
My brother got spare tickets to the Inauguration this week, and at the last minute I decided to take my daughter down for it. (My other child had to stay in Annapolis with family because he had a sprained ankle.) At work--I work in book publishing--we've been developing a series called Living History, and it's predicated on the idea that media distances us from our world rather than bringing us closer to it, and that it's on us to actively overcome turning into a passive citizenry. So, although there were a lot of reasons not to go--too cold, my son's ankle, better view on the tube, busy time to be missing work, bad time to be missing school--Monday night we climbed into the car and headed down.

My daughter, M, was very excited about the idea of being there. The reality was very different: I don't think either of us has ever been so cold--I didn't know at one point if our legs would work to get us back to the Metro at the end of the day! Neither of us had ever been in such a crowd--a crowd that compressed constantly, surging forward into funnels of security. I was so afraid somebody would stumble; the people behind them wouldn't be able to stop and help them up. I was so afraid M would be pulled away from me--I'd never be able to find her. M, who likes historical fiction and has been reading about the Holocaust, said that she felt like we were being herded into the gas chambers. And I knew what she meant! This went on for three hours--from 5am until 8am, when we finally made it into one of the ticketed areas. By then, the idea of being there had lost all excitement for her, and it became instead an arduous physical and emotional exercise in endurance.

And yet, the crowd was so...loving. There's no other word. Strangers helping one another--lifting each other, holding each other's arms, telling each other stories. At one point, in the crush, a woman called out that her child had to pee. The port-a-potties were about 100 feet away, on the other side of a barrier. And there was no way a person could move through the crowd between her and the potties. A cop near the potties lifted his arms, and the woman lifted her child, and the crowd passed that kid over their heads for 100 feet to the cop, who took her to pee and then lifted her back up into the crowd, who passed her over their heads into the raised arms of her mother. Where on earth--in what other circumstances--would you surrender your child to a crushing crowd in metro DC?? But there was such fellowship.
In the end, M didn't get to see Obama face-to-face. She saw the scene on the Capitol platform on a jumbotron, and the audio was off by a few seconds from the video because the sound ricocheted between the buildings and down the Mall. She didn't hear him take the oath--we were moving closer and had hit a sound vaccum--but she heard every word of his speech. She saw people crying, and people praying. She jumped for joy, and warmth. She listened, intently. She wrote in the dirt--"M was here, 1/20/09." And we talked, here and there through the hours, about the difference between witnessing history, the way we can through books and TV, and bearing witness to history, the way we only can by standing there, and feeling kinship with all those strangers who were, like us, honoring that day by showing up. "Someday you'll forget how cold you were, and you'll only remember that you were here."
She's still not there. But I'm so glad we went.