Page Two of Amha Goes to the Inauguration
Crossing Independence Avenue is gradually achieved by a series of stops and starts. Police cars, ambulances, taxis and buses are still struggling through the tightly packed crowd on Third Street, while the Avenue is being kept clear for vehicles between intermittent rushes of herds of pedestrians. A policewoman shouts, “Only silver ticket holders here! Everyone hold up your tickets so I can see them!” Was it perhaps easier crossing Jordan to the Promised Land than crossing Independence from Third Street at 9:00 am on Inauguration Day?
Having finally reached the Promised Land, we head for the row of security gates. They are manned by uniformed male and female personnel with metal detectors. “Men to the left; women to the right. Open your coats for searching.” We are finally actually standing on the Mall. We look to the right and see the Capitol dome and the speakers’ platform five hundred yards away. The Washington Monument is a mile off to the left and the Lincoln Memorial just visible another mile behind it. On the far side of the Mall along Constitution Avenue there is a long blue row of Porta-Potties. We head gratefully toward them. Just in time.
Our reserved standing area consists of an entire city block surrounded by a high fence running between Third and Fourth Streets and Independence and Constitution Avenues, a total of 150,000 square feet, theoretically enough space for a tightly packed crowd of about 75,000 people. As we arrive, only a small fraction of that number are already there before us, some families sitting on spread-out picnic blankets, enjoying the open space while it lasts.
Amha and I look at each other full length in the daylight for the first time. He is bundled up in a heavy sweater, a hooded windbreaker and a navy wool topcoat. He is wearing my knitted double layer watch cap under the hood and Alem’s thick white knitted scarf wrapped twice around his neck, its fancy fringes lending an incongruous feminine touch to the ensemble. A pair of designer sunglasses provides the finishing touch. People standing around us smile and nod at him, and he smiles and nods back, a short, stocky African version of the Michelin Man.
We can’t really see the platform or the speaker’s podium in the distance, but there is a gigantic TV screen just in front of us and off to the right. Ours is the only “reserved” area relying on the TV images and sound provided by this “Jumbotron.” The clouds part and the sun begins to shine from a clear blue sky. We stand and wait in the freezing cold for the next two hours, eating our sandwiches, watching and listening as the Marine Band and various choirs serenade us from the distant Capitol.
Cheney arrives in a wheelchair and Bush arrives with Laura. The huge crowd on the Mall begins to boo the despised outgoing President and Vice-president. A little later we cheer wildly as Obama and Biden arrive. Nearly two million voices take up the roaring chant, “O-B-A-A-M-A! O-B-A-A-M-A!” I look at Amha. There are tears running down his cheeks beneath the designer shades. My tears are flowing too, and there is a lump in my throat. We are choking on happiness. Amha keeps shaking his head and saying, “I can’t believe this is really happening. I just can’t believe it.”
As the ceremony proceeds, there are many happy, uplifting moments — Aretha singing “America,” Yo-yo Ma’s quartet performing a piece composed by John Williams, Elizabeth Alexander's inaugural poem, Rev. Joseph Lowery’s wonderful benediction — and a few discordant ones when Rick Warren sneaks the name of Jesus in at the end of his invocation and the Chief Justice muffs the oath of office. Our new President begins to speak, and a great stillness descends on his two million onlookers as they stand in rapt attention. He is speaking to each of us, exhorting us to service, and then speaking to the world at large, putting other countries on notice of his intentions going forward. He ends on a powerful note, paraphrasing George Washington’s message to his troops at Valley Forge. We cheer loudly and long, pounding our gloved hands together in a muffled version of clapping. He is our leader, and we love him.
Later we head for the exit and on to the subway, fighting the same large crowds we fought in the morning. It takes us almost three hours to get back to Springfield, where we are met by Alem with the car. Alem and I drop Amha at work, pick up Mikael at his friend’s house and head to a neighborhood coffee bar to drink lattes and watch on TV as the Obamas walk in the open up Pennsylvania Avenue, waving to adoring crowds.
Alem tells me she became a naturalized US citizen in October, just in time to cast her first vote — for Obama of course.
Return to Page One<<©2009 John Malone for SeniorWomenWeb
