Late Sunday night I drove past D.C. on the way back to New Jersey on a trip with my mom and thought for a moment that I should come down to witness the upcoming inauguration. Having spent more than a month “out of town,” however, I just couldn’t make the traffic or the crowds sound thrilling. My boyfriend also threw in a text message stating that the the event coordinators fell short in the port-a-potty department by 20,000 and the thought left as quickly as it presented itself. Philly might be a pleasant second. My aunt gave me the idea to call my cousin attending law school in Philly, but as I suspected, he intended to watch the affair at school. Still tired from the constant shifting from one place to the next, Philly, a quick half an hour away, also seemed daunting so I scoured the Internet for more local events to my Aunt who intended to watch all day from home. Inevitably, that’s what I did and, surprisingly, my mom was able to join us.
I knew Jeremy was home alone in tears at the brevity of this historical moment. I silently wept as I took it all in. I didn’t see a tear from my mom or her sister. While I sat there with these two women who likely not only remember Kennedy’s assasination, but also his inauguratioon, I wondered what they were thinking. We had no exciting party favors, but inspired by the countless waving flags shivering across the tv screen, Woofie, my aunt, took her flag down from it’s post outside and marched around the house a bit and then handed it to my mom. When she declined, I took the flag and half-heartedly thrust it up and down. The feeling of the flag in my hands was akward, uncomfortable, and unsettling. Though I’m not too attached to Obama simply because I expect some impending doom due to some classist inspired, CIA-delivered conspiracy to hold the people down, I realize I’ve never been proud to be an American.
Jeremy and I texted back and forth and ocassionally spoke on the phone, but not too long as to not interupt the ceremonies, especially for the company I was with. But as I tried to explain myself, I did choke up in tears hardly able to to tell him that I, indeed, can’t ever recall being a proud American. I know, there’s an entire song on my debut album entitled “Proud to be a Woman” to which I add, “…in America,” but if you were listening you’d know that was sarcasm. The only flags I ever handled outside of class or my grandma’s festive Fourth of July parties were hung upside down in the bedroom I shared with my ex. As far back as I can remember, I thought this country was in a state of distress. While watching Barack Obama calmly deliver his first sobering speech as president, for the first time since, perhaps, kindergarden, I felt as though America had done something right.
Enough to actually wave a flag.
