It is 6:30 a.m., Monday, January 21, 2013. Martin Luther King Jr. Day and the day of the second inauguration of President Obama. My aunt has just dropped me off at the Vienna Metro Station, the last stop on the Orange Line in Virginia. I have mapped my route into the District of Columbia carefully, so that I can stay on the train all the way past L'Enfant Plaza to Federal Center SW.
The trains are crowded. All of us, it seems, are out-of-towners. I have been on this ride before.
Four years ago, at 6:30 a.m., my aunt dropped me at the same Metro Station along with my husband Jim and my graduate school colleague Jenny. We were en route to DC, to witness the first inauguration of the first black president of the United States.
Like the last time, I am preparing for a day of being cold. I am wearing long underwear, jeans, three layers on top, a brown wool Obama inauguration cap, SmartWool socks, and comfortable sneakers. I am traveling lightly, carrying only a smart-phone, a debit card, driver's license, Metro Card, and a $20 bill. I turned down my aunt's kind offer to carry an egg sandwich, a bag of snacks, and a hot cup of coffee. I did not want to carry anything that would spill or make a mess, or fit into my pockets. Plus, I was not sure when in the day or where I would have a chance to use the bathroom.
In 2009, I was not alone, but I had not been to DC since the mid-1980s and really did not know the layout of the town, let alone the National Mall. I was not prepared for the full force of humanity that I encountered from the moment that my plane landed the night before the inauguration at Baltimore Washington International Airport. I knew there would be crowds, but I did not understand what the concept of crowds would mean. Long lines of people trying to understand Metro Fare cards. Big crowds of people trying to decipher the color coding of the mass transit line. Lots of people wearing Obama apparel. Excitement, disbelief, and confusion co-mingled. We had all come into town to see the first African American be sworn into office. But where we would go, how we would get there, and what we would actually see all remained mysteries to me.
Jim, Jenny and I had gotten off at the mid-point station known as Metro Center, where blue, orange, and red lines converge. We did not have "tickets"; our aim was to make it into the public viewing area. Where that would be in relation to where Obama would be standing was a mystery to us.
Our pre-planning had made us decide to transfer trains at Metro Center. Once we arrived, we realized that a transfer would be all but impossible. The trains were so crowded that people were pushing against each other to fit into the aisles. Attendees were admonishing travelers not to lean against the doors because every time someone touched one of the doors, the train would be automatically alerted not to start moving. We were strong and figured we could walk. We planned to catch up with friends and meet up at the Mall. If we could get near a Jumbotron, so much the better.
As we exited Metro Center, we were pushed by the surge of moving bodies toward a McDonald's. We wanted coffee and a chance to use the bathroom. Coffee was easy to get, but the bathroom line for women wove in and around the entire restaurant. Nobody seemed to want to break the taboo of sex-segregated facilities.
We walked a concentric circle of streets several dozen times, and finally made it to the base of the monument. We had fifty-five minutes to spare before Obama was to be introduced. We didn't care that even the Jumbotron screen was like a speck in the distance. We were at the Monument. Flags were flying and people were cheering and clapping. We were there, among them.
This time, I went alone. Jim stayed home -- a move that turned out to be fortuitous for my ability to document what I was witnessing -- and Jenny had become a major campaign organizer for Obama in California. I had moved to upstate New York and had worked the phone banks in Saratoga, calling voters in Pennsylvania and Ohio urging them to support Obama. On election night, as I watched the returns pour in -- much more nervously than I had in 2008 -- I felt for the first time in my life as if the hundreds of phone calls I made might have made at least a sliver of difference. Jenny's position as a district organizer had garnered her a ticket in the coveted red zone. She also had procured tickets in the gold zone, one of which she gave me. Remembering the chaos of 2009, I had arrived this time in Washington not by plane but by train, not the night before but three days earlier. I joined the National Day of Service on the National Mall and visited the National Museum of American History. I also walked the Mall, snapped pictures of maps, took notes on street corners and subway stops, and borders marking the limits of each zone.
I knew I would not see Obama, but I wanted to be as close as possible.
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