MY OWN PRIVATE INAUGURATION

It is January 20th, 2009 and I am here. I come from every state and territory, and from all over the world. I walked, I bicycled, I hitchhiked, I drove by car, I flew by plane, I rode the A-train—I watched on TV and listened on the neighbor’s radio. I am the millions who made the hajj to Washington, D.C., recorded and documented—bona fide witnesses of The First. My coat is raggedy, my coat’s fine, mine is a cloak of dreams. The future blows blithely from the White House, the Library of Congress, the Lincoln Memorial, and from the mountaintop. I am drinking in the wine, the water, the milk and the glory. We eat donuts, pizza, share sandwiches, dine in grungy cafes and upscale restaurants, we don’t have anything but potato chips, candy bars and manna, but we are all sky high on hope. I am warm, my head is elated, my heart is full, my feet are on clouds, my soul is with Aretha. I watch the parade and go to every ball. I groove to “At Last” on shining parquet, gleaming tiles, the beat-up rug, in mosh pits and the streets (they play the Beyoncé version but I hear Etta James). I gather memories on camera and buy everything collectible. Then I gather myselves up for the struggles ahead on the road that goes on-and-on, that eternal journey home, smiling so hard my face breaks with justice. We gots happy tears and wild wild laughter.