Drift goes to the Inauguration!

Story & photos by Shannon McGregor

We sprinted from block to block, flanked on all sides by several hundred thousand inaugural revelers pushing this way and that. District police denied entrance at seemingly random intervals – G from 14th to 15th, “instead take I to 18th and walk down.” What?!??!

The inauguration over, it had taken us a little over three hours to escape the madness of the Mall. Our race, fueled by the chill and adrenaline, was towards the crackled promise of two parade viewing tickets for the Democratic Leadership Council Inaugural Watch Party – the name of which took only seven dropped phone calls and text messages to figure out. After maneuvering past the crowds and a few sweet-talked police, there remained our biggest barricade yet: They wore cheap suits and the trademark squiggly-cord earpieces …

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My very un-VIP journey began with a 12-hour ride north with my husband in our smart Honda Fit. Passing cars with matching Obama bumper stickers or a “D.C. or Bust” homemade sign taped to the window clued us in to our common destination. As soon as we crossed the North Carolina border, overhead electronic signs warned drivers of delays because of inauguration traffic. We found none, having left on Saturday. After a gluttonous Sunday of watching football (thank God they sell Magic Hat beer in Virginia), we headed north from my sister’s into D.C. on Monday.

I felt like a kid seeing a city for the first time after a life spent in a one-stoplight town. The people were everywhere. As the snow started to flurry, we entered the park. A middle-aged man in an “Arrest Bush” T-shirt stood beside a 20-foot Mission Accomplished blow-up Bush, complete with a Pinocchio nose … with a pair of sneakers draped across it, ghetto telephone wire style. Hundreds threw shoes at the big, softie Bush – giving him “the boot” as they say. Next, I signed a gigantic copy of the Constitution with a feathered Sharpie while bad protest music played in the background. This generation really lacks a soundtrack to the movement, eh?

After several hours festering in a Dupont Circle bookstore bar, yes a bookstore bar, we ventured back out into the considerably cooler air with a few new friends in tow, to the park to watch Rachel Maddow and some other chick burn sage. Oh my, yes, they babbled Buddhist or Wiccan-type garbage on stage while the audience, rapt in the hundreds, burned sage to “cleanse the capitol of Bush.” Well Amen, but I kept mistaking the sage for really big blunts. After inhaling a bit too much residual hippie, we headed home. A 3 a.m. wake-up call comes early when you’re up half the night worrying about it. Does sage make you paranoid?

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The plan was to watch the inauguration at my sister’s with our mom and head into the madness afterwards to soak up some hope and change. Then my sister, who’s in the Air Force, was asked by the Tuskegee Airmen to be one of their three official escorts. VIP-1, NIP-4. Next, my sister pulls some strings to allow my mom, who is a nurse, to serve as the Tuskegee Airmen’s official nurse for the day. VIP-2, NIP-3. Then, a text from my friend who is heading down from New York to meet up: “Good news – I got a VIP ticket to watch the inauguration in a seated zone!! Bad news – we won’t be together. Meet up after?” VIP-3, NIP-2.

We got to the Metro station at 4 a.m. Tuesday. It was dark, cold and the parking garage held a line of about 10,000 ticket holders waiting to board. Holy shit. Packed tight, and hot, hot, hot, we jumped off at the first chance. Found refuge in the Museum of American History. Slept on a bench next to old license plates and a Model T. Ventured back out into the 26-degree weather, back to the Mall. Found a spot halfway between the Capitol and the Washington Monument, complete with a sweet Jumbotron view. Ready, set, inaugurate!

The anticipation in the air was palpable, crackling like static. Michelle Obama and her daughters drew huge screams, almost ecstatic joy. And finally, Barack Hussein Obama: flags waved, people hugged, snapped pictures of the screen with their cameras and phones. After a short, flubbed swearing in, he was our President. Americans, bundled tight but letting loose, let out almost a collective whoop of joy, hope and relief. The Bush years were over – but how long will it take to clean up the mess?

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Frantic phone calls from my NY friend assured me we were close to her party. But we had no ticket – what to do about the Secret Service? The suits unpacked a metal detector, and the crowd, sensing a gateway to the parade, crushed closer to the metal gates. A frantic photographer pleaded to be let through. “I have to do my job!” “Me too!” I yelled. They let us through, about 10 at a time.

Now inside the “zone,” we were two corners off from meeting up with my friend – two corners heavily guarded not only by the suits, but by men in uniform. They meant business. “No more seats over here – you’ll have to cross to the other side. Yup, yup, OK, go, go! Go now!” We sprinted across the street. One more to go. I begged a handsome man in a uniform: “We’re just trying to get right there,” pointing to a building just across the street. Skeptical, but perhaps still on a hope buzz, he let us go. We ran, feeling very sketchy, and squeezed sideways through an opening in the metal gate. My friend pointed us out through glass doors to a D.C. cop, who let us in. At last. Warmth. Beer. Shots of tequila. Bread. Anything to warm us up. We sat through the delayed run-up to the parade. And then his car turned our corner. Out we ran, back into the frigid air. We had a great view. Would he get back out? And then, right on our corner, the one we’d fought so hard to get to, Barack and Michelle Obama got out. Right in front of us.

It was an elusive, special moment – to wave at a President, a young and hopeful President, a black President. So many had fought so hard so that this might one day be possible. I imagine those older, with more battle scars than I could imagine, could scarcely breathe with the weight of it all. The only defining event of my generation is September 11th. The terror and the gravity of it pulled us together, in front of TVs, into service. The whole world was on our side.

Eight years later, another defining moment – this one also pulled us together, almost 2 million people in D.C. Millions more across the world. Again there was weeping and a call to service, but this time, they came from a positive place. Again, the whole world is on our side.