This is part 2; part 1 can be found in the previous entry.
The Jumbotrons broke away from replaying the festivities of the past few days to show the start of honoured guests arriving. Without missing a beat, the crowd began to reveal its affections and dislikes, booing the outgoing administration and all its minions--Colin Powell being the lone exception--and welcoming the democratic stars, both old and new. As Bush appeared, the crowd instinctively knew it was their last chance to vote him off the island. The boos took on a certain edge, profanity appeared for the first time, and next to me some people starting singing the stadium chant “Nah-nah naaah-nah, hey hey goo-od bye…” This was deeper than disrespect; call it disgust. Whatever connection there had once been between the nation and its president had frayed somewhere between Abu Ghraib and Katrina; now it was irreparably broken. I thought for a minute that maybe they should show some respect for the man in his last public appearance, but I got over it. Their reaction struck me as raw and honest. The crowd, supremely kind towards each one of its members, was not about to make nice for the sake of George W. Bush.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Obama love-in was ready to begin. Cheers when he first appeared, cheers when he recited the oath, cheers so loud that at times the Jumbotron’s giant speakers were drowned out. I began to think this was no inauguration, but rather a large public wedding ceremony. The American citizenry present on the Mall and Barack Obama were being wed to each other. Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded President? The cheers were their way of saying , “Yes, we do.”
* * * * * * * * * *
The speech? It was listened to. When the President gave his diagnosis of America’s current situation, you could hear the listening. And they were with him as he stated his confidence in America, as he named the work to be done and challenged the cynics, as he addressed the world--muslim and poor, and as he invoked the American spirit and values. If it wasn’t soaring, it was nonetheless on target--we’re in a mess, there’s lots to do, and we’re going to get through it.
* * * * * * * * * *
After the speech, a poet appeared. I like poetry, but most of the crowd seemed to find it irrelevant given how many people headed for the doors, so to speak. Obama would be a tough act to follow for anyone, but particularly for a poet--his rhetoric and rythms have their own captivating force and his message, of course, had a certain urgency. The news in poetry is rarely urgent though many a man, paraphrasing William Carlos Williams, is making friends with death, even as I speak, for lack of what is found there.
John Quincy Adams wrote a book of poems, and so did Jimmy Carter. Bill Clinton had a poet at both of his Inaugurations. The Democrats, at least since Kennedy invited Robert Frost to read, have apparently developed an affection for calling on a poet. If it does nothing else, poetry gives good gravitas.
* * * * * * * * * *
Our bus wasn’t leaving until six o’clock. Giving ourselves an hour and half to walk back, that left us with a good three hours to kill. We knew the Museum of American History was open, so we made our way there to warm up. The crowds in front of the museums were packed tight. For first time ever I understood the possibility of being killed in a human crush. We moved at a snail’s pace. As we got close to the museum, a guard came out and shouted “The Museum has reached capacity!”, and promptly shut the doors. I had become Dorothy outside the gates of Oz—oh no, now I’ll never get warm! I seriously needed to sit down, my back was aching, my feet were cold. But standing there in the crowd, a delightful older couple noticed we were Canadian and couldn’t wait to engage us in conversation. The spoke of their visits to Canada—they had a particular love of the Maritimes—and how they hated the past eight years, how the real villain was Cheney and on and on. The least we could do was thank them for voting in the right candidate and so we did, just as the doors opened.
* * * * * * * * * *
For the bus ride down and back, I’d brought an old book to look at again—Leadership Without Easy Answers by Ron Heifetz. I wouldn’t be surprised if Obama has read the book. Heifetz, who teaches a popular leadership course at Harvard, says there are four key things a leader must do. Get people to focus on significant issues, which he calls adaptive challenges—those problems that have no clear answers. Second, let people feel the stress of the issues to the point where they are aware they will need to adapt, but not to the point where they’re overwhelmed. Third, don’t allow the focus to turn to stress-reducing distractions (Remember George W. after 9/11, telling Americans to go shopping?). Finally, give the work back to the people to engage them in taking responsibility for their situation.
Obama has inherited a situation that is textbook Heifetz. Obama will have to walk what Heifetz calls the razor’s edge of leadership: “challenge people too fast, and they will push the authority figure over for failing their expectations for stability. But challenge people too slowly, and they will throw him down when they discover that no progress has been made.”
* * * * * * * * *
We walked into the warm museum, sat down on the floor and leaned our backs against a wall. A kind janitor came by and apologized as he told us we were blocking the way and would need to move. He was an older black fellow; I wanted to ask him about the meaning of the day, but something in me—exhaustion, shyness—had me refrain. We scouted out the museum’s café, but the line into it was an endless and hungry snake and none of us wanted to become its tail. Instead we sat down by a small exhibit: everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-the- woman-who-invented-kevlar. I don’t remember her name; she looked like a kind grandmother, and her invention was now used in making bullet-proof vests and wheelchairs, canoes and fire equipment. Was I right to think the exhibit highlighted kevlar’s military applications? Did she really belong in this museum in the first place? I couldn't decide and didn't really care--the warmth of the museum was lovely, and I felt it slowly taking the energy out of me.
