The New, New Colossus

There are a bunch of words etched in stone beneath the Statue of Liberty. One line goes something like:

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..."

If you were in the District of Columbia yesterday, I'd wager that the phrase "huddled masses" has a very new, perhaps special meaning for you.

If you weren't there, then whatever you've seen, read or heard is probably very true. The Inauguration of President Barack Obama was something that will not be seen again. In any lifetime.

Amidst the blur of my own memory (which is admittedly sparse due to circumstances not worth describing) one thing stands out above everything else.

No matter how many people I stood with. How many people I walked with. How many people I tried not to freeze with. There was a profound lack of animosity hanging in the air between us. Over us.

That sense of frustration which often sours the collective joy experienced when masses huddle together to share a moment in time. The kind that creeps up when one too many of the millions bumps into the wrong person. The kind that seeps in when the elements reveal themselves to be patently unkind. The kind that trickles in when a wailing belly, blistering feet or a crooked back muddies up the emotions. That stuff...It was no where to be found. Not in any of the places I looked. And I looked in several places. Several times several.

Which is not to say that no one felt any of those things. Merely that the pangs of happiness and excitement which colored any one person's experience on our nation's mall yesterday far outweighed the pangs of unpleasantness that usually inform the briefer moments of such monumental gatherings. So, I presume.

The question now, I think, is: "How far will that joy carry us?"

Eventually, those bellies that cry out will not go unheard. When their wails drown all other sound, what will that joy do then? Will it patiently deliver sustenance? Or will it find itself sitting on some shelf next to another forgotten souvenir?

It's probably not the question to ponder while nursing yourself through one righteous hangover. But, at some point, the conversation will turn. When it does, I hope the masses who huddled will recall. And that the fear and loathing will be quenched. Again.

First Writing Since

If you don't know who Suheir Hammad is, shame on you. If you've never heard the poem below, give up the next 7 minutes of your life to change that.



Now that we've got that out the way, this entry has nothing to with Ms. Hammad. (Except for the homage being paid by its title.) Or Sept. 11. It might have to do with anti-Islamism. But only in a very tangential way.

Two weeks have passed since the United States of America elected Barack Obama as its President.

And it still feels weird to type that. Or say it. Or know it to be true.

The pinch-me-ness of the good guys finally winning something big has yet to dissipate.

The piece-by-piece assembling of President-Elect Obama's cabinet tends to bring it into focus and make it feel more real.

I liked the Rahm Emanuel choice. But am feeling underwhelmed by everyone who has come after. Or everyone who has been rumored after.

While I don't doubt that Barack remains the smartest guy in the room, I am beginning to wonder how many concessions he had to make in order to collect the full support of the established Left.

I believe that change happened.

And I hope change will continue to come.

Congratulations to America

There is a non-descript government building that opposes a McDonald's on the corner of 14th and U in NW Washington, DC. Outside this building, a row of flags--an American flag and a couple of other anonymous banners--sprouts from the sidewalk. On any normal day, or night, it is an ordinary site that plays host to little other than a cool breeze and some passing pedestrians.

Last night--as 50 Stars and 13 Stripes whipped jubilantly overhead--I danced in a drum circle while hundreds of citizens of the District of Columbia chanted "USA! USA! USA!" and a warm, Autumn rain washed all of us.

It was a fine American mess. The finest I've ever seen. Or expect to see in my lifetime.

Many better-informed, better-paid, more eloquent people than I will seek to capture for you what the election of Barack Obama means. They--along with many others who hack away like I do--will probably describe their version of the moment. The moment Barack Obama was elected President of the United States of America. Every version of the moment will contain its own magic. And every description will rise with ambition to approximate the power that surged within all of us last night.

I can list for you the details of my moment. A cubby hole with a liquor license and a kitchen full of delicious. Stone's throw from Howard University. Old friends. Happy strangers. Tears. Hugs. Applause. Smiles wide like it was a wedding day. Sam Cooke's "Change Gonna Come." More tears. More hugs. More applause. A toast. A pledge. More hugs. Smiles still wide, unremoved and beaming.

Eventually, many of us took to the streets after a symphony of car horns beckoned us. Someone handed me a pile of Obama'08 signs to pass out. I kept one for myself and wandered west on U Street trying to pierce the sky with it like any good son of Norma Rae would be expected to do. A young, midnight-complected woman hanging out the passenger side window of an Explorer waved me over, squeezed me as if she was trying to pull me into her skin and screamed "OBAMA!!!" for the entire ether to hear.

That drizzle that fell on our nation's capital late last night fell a little bit harder with each passing minute. Sometime after midnight--after Obama delivered the last word of his acceptance speech--the skies dried up. The rain had come. And the rain had gone away.

