It seemed as though, in the January days leading up to Inauguration, New York City's streets had more and more police and heightened security--more police, more heavily armed, more police dogs. It seemed as though it wasn't just me who was anxious. In the midst of this tension, a graffiti-covered delivery truck had driven up Third Avenue. Its rear roll-up door was brilliant white and was marked: XOXO OBAMA. Imagine that: a President I could love. I started to exhale and choked up. Love your President.
I grabbed the 3:00 train heading back to Washington, DC from New York City's Penn Station for the momentous occasion. For several days, trains had had folks headed to DC for the Inauguration. A decent snowstorm was hitting the Mid-Atlantic and New England. Regardless of the fact that it was Inauguration Eve and snowing, it was a subdued trip. Most memorable encounter was with Bessie, a 70-year-old Alabama native with a beautiful drawl, even though luggage tags said West Haven, Connecticut, a large woman, perhaps 6 feet, 2 inches tall, slowed by age, but looking much younger than her years. She was, she said, "a very early volunteer...I wouldn't miss this for the world..." I helped her with her luggage. When we met her son, Anthony, she insisted on giving me a big bear hug, before embracing her son. A great beginning! Love your President.
Union Station in Washington was lively when I arrived. Inside, the Station was preparing for a ball. Outside, there was a taxi-line from hell. Disgusted, I started walking in the snow. The District seemed eerily quiet--was it the snow, the inauguration or what? Spooky. A police car drove up. Ten more came from nowhere. The street was closed off. All the police would tell me was to stay where I was and not to move. In the distance I noticed a motorcade. President #43 was coming and I was angry. I felt like giving him the finger but, not wanting to get arrested, I just turned my back on the show until it had passed.
photo by Ric Meyer
Steps
In spite of the polls pointing to an Obama victory in November, I had held my breath on Election Night. Following the 2000 and 2004 voting irregularities, followed by questionable behavior throughout the incumbent administration, would Barack Obama really pull off the victory? Would the 43rd Administration really depart and expire as scheduled at noon on January 20th? It wasn't even midnight on Election Night, when my friend Bill emailed me, wanting to reserve the "Princess Suite" for this Inauguration. "Princess Pamela," we had christened the guestroom in the Connecticut home that my partner and I had had before we moved to Washington, and the nickname followed us to humbler digs in the District. I was still trying to take it in that the President-Elect was actually Barack Obama. The President-elect had barely finished giving his Grant Park acceptance speech, plus the appearance on stage of the extended Obama and Biden families. It was too much to take in. But then I thought, PARTY!!!
Soon I would busy cooking and prepping. The buzz down here was electrifying. I was also reminded that it had just been Mid-Atlantic Leather weekend when I saw a bunch of men brunching, one wearing a t-shirt saying, "Does this shirt make my dick look big?"
At home, as soon as Christmas decorations were packed away, my partner and I kicked into Inauguration mode high gear. The "circus was coming to town," as one friend dubbed the potentially three-to-five million Inauguration visitors expected. WHERE would we put them all?!?!?! We could account for about a dozen friends and family members who coming to town, but who were the rest? For my partner and me, hospitality, welcome, and food have been the hallmarks of our home. The upcoming festivities would be no different. Once my Texas cousin, a serious foodie, snagged a Pennsylvania Avenue Inauguration invitation, we started planning a three-day cooking festival. Somehow, we'd have to dovetail our cooking with whatever the Inauguration Committee was planning.
Now the great work begins. Welcome to the new America.
