January 20, 2009:  Inauguration Day

I’ll admit it:  I nearly didn’t go to the inauguration.  Here, in the greater DC area, an opportunity to attend the most significant civic event of my lifetime, I nearly let logistics rule.  After all, this was shaping up to be a colossal event, and the entire city was reshaping itself for it.  Roads closed.  Metro packed.  And didn’t somebody die in a Wal-Mart stampede last month?  If people can’t restrain themselves from trampling a greeter in order to get the best possible deal on cheap underwear and Jonas Brothers CDs, then what effect could Barack Obama have?

In the end, though, I really didn’t have much of a choice, and it’s my mother’s fault.  She announced her intention to attend the inauguration, and purchased plane tickets from Kansas on November 5.  Giddily, I agreed that it was a great idea. 

Later, I had my doubts.  Hysterical early projections suggested that five or six million people might attend.  Security plans were intimidating.  The weather was likely to be bad.  Movement in and out of the city would be restricted and the system would be  overwhelmed by numbers. 

In December, Mom learned that she’d been chosen to receive three of the coveted 240,000 tickets for the Mall standing area.  That’s it, I thought.  I’m locked in for sure. 

As the event crept closer, I felt great joy at the imminent departure of the worst President in United States history, and incredible elation about his replacement.  But the event itself seemed so complicated and overwhelming that I couldn’t get excited about it.

January 19.  We still hadn’t fully settled on how to actually get into the city from our home in Reston, about 15 miles from DC.  Driving out of the question.  Buses a complete unknown in terms of likely crowds.  Metro certainly overcrowded, and in any case it doesn’t come all the way out here.   Too far to walk in any case, but particularly given the expected temperatures in the 20s to low 30s.

Ultimately, we opted to cooperate with friends coming from this area:  they drove here in their minivan, and then Melissa drove all of us—the two of them, plus their two friends from California (with four year-old daughter in tow), plus my mother, her friend, and me—to the nearest Metro station.  The Vienna station is the last on the Orange line, so we rationalized that while we expected long lines, every car would be empty so perhaps it would move pretty quickly.  Especially since Metro had announced their intention to run cars on a hyped-up rush hour schedule for 17 hours in a row. 

We made another decision on the 19^th, as well:  we opted not to use the prized tickets that Mom received from Kansas Senator Sam Brownback.  The tickets weren’t for seats, after all, but rather for the standing area that was still so far from the proceedings on the Capitol steps that we would have watched on the Jumbotron regardless.  And standing that far up on the Mall would have meant a substantial uptick in logistical complications, including massive security lines to get in and a fearsome crush to get out.  Plus, my friends didn’t have tickets.  There are lots of people that would have howled in frustration that three tickets went unused.  Sorry.

January 20.  Up at 5:00.  Out the door at 6:15.  At the Vienna metro at 6:35.  The line snaked around into the parking garage, far enough that we couldn’t see the station at all, and I estimated that it would take us a minimum of two hours to get on the train.  It was cold as hell.  But it was really, really exciting.  People around us were chatty, happy.  Everyone suffering for common purpose.  And, luckily, the line moved fast.  Our end-of-the-line strategy was pretty effective, it seemed; the flurry of empty cars coming into the station kept things going.   And with the laughing, the joking, the excitement, things seemed easy.  It only took 35 minutes to get on the train, and we got seats.  Nice to be warm for a bit.

People on the train were jovial.  In our near vicinity, people from Pennsylvania, California, Ohio, Kansas, Virginia, and Michigan—this within a ten foot radius.  And while the train moved awfully slowly, turning what would normally be a 20-minute ride into a full 90 minutes, it all seemed to be just fine.  By the time we reached our stop at Foggy Bottom, the train was extremely full.   A relief to exit.

But that air at the top of the escalator was cold!

Foggy Bottom stop is about four blocks north from the Lincoln Memorial, the opposite end of the mall from the Capitol.  It was a cold walk, to be certain, but we enjoyed it.  The city felt surreal; Humvees blocking off roads, soldiers all around.  Helicopters circling, and it was impossible to tell how many were for security and how many were for television news.  A steady stream of people joined us in our walk down 23^rd street.

Approaching the mall, we were met by greeters in red “Inauguration 2009” stocking caps, who seemed almost insanely joyful.  “Welcome to the Inauguration!  Thank you for coming!” some shouted.  “Enjoy the day!” others cried.  High-fives were given.  The mood was becoming increasingly infectious, though it was tempered to some extent by the cold, and the awareness that we were three-and-a-half hours from the actual event.  Three-and-a-half more hours of Bush. 

We walked to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  Already, the upper steps were covered with several hundred people.  The speakers blasted a replay of the concert from the previous day.  People on the steps danced.  It looked fun up there, but there was no Jumbotron in clear sight; these people had decided to sit in what was an admittedly awesome spot, but would only hear the ceremony without the visual.  Their choice.

