We Are One Concert - 1/18/9

I promised my friend Holly I'd weigh in on what this experience was for me. It's a tough nut to crack.

Alan and I were both fairly resigned to stay in through all of this inaugural hubbub. I love being in front of crowds, but am not a huge fan of being in them. I get a bit panicky pretty quickly. Around 10:30 yesterday morning, Lisa called and offered us two tickets. Hate to quote Oprah here but, "Luck is when opportunity meets preparedness." and all of that. Alan also had a show with a load in at 5:30 on 14th Street. It was going to be a logistical challenge.

Opportunity/Preparedness. Lisa and Doug! Two of the coolest and kindest people I've EVER known. Thank you thank you thank you.

We were off! Used to be that my orientation to the city had everything to do with where I waited tables. I could get from point A to point B by identifying the closest restaurant I'd worked in. Second phase was all about political satire and theatre's where I'd performed.

Could navigate DC and even parts of VA based on bus drivers that had taken wrong turns while giving, "Scandel Bus Tours". One bus driver told stories of Ike LITERALLY pimping out Tina and pointed out street corners where this all went down. Scandel tours meant I was wearing some wig from a costume change above "big swirling blue" in the bathroom in the back of the bus so that I could "perform" as Hilary, or a hybrid of First Ladies, or Rita Jenrette with balloons down my shirt, riding backwards at the front, and attempting to be funny to tourists -usually corporate parties extended- as they drank. ("The more you drink the funnier we GET!") Bottles rolled. The dressing area/bathroom got rather...unsavory.

Finally, for several years now I've taught in DC public schools for the Helen Hayes Legacy Project. So, now I can navigate according to restaurants, a stinging memory of having no funny material for certain areas of the city (don't even get me started on 66!), AND places I've educated youth that may have been lovely or barred off like prison complexes.

Alan pared down his load in for the show last night, so that he only had to carry his guitar, a small rack, and gym bag full of peddles and cables. It fit in the back of my Yaris and was well disguised with my little "vision-cover" in the back. We were off. My navigational skills coupled with Alan's perptual listening to news, weather, and traffic on the radio prepped us as much as possible for the day of driving into the city when it was essentially forbidden.

I chose 14th Street. We parked at 14th and NY Ave. Two blocks from his gig and walking distance from the concert. It was a parking-miracle. The space was too small for almost all vehicles, but YARIS TO THE RESCUE!

The city felt very different. It was full of people from everywhere, bicycling-rickshaw-hybrids carried families of 5, porta-potties locked off with plastic straps til Tuesday, and lots and lots of police of many sorts were everywhere. Also, there were military soldiers in gray fatigues scattered in groups of four and five on the other side of the temporary dividing fences every 25 feet or so, as we approached The Lincoln Memorial. It was festive and comforting to know that we have these "forces" protecting us, and a little intimidating because no one was going to be acting the fool and you could bank on that.

As we walked across the field toward the Lincoln Memorial one image really struck me. I didn't take a picture of it because it was somehow too intimate. This African American couple maybe in their sixties were in the middle of one of the field areas. I felt like I was back in dance improv class, or doing Alexander work, or in rehearsal for some really physically connected piece. They stood back to back. This was odd and caught my eye. They were doing a weight exchange and leaning into one another through their backs. Breathing and connecting through their backs. Hearts touching that way. Their knees were slightly bent as if they were almost sitting.

The woman - she was facing the White house. Just taking it in. And the man - he was facing the monument. They could not see each other but were connected into one kind of living thing. And, the thing that struck me most about this was their facial expressions. They each had the EXACT same expression. It exceeds verbal language. It was almost as if the weight of the hour could have sent them both smashing into the icy ground or perhaps (in my imagination) they could rocket up into the sky defying the laws of gravity and restoring faith in the entire planet in a single moment. This was profound for me. This trust. This connection. The true-nuetral that can launch into any direction. This kind of shared moment in the arms of love and a new truth. Weight exchange. Trust exceeding sight.

From where we stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the monuments were massive but the crowd was more impressive. It was so cold. So COLD. And some people had staked out their spots since morning. I thought it would be a feel-good. A kind of spontaneous hug fest between strangers. There was caution in the air. Real caution. With snypers on top of the Lincoln Memorial and also in the hearts of the people not really knowing yet if it was safe to believe this was really happening. It was. Because I have photo's of it.

The folding of profound hope and trust mixed into the middle-aged woman trying to scam us by getting us to downgrade our tix so she could get a better view. It was strange and beautiful. And wonderful and a little creepy.

My impression of the President-elect (this is the first time I'd seen him live) was in a word, "sobering". Through the artists behind podiums the words of Presidents past were evoked. "Ask not..", "The only thing we have to fear...". And, much much more. As I awake today this occurs to me.

There has been much talk about our Founding Fathers. And for me in my line of work, lots of years investing in researching the Founding Mothers, but Barack Obama feels like a sibling. I hasten to say "big brother" because, well-you can deduce. But he does feel like an older sibling. As if the country is no longer in Elementary School having sand fights on the playground at recess because some bully said NUCULUR. We are growing up, and we are going to have to learn to not run to Daddy and hide behind his chair anymore waiting for his words of wisdom. If things go down in the lunch room, we're going to have to learn to work through them ourselves, to use our own words, to express, communicate, to grow.

Personally, I felt that my griping about all the work I need to do is really ridiculous. I mean STAND UP! Look at what this guy has to contend with and get on with organizing and making things appear! (That's my inner-voice there.)

And this "expression" that was so celebrated on Sunday strikes me. The string of artists, one after the other, left me with a profound sense of hope for the arts. There seemed to maybe be an understanding of what humanities mean to humanity. The value of the poet, the musician, the storyteller. The articulation of the unseen, the voice of expression that can transform and transcend. The imagination that leads to the dream that becomes the next reality. I felt this was being honored. This left me tremendously inspired and cautiously hopeful.

As Obama spoke, Alan called his Mom. He held the phone up like he was at a rock concert. "Is that him speaking right now?" "Yes." The cynical and jaded part of me was thinking, "right now? What about theatre etiquette? PROPER and respectful audience!" And then, the other part stepped in. The sobering part brought out by this sobering presence. The realization that I was standing next to a man who was only 5 days old when the March on Washington went right past the apartment where he had been living in his less-than-a-week existance. One who had a Father that was a teacher and a preacher and left us too soon to see this day. Who's Grandmother's voice rings in my head, "SING DEBBIE!" as all were gathered around her sick bed. She clapped and music, music, music! I was standing next to a man who had regained something stolen from his family a long long time ago. The simplicity of the moment was profound. I would have wept like a child, only we aren't those children anymore and we are each called.

As we headed back to the car to get Alan to his gig right on time, more thoughts started to sink in with me. I thought about my Grandmother. Knowing, she'd never have been able to comprehend this. I thought about being born in that city of "things etched in stone". Not from a reputable line of consumptive city life ancestry, but farmland people. I was born there because there were no hospitals up Penn Ave in PG County in 1966. My Grandfather built barns up and down 301. He owned property and donated some if it to build a Firehouse in Forestville. So that if you ever need to find Murray's Steaks just look for "Penn-Randall" drive. What's in a name? Help finding Murray's Steaks. On and on my mind rambled about my family of birth and confusion over their choices.

My years of creating work in the city where I was born haven't been easy ones, but I just can't help falling in love with that city over and over again. It's where corruption can fester and where I've been mugged, but it's also where promise lives and laws are made.

So, I'm trying to get ready. Because it is indeed - a new day.

XOdb.