This was inauguration day. At times it seemed as far away as Christmas does on Thanksgiving to an eight year old. Too much time, too much could happen. As it got closer the anxiety didn’t lessen. It grew with each passing day, so close to dodging the bullet but not dodged yet.
The weekend passed, still nothing. Trump remained in hiding. Some predictable pardons that deepened the national embarrassment of having elected this monstrosity were confirmed, but that was all. The capital was locked down like never before, some bad apples plucked from the ranks of the National Guard but no need to shut down the Guard itself. The troops would do their job. The erotic dreams of Q Anon followers would leave them limp and wanting, with no climax of a mass military revolt. Bunting and signage began to appear on and around the White House, necessary preparations that could be seen from Trump’s window views. One could only imagine what kind of crazed scheme was being hatched as he seethed. It was going to be titanic. I just knew it.
Monday came and a curious speech that had hints of conciliation while taking credit for what will come in the years ahead came from the mouth of the President. A baby step from the biggest baby of all, but something.
It felt like a setup.
All trust gone, I waited. When would the other shoe drop. When would the first bomb drop on Tehran or Beijing? When would the all-out assault begin on the capital of Pennsylvania or Georgia or Michigan?
Didn’t sleep much. Woke up this morning and turned on the TV. The chopper approached the lawn of the White House, landed, waited. Ten minutes later the President and First Lady appeared. They crossed the grassy expanse to the waiting bird. As she climbed the stairs, he stopped and did a final salute to the Marine on guard, ascended to the top of the stairs, turned and gave a defiant fist, then a wave, turned and he was gone. He would stop over at Andrews AFB, give a very brief address and then board Air Force 1 for the last time, banking south to sunny Florida.
I still had no peace. The television told me change had come, and when I arrived at my job co-workers were alternately giddy or very quiet, but they all seemed to acknowledge change had come.
All I could think was there were still two hours to go. Too early. Too early.
At 11:30 I wished I hadn’t cut my nails. I tried to concentrate on my work, tried to imagine it was just Wednesday, a slow day, nothing to see here. But the world could turn upside down in a half hour.
Noon came and went. I couldn’t watch the inauguration at work, and I wasn’t sure if I would have had I been able to. That’s bull. I would have, but I would have been on the edge of my seat, waiting for the plot to unfold, the unthinkable to occur. My trust in the President never existed having lived in New York during his rise, but he had eroded my trust in my fellow citizens, expecting a worst from them that was unimaginable. He had severed a bond that had been tenuous anyway.
As the day went on it began to sink in. We’d made it. The crazy prophets I’d talked about on here yesterday had been thwarted for a day. Joe and Kamala were sworn in and had ascended to their new jobs.
Joe wasted no time, signing 17 presidential orders, reinstating the U.S. in the World Health Organization and the Paris Accord, instituting a mask mandate on federal property, stopping funding for the border wall and ending the Muslim-centric travel ban and more.
Later in the day Press Secretary Jen Psaki held the first press briefing of the new administration and it was courteous, informative, professional and interactive. She provided answers to questions and did not shout or deride a single journalist. If you can find this somewhere to watch it you will be hard pressed not to be encouraged.
Everything had changed, and it was sudden and profound. As a progressive I have modest expectations of a Biden presidency, but the ability to be heard had re-emerged and the opportunity to move the conversation was once again alive.
Night fell and as Covid-19 had created a novel situation for an inauguration, the traditional celebratory balls that would typically litter the capital city were nowhere to be found. A different kind of celebration had been planned, a virtual one that exploded across the TV screens of America. Some of the greatest artists the nation has produced that would not grace the stages of the 2017 version of this event seemed to fall all over each other to be a part of this moment, a hundred phoenixes rising from the ashes of a failed presidency to a rebirth of a youthful jubilance. The evening celebrated the immense diversity that our country represents, with Latin, pop, broadway and rock all vying for the honor of representing the country’s collective relief. Brown people, black people, white people, gay, straight, every gender, every age sang like they finally knew what singing was for, knew why they sang at all, a moment truly fitting of their gifts.
I cried.
My niece wrote about her similar outburst, being overcome by an emotion she had not known was crouching somewhere inside, a build up of foreboding, of a latent terror waiting to know what it was for, years of crushing expectation of loss suddenly released in a rush of music that sounded every bit as released and ecstatic. The performances were motivated from a place that was new, from a need that was deeper, more raw than the usual excellence these artists always bring to the table. This was different.
It was then that I felt it.
He can’t hurt me anymore.
He can’t hurt my niece anymore, he can’t hurt my transgender son anymore. He can’t hurt working people anymore, or Mother Earth. He can’t hurt simple people by gas-lighting them into a frenzy. He can’t hurt people of color or immigrants yearning to be free. He can’t hurt our dead servicemen and women, he can’t hurt our need for truth. He can’t hurt native people, gay people, disabled people.
He can’t hurt us anymore, and I wept.
And I thought, look what we’ve done.