Inauguration Reflections
Like all stories written by a white male, this story begins with a girl. But not just any girl, the girl; the one female who I have loved the most.
And like all things and persons that one may love, whether it be a good song or a dear acquaintance, it feels impossible to truly capture their essence in a matter of words; thus, I’ll claim to impose restraint on myself for the sake of brevity, but the truth is that several pages could be spent writing about this girl and even then it would feel lacking.
Kiran is one of those few blessed people that has incredible beauty both inside and out; her smile and laugh are contagious, and she’s the manifestation that “love is patient and kind.” She’s a textbook definition of a motherly friend: always pushing me to be better, but done so always out of loving concern. She’s one of the few people that I truly feel safe around -- whose love I need not question, who’s acceptance of my identity is secure. I remember first meeting her at a pool party right before beginning high school. I was a scared, insecure kid just trying to fit in, and even though I didn’t even remember her name afterwards, I knew that she was someone I needed to befriend. I am forever grateful that I did.
Our journey through Inauguration Week begins the Wednesday before the main event. I took the train down that morning from New York City, still freshly exhausted from my red-eye the day prior. I’ve never been one to sleep well on airplanes, and I spent most of my train ride with my eyes glued to the window observing the landscape of the east coast for the first time. The train ride provided glimpses into the towns the line the east coast corridor that were as essential as they were brief. Between the high rises of major cities were the small towns, the history of which was evident in the cracked paint of wooden houses that lined quaint streets and whose silence was interrupted by the rumbling infrastructure.
I don’t know how these towns voted, I don’t know what their economies are actually like, I don’t know their full stories; but in my sleep-deprived mind they were examples of divide. As I was trying to bridge the cognitive dissonance between the America that I was once promised and the country I now must learn to love, I wanted to find evidence that This Somehow Makes Sense. So, I projected with unknown levels of accuracy that these towns were the places that had wrought such change, and that -- from the perspective of my comfortable seat elevated above their houses; that, from my vantage point of someone who directly benefits from progressive politics, urban settings, and globalization -- their presumed votes and desire for change could be considered rational. As a baseline for discourse and reflection, we cannot condemn the people whose experiences go against the national experience. For all the touting of statistics that our country is in a better place now than it was 8 years ago, the component missing from the analysis is that there are outliers to every trend: just because it’s true in the macro sense, doesn’t mean it’s true for everybody.
I arrived to Union Station exhausted yet excited, and the first few hours of mundanity betrayed the underlying feeling that Something Big Was About To Happen. The first thing I did in D.C. was get a Starbucks. I only vaguely remember the metro ride to American University (although I do remember being impressed with how nice it is relative the subway). We went back to Kiran’s dorm (her triple was cramped, but nice and impressively organized), and ate dinner (I got chicken strips, she got a grilled cheese) while watching the local news. Throughout the day we’d began hearing about a gay dance party / protest in front of Mike Pence’s House. We were intrigued, but not sure if it was actually going to happen or if would be something worth going to. But our meal had revitalized our energy, our friend Luke who lived in the same neighborhood as Pence assured us that it actually was A Thing™, and our cost-benefit analysis of “go but have it be disappointing” versus “not go and regret missing it” had led us to rather spontaneously decide to go.
We arrived beyond fashionably late. We met up with our friend Luke at a street corner in front of his house, just several streets down from Pence’s house. Pence had apparently left just as the protest was beginning, and by the time we showed up the party had already begun its migration away from its origins.
Nonetheless, the dance party was glorious. Encouraged by the honks of cars driving in the other direction, we continued our procession down the street. Throughout the dance party / protest the act of smiling was irresistible. I have spent too little time with my gay community -- just two gay Pride parades to be precise -- and to be with people like me once again filled me with joy. As “Born This Way” played while we danced through a roundabout, I reflected on how far I had come: what would have middle school me thought of this? The answer was mostly that he would be proud -- proud of coming out, proud of finding loving and accepting friends, proud for being with his community and for being 100% himself -- but also perhaps disappointed: he had betrayed his parents’ Republicanism, and wasn’t the church-guided person I once aspired to be. This moment of dancing along to “Born This Way” was everything 7th grade me could’ve hoped for when the song first came out, but at the time time, the politics surrounding the event were exactly what I had once despised. But tonight was not a night for bittersweet reflection. The energy of the night propelled me to focus on the good; on far I had come, on how far we had come.
