in our approaches, and civility in our attitudes, even when we differ…”

“Do you have a Kleenex, Prisa?” I asked at the completion of the ‘Our Father (The Lord’s Prayer)’. Throughout the latter part of the Invocation I had been fighting back sobs and my flowing mucus.

“No, sorry Dad” she replied, looking at my reddening eyes with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yea” I said, “but I need to blow my nose”. I was forced to use my mittens as a handkerchief until I got my nose under control.

After the Invocation, Prisa and I stood side-by-side, carefully listening to the rest of the ceremonies. The strongest and longest cheers of the day burst forth when President Obama said “So help me God” at the conclusion of his Oath of Office. Prisa and I hugged, and then I re-positioned myself to record the waving flags, embracing couples, and ear-to-ear smiles, with my camera. In that instant, seeing those faces, and feeling the energy of our numbers, I KNEW why Prisa and I had traveled so far and so long to be there at that moment. We were NOT there to SEE Barack Obama; we could get a better view at home, on our HDTV. We were there to be with him at this moment, so HE COULD SEE US: not Oprah, not Spielberg, not any one single person on the Mall – but so he could SEE ALL OF US AS ONE. We came together in that instant, for that reason. We were almost 2 million Americans being seen by one man from a high and lonely precipice, on the portico of the nation’s Capitol. The problems our nation faced and the tasks that awaited him were perilous and daunting. This was a moment when he needed to see the people who trusted him and were ready to brave the uncertain future with him. We were there to reassure him that he wasn’t alone. I imagined how we looked to him, and I prayed that we were an awesome and inspiring sight. I put my arm around Prisa, squeezed her close, and listened to the new president’s first speech.

The inaugural oration lacked the soaring eloquence and sweeping scope of the speeches he gave in Iowa and New Hampshire, in the first months of the primaries. Those were the high flying days when his rhetoric billowed with idealism and optimism. The phrases and style he used at that time were the Obama 1.0 version of his speeches; their freshness grabbed and held our attention, inspiring hopefulness and the promise of change. However, over the course of the long and arduous campaign, and with the collapse of the financial and economic system of the country, these messages changed and evolved. Slowly, his discourses became more logistical, factual, and concrete. The inaugural address continued this hardnosed and mature style. He described his Vision of hope and promise for the nation, but his message was truthful, realistic, and grim. President Obama did not sugar-coat the nation’s problems, nor offer inspirational platitudes. He also did not recite a convenient sound bite which journalists could repeat to characterize his administration – no New Deal, New Frontier, or Great Society quote was provided. The one phrase that probably captured the no-nonsense spirit of his theme was “Starting today, we must pick yourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin the work of remaking America”. Prisa and I hung on his every word. We were moved by his speech, and we accepted the challenges that he framed for us and the nation. We cheered ourselves weak at the end. Together, we were concluding a journey that began over a year ago. It started when Prisa piqued my curiosity about this young, African-American Senator by telling me she was working on his presidential campaign (see Whisper of Hope). It was ending with a new president, here on the Mall of Washington D.C., on Wednesday, January 20, 2009.

The long day’s adventure drew to a close as Prisa and I sat warmly and snuggly at the bar of Kavanaugh’s Pub, on Wisconsin Ave. I ordered a beer for my soon-to-be wed daughter, and together we toasted and drank to the President Barack Obama - the First Citizen of the United States of America. As she lowered her glass, Prisa let out one final whoop:

“Woowhoo, Obama!”