I originally envisioned doing an "out with the old, in with the new" bookending of posts about Bush and Obama,
but as I started to think about them, I decided that should be reversed. If nothing else, I think we should be very sure that Bush is gone before cheering too loudly. Remember... we thought we weren't going to have him at all, and he managed to thwart that one. Let's just make sure he actually transfers power, just to be on the safe side.
I kid, I kid... but also, I'd like to get in a fairly sober appreciation of Obama before the madness on Tuesday takes over. To some extent of course, it already has: the Sunday shows were a lovefest only occasionally broken up by any kind of modesty (I kind of liked Donna Brazile's approach: if you say he can walk on water... well, that's really what matters, isn't it?).
It was bound to happen, and I'm just trying to steel myself to the worst of it: we are bound to hear about how America's racial problems are over, about how Obama will change everything, about what a momentous, amazing, wondrous, joyous day this is... cue the choir, and the birds.
And the children's chorus.
A lot of the worship, after all, is well meaning, if clearly too much: things got pretty bad. For a moment there, it seemed as though Democrats would never get it together, that all the things people like... well, me... you, us... the things we believed seemed likely to never be accomplished.
It's understandable, perhaps, that faced with the possibility of never seeing positive outcomes in their lifetimes that people - especially folks above 40 - would be so overwhelmed by the moment, by the possibilities embodied in the success in Barack Obama.
As much as I don't share the sense of such passionate belief, I know that Tuesday, seeing Barack Obama taking the oath of office will be a profound moment. One that, in many ways, I, too, waited my whole life to see.
Because his story is my story. And it's the American story. Hybrids, one and all, built on the immigrant experience... all of them.
(I remember seeing Ragtime on Broadway for the first time and weeping, not because I identified with one story... but because I identified with all of them - the white suburban family in New Rochelle, the immigrants struggling on the Lower East Side, the black men trying to live free in Harlem. It's all in me.)
It's easy to make too much of the images, to give them more power than they deserve. I like to try to keep the sense of Obama as just a person, not a miracle. The journey is remarkable, the day is remarkable... because he is not, not because he is. Remarkable.
Yes, our next President is a bright, well spoken, interesting man. He's also young, untested, somewhat opaque, and unproven. He faces enormous crises, a nation still rife with difficult divisions, and cultural divides that may never be fully crossed.
And yet. Stop for a moment. Breathe. Take this in: this nation, my nation, has put a black man in The White House. In my lifetime. In the White House, by the end of this week, there will live, as its resident, a child descended from slavery.
As amazing as it is to watch Barack Obama, I have to admit that the real journey of being black in America belongs to Mrs. Obama. Michelle Obama, in many ways, is the real story of the Black Experience transformed. Barack, as a multi-culti kid is wont to do, has adopted a story that in many ways is not his own.
But it's hers.
Like Ta-Nehisi, I found myself of late admitting the power of having such a strong, beautiful black woman in the role of first lady. Vogue had a picture, this past month, of Mrs. Obama in Inaugural Ball style (not the gown she will wind up in, obviously), and it was, how can I put this, compelling. It took my breath away.
It shouldn't, of course, matter so much; so much of what's going to be so transformational on Tuesday is visual, appearances, the outward moments. That they are people of color, that the Administration they bring into power will look more multiracial, be more diverse, especially at some of the highest levels. These things are cosmetic, surface things. They shouldn't matter so much, really.
And of course, they do.
On Tuesday, I will be crying - I know I will - because my father should have seen this. I will cry because as much as I wanted to believe it was possible, I didn't think this would happen. Not yet. And yet... here we are.
I don't have a lot of illusions. He's not perfect. He's not our savior. I will try very hard not to listen to the worshipful crap coming from the reporters and correspondents - older white men, mainly - trying to Define The History Of The Moment. The moment has power despite them, not because of them. It comes from the power of a patriotism that's not defined by abstractions about flags and faith in country; it's in the patriotism that's borne of believing in all of us, all of our American experiences. He's the one because he's something of all of us, part of us, not separate from it. I believe in America because I know that we believe in our people, in ourselves. And yes, Barack Obama has restored my faith in the idea that the people, united, cannot be defeated. And I waited a long damn time. Let me have my moment.
Because after this, we have to get to work.
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