The Inauguration: Scenes from a Canadian Pilgrimage--Part 1

At 6 pm the day before the inauguration, myself and my two sons bordered a bus full of young university students eager to be part of history. The moment I bordered the bus and saw their youthfulness, I understood just how significant Obama’s impact could be. When was the last time a generation—Canadian and American—was galvanized by a President and felt personally called to become involved in remaking the world? Obama could have that effect, one that could linger long after his administration would begin to be judged by history. What might remain could be a virtuous circle of social activism and caring started by a President who elicited the best from a generation now still in school.

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When we got to the border, we stopped at the duty free shop and bought Canadian flags, little knowing how they might impact our experience in D.C. When the customs official heard our schedule—a 12 hour drive down, 12 hours in D.C. and a 12 hour drive back—he thought us somewhat crazy but, we also noticed, he was considerate in how he treated us. We had become, as it were, Canadians and not potential terrorists. Apparently, so I heard, the “level-of-threat alerts” have already ceased being announced at U.S. airports as well—perhaps an early sign of a new President who will not serve fear as his administration’s main course.

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At some point on the drive down, I awoke to hear “Oh Canada” being sung. A spontaneous outburst of national pride? Hardly a Canadian trait. Something must have sparked the students into song and, yes, it was the appearance of a Tim Horton’s in the dark of New York State. I wondered if it’s a good thing—Canadian identity called forth by a donut shop.

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As we made our way into D.C., we could see other buses on the roads. At 5:30 a.m. the pilgrimage was in full swing—the sidewalks already had people beginning to make the trek to the mall. In the last warmth of the bus, we put on clothes, stuffed some food and water bottles into our pockets and headed out. As we rounded the corner, we could see the dome of the capital lit up. Hawkers were out selling Obama gear—t-shirts, hats, buttons. Obama-mania was on the rise.

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Pilgrimage is always as much about the going as the arriving. Though our going had begun back in Ottawa, the real pilgrimage began, for me at least, on the walk to the mall. We were slowly joining an evergrowing sea of humanity. We came first to the start of the Mall that’s close to the Capital but, not being ticketholders, were directed to another route, a long walk under the Rte 395 tunnel, a highway closed down for the occasion that would lead us under the Reflecting Pool and up to streets we'd follow to the Mall’s more distant acreage.

Never was a tunnel more filled with light. It was far too early in the morning to be joyous, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. Joy was the order of the day. And there was more than a bit of acknowledgment of the Canadians. People seemed genuinely thrilled to have us there—“welcome Canada!”, “good to see some Canadians here!”, “Yo Canada!”. We saw the “Button Man,” a fellow with a trench coat covered—and I do mean covered—with Obama buttons and who was in high demand for being in people's photographs. I spoke to one black woman who had come out from California and who had come for “the greatest day of my life.” We were interviewed and video-ed by bloggers from Seattle to Illinois. The tunnel echoed with cries of "Yes, we can," and it didn't take us long to figure out our cry, "Yes, we can...ada!" By the time we emerged from the tunnel, daylight had arrived and we understood this was one Great Big Sea. The 3km walk to the Mall had taken us nearly two hours and we still had another four before the ceremonies would begin.

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We came to the Mall on 12th Street. We met some other Canadians, one group had come by bus from Toronto, and we met a man who was walking around with a large Canadian flag draped over himself and asking everyone to sign it. The Mall is a large expanse, grass beaten down into dirt, surrounded by museums; on one end is the Capital and at the other, near us, the Washington Monument. Large “jumbotrons” and loud speakers were placed strategically along the Mall and were showing scenes from the previous day's celebrations.

Funny how you think you’re dressed well for the weather when you first head out, but then the reality of standing around takes hold. It was cold and windy. The sun didn’t have much to say. Some music on the jumbotrons got the crowd dancing, and the movement provided some temporary relief. By mid-morning we decided we needed to launch a small expedition to a nearby sub-shop we’d been told about for something warm to eat. During the expedition’s absence the crowd on the Mall continued to grow. By the time the expedition returned, they wouldn’t have found us without the Canadian flag held high and waving. Hot soup and chili; the wind was dying down and the sun was beginning to get its act together. Things were looking good.

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I couldn’t help but look around at faces on the Mall. Somehow the faces I most wanted to see were of elderly black folks. In my own sentimental heart, I felt this day was for them. For those who had suffered the indignities of racial inequality, surely this day had particular resonance. I went up to one black gentleman who had a grey beard and a handsome lined face and struck up a conversation. No, he didn’t believe he’d see it in his lifetime and he didn’t take Obama’s candidacy seriously for a long time. But there was a moment, he said, when Obama’s way of talking reminded him of JFK and he thought this young man has a real chance.