We spotted a Jumbotron off to the right in a largely-still-empty spot of grass, and concluded that this was a nearly perfect spot; we could have a great view, be close to the Lincoln Memorial  (which I do love to look at) and also be close to a side-gate for easy departure.  We settled down, and began our long, slow process of freezing to death.

This area, near the back of the Mall, was not especially crowded.  But it was filling up relatively quickly given that we had hours to wait.  Portable toilets were everywhere.  And I mean all over the place.  Is there anything uglier than a line of port-a-potties?  Other than a line of open port-a-potties, of course.  At least fears of having to hold it for seven straight hours were assuaged.

Behind us, people continued to stream through the makeshift crowd control gates in front of Lincoln.  We weren’t in a secure area—those were closer up, near ticketed areas.  However, the Park Service had a number of gates and fences to keep things under control.

Waiting, getting colder, I walked with two of my friends.  We strolled past the seemingly endless line of portable toilets toward the Washington Monument.  A large crowd had gathered around the two Jumbotrons at the WWII Memorial, and many had climbed all over the stone pillars of the thing, IMO the single ugliest monument on the otherwise awesome National Mall.

Near the Washington Monument, we were passed by a group of Gitmo protesters.  Very, very powerful.

At the Monument, we ran smack into an enormous sea of humanity.  It was virtually impossible to take pictures.  Around us, people were holding cameras as high as they could.  My friend Lesya stood on a fence to take this one, and it isn’t bad, but I don’t think anyone without a very, very high vantage point—the steps of the Capitol, a helicopter, top of the Monument—could have fully the captured just how crowded it was there. 

And the TV shots make it clear that we were on the edge of a sea that ran full up to the Capitol.  We briefly discussed moving, because there was a more palpable vibe of excitement and jubilation among the masses.  But, again, these people at the back of the huge crowd, standing in the middle of the Mall near the Washington Monument, didn’t have a Jumbotron.  We were there to be with the masses, but we also wanted to see.  So we made our way back.

Festivities were beginning.  Onscreen, various VIPs were introduced as they exited the Capitol to sit down.  The crowd went bananas for Sasha and Malia, then Michelle Obama.  Mum for most of the Congress.  Applause for Clinton, Carter, Gore. 

The news, unfortunately, completely ignored what happened when Bush and Cheney were introduced.  It wasn’t respectful silence.  Nor were boos scattered.  Around us, they were nearly universal.  I booed my heart out.  It’s possible, of course, that the rowdier, more crowded sections in the front were quiet.  But you know what?  I don’t fucking think so.  All around, people gave their final salute to the WPE and his malevolent, wheelchaired taskmaster.  Shame on the media for not covering that crowd reaction.

Rick Warren gave a dull, personality-free invocation.  A man near us garnered applause when he shouted that Warren would have to respect his marriage one day.

Then, Biden .  Applause.  Then, Obama.  Eruption. 

The Biden oath was smooth, met with cheers, shouts, screaming for joy.  Cheney:  former Vice-President.

You may have noted that between Biden and Obama there was a lovely song played by Yo-Yo Ma and other accomplished musicians.  It may have seemed very sweet.  But you know what?  For those of us there, that song sucked.  We were excited, joyful, happy, and the tune was somber, almost mournful.  It was totally, totally inappropriate in relation to the mood on the Mall.  We were there to celebrate and hoot and holler and embrace the end of one terrible era and the beginning of a better one.   I joked that it was like interrupting New Year’s Eve with Mozart’s Requiem. 

Then, the moment:  Roberts tried to screw it up, but it did nothing to change the reaction of the crowd.  Hard to describe.  Embracing, yelling, jumping up and down, arms outstretched.  Primal joy.

I don’t understand the reaction of the pundits, who seemed to call Obama’s speech average.  From where I sit, that speech was freaking incredible.  So many great lines—the bit about extending a hand to dictators willing to unclench their fists.  The absolute body-slam put on the Bush Administration.  “We reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.”  The call to sacrifice hit precisely the right tone with the undertone of optimism.  And, as a political junkie, I absolutely adored this bit:

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions -- who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them -- that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.

Hell yes.  The ground has shifted, indeed. 

Afterwards, we clapped like maniacs, screamed, shouted, and started walking.  Being in the back was a giant advantage, as we were able to stride right out, over the Memorial Bridge, and into Virginia.  We caught a bus back out to Reston, where Melissa picked us up.  I was exhausted, sunburned.  My back hurt like hell from standing for so many hours in a row.  I went to bed at 9:30, though I did regret not heading into the District for what was undoubtedly some incredible revelry.  Just too old, I guess. 

But not too old to appreciate the first time in my life being able to truly call myself a witness to history.  What a day for the world!