O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.
O beautiful for pilgrim feet, whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine ev’ry flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.
We awoke early on Saturday (in spite of extreme sleep deprivation), showered, dressed and hurried downstairs to catch breakfast before it was put away. As is often the case with my family, we lingered too long over coffee (we were “viztin’ “), talking about our expectations of the day and the logistics of finding parking so that we could make it to Freedom Plaza to join the march. Finally on the road to our destination, traffic proved to be frustratingly slow for our purposes, and there was a growing awareness that we were going to be late to the march. Upon passing some road construction that we jokingly declared was a left-wing conspiracy to keep “the wrong people” out of D.C., speed picked up and we made it to the downtown area just about the time the march was to commence. Amy dropped all of us off at the corner of 7th and Something; Ben hopped out, grabbed Grandmommy’s wheelchair from the back of the van and quickly began assembling (while I tried to help, all the while thinking, “Why didn’t we think of this earlier?”). That done, we proceeded down 7th towards Pennsylvania Avenue as Amy drove away to look for parking. We’d agreed to stay in touch by cellphone to meet up with her along the way.
As we approached the moving crowd, which was walking with purpose but in no obvious hurry, I became aware of how quiet they all were. Yes, there were people talking, very much like thousands of your closest friends and neighbors taking that daily morning walk. There were the ”barkers” who’d planted themselves on the sidewalks left and right of the street; some marchers wore backpacks with portable PA systems in them, chanting their own grievances against the Obama administration or Congress. As we moved toward the Capitol Building, I was keenly aware of the people around me, trying to take it all in. Prior to the trip, I’d warned my kids that I wasn’t sure what we might witness in D.C., that we might see the gamut from normal, well-behaved people to real nuts who just like to be in the fray (no matter what “the fray” is about!) But here we were, in the midst of smiling, genial folks, relatively quiet, all moving deliberately toward one purpose. I was more than a little relieved and very excited to be there.
There were the more enterprising ones, hawking their wares in the street–things like small U.S. flags; buttons and bumper stickers with various clever slogans; the ever-popular “Don’t Tread On Me” flags. And there were others just handing out cards and flyers with websites of organizations and candidates for Congress who were “in the fight.”
All the time we were marching and listening and observing, we were very aware that Amy hadn’t caught up with us yet. Several cell phone calls later, informing her that we just couldn’t wait at our appointed meeting place as well as giving her landmarks, she caught up with us.
I paused along the way, just taking in the sights and sounds. I took a few pictures (one of my favorites is my family in the middle of the street with marchers on either side and behind, with the Capitol in the distance.) I thought of the people who, generations before, either by foot or horseback or carriage or Model T, had made their way up and down this historic avenue. At times, it was more than a little surreal to be walking the same path. And like those before us, we were sure of our purpose if not the outcome.
We finally reached the Capitol. Well, when I say we reached it, I mean that we’d gone as far as we could–the crowd before us loomed large. In the distance, we could hear that the rally was starting up. Though there was a PA system in use, as well as a large screen, we couldn’t understand the speakers on the stage. Our only clue usually that something was happening on stage was the wave of sound that would travel back through the crowd to us.
We all stood in line (for maybe 30-45 minutes?) to use the necessary, not knowing the next time we’d see one. Bess, my 12-year-old, affectionately (& facetiously) dubbed the port-a-potties “potpourri,” vowing to never visit one again.
There were blockades set up to control numbers going in and out of the Capitol grounds. Making our way to the first one, we stood for a while to try to listen to the various speakers. But I wanted to get closer, and I wasn’t satisfied with being relegated to the ”outskirts” of this event. So I began to slowly move closer, closer until I caught up with Amy, who was doing the same. We two, being the occasionally pushy people that we are, did a little exploring and found an opening through the temporary fence, where it seemed people were coming and going. Making sure we had everybody in tow, we finally reached our destination–the Capitol proper.
Third installment, “Day 3 (part 2): The rally,” coming soon. . .
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