The Jumbotrons broke away from replaying the festivities of the past few days to show the start of honoured guests arriving. Without missing a beat, the crowd began to reveal its affections and dislikes, booing the outgoing administration and all its minions--Colin Powell being the lone exception--and welcoming the democratic stars, both old and new. As Bush appeared, the crowd instinctively knew it was their last chance to vote him off the island. The boos took on a certain edge, profanity appeared for the first time, and next to me some people starting singing the stadium chant “Nah-nah naaah-nah, hey hey goo-od bye…” This was deeper than disrespect; call it disgust. Whatever connection there had once been between the nation and its president had frayed somewhere between Abu Ghraib and Katrina; now it was irreparably broken. I thought for a minute that maybe they should show some respect for the man in his last public appearance, but I got over it. Their reaction struck me as raw and honest. The crowd, supremely kind towards each one of its members, was not about to make nice for the sake of George W. Bush.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Obama love-in was ready to begin. Cheers when he first appeared, cheers when he recited the oath, cheers so loud that at times the Jumbotron’s giant speakers were drowned out. I began to think this was no inauguration, but rather a large public wedding ceremony. The American citizenry present on the Mall and Barack Obama were being wed to each other. Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded President? The cheers were their way of saying , “Yes, we do.”
* * * * * * * * * *
The speech? It was listened to. When the President gave his diagnosis of America’s current situation, you could hear the listening. And they were with him as he stated his confidence in America, as he named the work to be done and challenged the cynics, as he addressed the world--muslim and poor, and as he invoked the American spirit and values. If it wasn’t soaring, it was nonetheless on target--we’re in a mess, there’s lots to do, and we’re going to get through it.
* * * * * * * * * *
After the speech, a poet appeared. I like poetry, but most of the crowd seemed to find it irrelevant given how many people headed for the doors, so to speak. Obama would be a tough act to follow for anyone, but particularly for a poet--his rhetoric and rythms have their own captivating force and his message, of course, had a certain urgency. The news in poetry is rarely urgent though many a man, paraphrasing William Carlos Williams, is making friends with death, even as I speak, for lack of what is found there.
John Quincy Adams wrote a book of poems, and so did Jimmy Carter. Bill Clinton had a poet at both of his Inaugurations. The Democrats, at least since Kennedy invited Robert Frost to read, have apparently developed an affection for calling on a poet. If it does nothing else, poetry gives good gravitas.
* * * * * * * * * *
Our bus wasn’t leaving until six o’clock. Giving ourselves an hour and half to walk back, that left us with a good three hours to kill. We knew the Museum of American History was open, so we made our way there to warm up. The crowds in front of the museums were packed tight. For first time ever I understood the possibility of being killed in a human crush. We moved at a snail’s pace. As we got close to the museum, a guard came out and shouted “The Museum has reached capacity!”, and promptly shut the doors. I had become Dorothy outside the gates of Oz—oh no, now I’ll never get warm! I seriously needed to sit down, my back was aching, my feet were cold. But standing there in the crowd, a delightful older couple noticed we were Canadian and couldn’t wait to engage us in conversation. The spoke of their visits to Canada—they had a particular love of the Maritimes—and how they hated the past eight years, how the real villain was Cheney and on and on. The least we could do was thank them for voting in the right candidate and so we did, just as the doors opened.
* * * * * * * * * *
For the bus ride down and back, I’d brought an old book to look at again—Leadership Without Easy Answers by Ron Heifetz. I wouldn’t be surprised if Obama has read the book. Heifetz, who teaches a popular leadership course at Harvard, says there are four key things a leader must do. Get people to focus on significant issues, which he calls adaptive challenges—those problems that have no clear answers. Second, let people feel the stress of the issues to the point where they are aware they will need to adapt, but not to the point where they’re overwhelmed. Third, don’t allow the focus to turn to stress-reducing distractions (Remember George W. after 9/11, telling Americans to go shopping?). Finally, give the work back to the people to engage them in taking responsibility for their situation.
Obama has inherited a situation that is textbook Heifetz. Obama will have to walk what Heifetz calls the razor’s edge of leadership: “challenge people too fast, and they will push the authority figure over for failing their expectations for stability. But challenge people too slowly, and they will throw him down when they discover that no progress has been made.”
* * * * * * * * *
We walked into the warm museum, sat down on the floor and leaned our backs against a wall. A kind janitor came by and apologized as he told us we were blocking the way and would need to move. He was an older black fellow; I wanted to ask him about the meaning of the day, but something in me—exhaustion, shyness—had me refrain. We scouted out the museum’s café, but the line into it was an endless and hungry snake and none of us wanted to become its tail. Instead we sat down by a small exhibit: everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-the- woman-who-invented-kevlar. I don’t remember her name; she looked like a kind grandmother, and her invention was now used in making bullet-proof vests and wheelchairs, canoes and fire equipment. Was I right to think the exhibit highlighted kevlar’s military applications? Did she really belong in this museum in the first place? I couldn't decide and didn't really care--the warmth of the museum was lovely, and I felt it slowly taking the energy out of me.
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