blood is blood is blood and love is true vision

Who will listen? How many songs will it take for you to see
You can bomb the world to pieces
You can't bomb it into peace

Michael Franti/Spearhead, Bomb the World

What I want to remember about inauguration: walking through campus as fast as I could, finally foregoing all dignity and breaking into a run, my bag slapping heavily against my side, trying desperately not to slip on the ice-streaked sidewalks.  The sidewalks were mostly empty, a few other students hurrying ahead of me. Getting to the student center completely out of breath, and stepping inside to a huge crowd, the warmth and excitement and tense anticipation tangible in the air. 

They had huge screens set up against the wall, and I hovered for a moment towards the edge of the crowd, but then caught Alice’s eye.  She was against the wall about halfway up, so I edged my way through the crowd, and squished beside her against the wall, just in time. 

And then the swearing in, which was so horribly awkward that for a moment I was afraid the whole thing would be botched, but then Obama was speaking and everything was fine, just these beautiful words of hope and determination and virtue spilling over us as we stood, a mass of backpacks and coats, entranced, and applauding like mad at every pause, every clause.

Alice and I kept turning to grin at each other, and for a moment I thought with a twinge back to election night and Paul, but then a rush of applause swept those thoughts away and I let myself hope, and for those few minutes I really did completely believe, that things would change and things would get better. 

I was sweating in my down coat, my shoulders aching from my bag heavy with books fresh from the mailroom, crowded in with so many cameras and backpacks and shoulders.  My favorite lines –

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and nonbelievers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth.

To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict or blame their society's ills on the West, know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

But most of all, just hugging Alice afterwards, hugging some guy I didn’t even know, everyone cheering, grinning, and at my class afterwards my professor asking us, are you excited? I hope you are excited. And part of me knows that anyone can say anything; and what inaugural address wouldn’t be positive, exciting, uniting? But I want to believe that it’s more.

Nothing feels any different now, of course, but I’m hoping that deep down things are changing, and that it will eventually rise to the surface.  But the optimism, the hope – especially in the midst of this financial crisis, when practically everyone is freaking out about their dwindling job prospects and/or Bailey’s dwindling endowment – is so refreshing. 

I’m not as worried as most of my friends, but I think that’s because I don’t have any real idea of what I want to do after I graduate.  But still there are moments when I panic and wonder if everything will fall apart, if the world will crumble into the faded black and white Depression-era pictures in my old social studies book. And then I inevitably remember, a great deal of the world still has a lower quality of life than Americans did in the Great Depression. And I feel guilty about the Starbucks I got that morning, and the mountain of clothes piled in my closet, but then I eventually forget, and continue this life, and the guilt piles on and on in some secret corner of my mind.

I went to the library the afternoon of the inauguration, aglow with the energy and hope of change, and started reading graffiti on my study carrel instead of doing Spanish homework.  I was totally shocked to see that the carrels were scratched up and graffitied, exactly like the desks at Whitney. Slightly less vulgar, maybe, but then parts had been sanded off, too.  I briefly wondered if these had been donated from somewhere else, maybe a reform school for delinquent boys.  Seriously, aren’t we a little better than this? At least a little older? And these had to be from students who chose to go to the library, not just frat boys.  I guess everyone gets bored, but it was a little disenchanting.  We are supposed to be the generation to change the world, but instead we etch profanity on desks. Charming.

Jason and I went for a walk last night. It was bitterly cold, but beautiful, stars glimmering and ice glinting on sidewalks.  Mostly we just talked about our classes – I am enthralled with Medical Anthropology – but then started talking again about the future. I don’t know who brought it up first, but we started talking about clean cities, this idea of beautiful, environmental, well-planned cities, so that there was convenience and efficiency, but also gorgeous trees and lovely glass buildings and clean sidewalks, and fresh air and fountains and gardens.  That is what I like to hope for: technology taking us somewhere beautiful. 

But he thought it sounded creepy, like a dystopian novel.  He told me he used to dream of living in a library when he was a kid.  He even made plans to run away there, and to stockpile food in the aisles no one went to, in alphabetical order to match the books.  Camus = cereal. Dostoyevsky = danishes. Sophocles = strawberries.

We hugged goodbye, but other than that, nothing. And there was no sign that he has any interest in me. We didn’t mention Callie, or Riley, or anyone.  But it was so nice, just to talk and laugh and hope.  We agreed that we should do it again, and I think he meant it, too.  I think of everyone, I should be able to trust him not to say fake things.  But I know I’ve been horribly wrong before.

Sometimes I wonder if we ever have any good reason to trust again after we’ve been betrayed, or if it’s just something we do, because we only have so much time to look for love. I don’t think I could make any rational argument for it when my judgment has already been proven disastrously inaccurate. But what’s the alternative? Would it be any easier to just hide away, protected by fear? Maybe we’re reaching blindly into the future and only hoping not to get hurt. But for right now, hope is enough.