The rhythm from the drums grew louder. Police sirens wailed halfheartedly. The rhythm grew even louder. Car horns helped keep the beat. Sub-woofers from stoodstill cars blared whatever song the iPod shuffled up next. Someone started an Electric Slide. Everyone else seemed to join in. It was a celebration worthy of Rick James himself.

To some degree, we witnessed an affirmation of American-ness last night. If we have learned anything about this Grand Experiment of ours, though, there lies a mess beneath the make-believe monolith that is these United States of America. Our one nation, some might argue, is structured in a fundamentally divisible way. You can draw up whatever teams you want. Based on whatever terms suit you. In every case, tax-payers will be pitted against each other. There will be an "Us." And there will be a "Them."

On this day, after last night, "Us" can be defined much more broadly than it ever has been. You didn't need to ask anyone on U Street to know that. Their eyes, their smiles and the hugs they gave declared as much. It was as if a good many of us had finally arrived at 1776.

Much later in the dry darkness of this morning, I sat in my bed in Northern Virginia. Inhaling a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and some McDonald's fries. Bar-b-que sauce dripping on my t-shirt. A good friend called from Texas--interrupting the feast--to celebrate and discuss what had happened and what could happen next. There remains, we agreed, a massive amount of work to be done.

For there is a fine American mess that a very different, brand new "Us" can claim, in part, as our own.

Prepping for Election Night in the US

I've heard, read and witnessed a wide variety of emotions being expressed today across the United States as decent and not-so-decent Americans alike have made their choices in the quadrennial clash between good and evil.

This evening, predictably, TV sets will flicker late into the early part of tomorrow. Revealing the ultimate deceit for some and confirming the joys of an impossible reality for others.

Regardless of whom you drew your sword for today, we can be certain of one thing:

Celebration and consolation will taste very much alike. They'll both taste like whiskey.

And the first Wednesday in this November will be a pretty shade of ugly. Or an ugly shade of pretty.

Or, perhaps, it will deliver another fine American mess.

FUCK ED RENDELL!!!

There is a very slim chance that my grandparents will ever discover this blog. Despite those low odds, I tend to be EXTREMELY selective about how and when I use different curse words in my writing.

(FTR...my grandparents aren't the prudiest of people, but I do respect them for their sheer elderness and I try--emphasis on try--not to unleash my full asshole-ishness in public in deference to them. I might not care about the perception of me, but perhaps they do.)

If you've read this blog, then you know that I swear fairly casually, but not as gratuitously as my man Cap does. Which, of course, brings me to the title of this post:

FUCK ED RENDELL!!!

For real. Fuck him. 1,000 times. Asshole. Bastard. Motherfucker. Spawn of Satan. Bitch.

Seriously.

He created a career for himself by getting into bed with the FOP in Philly and he endorsed (and perhaps instigated) the bombing of the MOVE headquarters as well as the lynching of Mumia Abu-Jamal.

(FTR...I think Mumia probably is responsible, in part, for Daniel Faulkner's death. But I also believe that Officer Faulkner--and the unjust mandate authored by then District Attorney Ed Rendell and the Philadelphia police department circa 1980--are equally responsible for creating a climate where reasonable citizens were made to both fear and take an aggressively self-defensive stance against the Phildelphia PD. That may sound like the placement of blame on the victim. I assure you it is not that. As people like Prof. Marcus Rediker will tell you, there is no full and simple truth about Philly in the early '80s. It was a messy place. At the messiest of times.)

Which gets us back to the business of motherfucking Ed Rendell. The sitting Democratic Governor of Pennsylvania.

I should tell you that I truly do not care what type of apparent budgetary miracles he performed as the very first "America's Mayor." I was, after all, one of the innocent kids who got caught in the melee in LA during the 2000 DNC National Convention when "hizzoner" chaired what a few thousand of us who merely wanted to see a free Rage and Ozo show will testify qualified as "1968 Remixed."

So, why this post? And why today?

The Governor of Pennsylvania had the nerve to tell Bill Maher that Hilliary Clinton is more "qualified" to be the President of these United States than Barack Obama.

And he didn't simply compare and contrast their resumes. That sick son-of-a-bitch had the gall to declare that voters aren't "electing a rock star." As if Obama is nothing more than the crackling sizzle of a vacuous steak containing absolutely no nutrients.

Ed Rendell's entire career in politics has been devoted to serving the greater good insofar as the greater good advances the career of Ed Rendell. Make no mistake, that motherfucker is not--by any stretch--a public servant.

Doesn't matter whether he's the DA, the Mayor, the Governor or, gasp, Hillary Clinton's running mate.

He is a real motherfucker.

And none of you, I mean none of you, should seriously consider anything he says to be anything other than the gospel of his own patently self-serving professional agenda.

FUCK!

ED!

RENDELL!