As we reached the square that marked the end of our little impromptu parade, I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the LGBT community. The leader of the event was a man in rainbow suspenders, black tights, and tiny denim shorts. A man in blue tights and a leather jacket flapped different-colored fans to the beat of the music. A girl had to be pulled in from dancing in the street because she just couldn’t contain herself. If it weren’t for the sobering context of this being a protest of a homophobic vice President Elect, it would’ve been a night of innocent fun. And in many ways that was the point. A gay dance party-protest isn’t just a way of making protest “fun,” or of a way to protest in a way that’s as visibly queer as possible, but it’s also an empowering statement: Mike Pence, you will not take our joy; Mike Pence, you will not drag us back into the closet; Mike Pence, you will not control our happiness. We are happy and proud to be ourselves, and we will not let you take that from us.
We returned to Kiran’s dorm that night exhausted in the best way possible. The positivity of the night was much needed -- it was too easy to focus on our heartbreak and disappointment with the election results, and we desperately needed a reminder that there’s still reason to hope; that things could still be Okay.
I woke up the next morning still exhausted. I tried knocking myself out with NyQuil yet still couldn’t get a good night’s rest -- it felt too weird to be sharing a bed with my beloved Kiran. I’m wildly uncomfortable with being the big spoon, and sharing the bed with a woman I love so dearly just felt unnatural.
This day was supposed to be the calm before the storm, a day to gather our energy before the inauguration. I walked with Kiran to her first class of the day, treated myself to some more Starbucks, and then left to go visit Luke. We got brunch and walked around the neighborhood. It was relaxing; it felt good to be in motion but at a pace that could still allow for reflection. His neighborhood was cute, quaint, calm. Several houses were adorned with signs declaring the solidarity with Her or had windows draped with rainbow flags. It was clear that Pence was an interloper in this neighborhood, and the silent solidarity of strangers was comforting. I couldn’t help but compare it to my own neighborhood growing up. It, too, was quiet, safe, and predominantly white, but when during my time back I noticed the Trump sign planted in someone’s lawn, or the Make America Great Again bumper sticker on a neighbor’s SUV. Back home, the roles were reversed; I was the one out of place. But I also thought about how this neighborhood had history. The fact that these same houses have sheltered generations of families was a reminder of the ebb and flow of American politics.
The admittedly over-simplified metaphor I shared with Luke that day was that American politics are like a pendulum that’s only gaining momentum. We’ve had periods where we’ve been shifted to the left, period where we’ve been shifted to the right, and have always survived both. Yet, as the pendulum gains momentum we must ask ourselves: how long until it breaks? How do we, as a nation, calm down the polarization and find a common ground again? After all, isn’t the heart of democracy compromise?
Kiran and I didn’t really have a plan for the night, which was fine because we knew we needed to rest for the Big Day. But while we were eating our dinner (I had a PB&J bagel, Kiran had a bagel with avocado), my Trump-adoring mother texted me to ask if we were at the inauguration concert. We had completely forgotten about it (it felt like most people on campus either wanted nothing to do with the inauguration, or could only pull themselves to attend the actual inauguration), but decided “Why not? Let’s go check it out”
Even while walking up to the concert, we could tell we were out of place. A band was already playing on stage, but we didn’t know who -- our decision to come was last minute and spontaneous; we knew next to nothing about the specifics and arrived halfway through. We lowered our voices, walked briskly through the pockets of people, and avoided eye contact. Security consisted of merely opening our coats: with no metal detectors or pat downs or really anything substantial, it didn’t feel adequate for an event of this magnitude. We didn’t feel a sense of immediate danger, yet also didn’t feel safe. As an effeminate gay man and a brown Sikh female, this wasn’t our event to attend. The music wasn’t intended to reach our ears, the dancing wasn’t ours to partake in, the t-shirts and flags weren’t for our consumption. We were probably two of the least-likely attendees of the “Make America Great Again! Welcome Celebration Concert.”
We sped-walked towards the music despite of our discomfort. As we crossed over a small hill and reached the Mall, we could hear Piano Guys singing the phrase “It’s gonna be Okay” on repeat. The Red Hats all loved it, from the young men who looked like they were representatives from a mid-tier fraternity at a state school, to the girls who were once the high school cheerleaders that went to youth group hungover, or the mothers who sat at Starbucks every morning discussing the latest gossip. These were the people who I had tried to raise me and shelter me into their world view, press me into one of their predeterminate molds. Maybe in an alternative universe I would’ve felt more comforted by their presence, but in this moment I was acutely aware that they had created societies in which I wasn’t welcome. They represented who I should’ve been and should’ve loved had my parents been given an ideal child, but instead they tell me how they had to switch churches because of how I’m now a controversial topic. As the Piano Guys reached their final chorus of “It’s gonna be Okay,” the overwhelming positivity had entirely cloyed -- this all felt like a cruel existential joke.
I held Kiran’s hand as we continued closer to the stage, stopping by the Reflecting Pool. By typical means of measurement, it was a beautiful night. The weather was remarkably warm for January, the oranges of the sunset contrasted our darkened moods, and yet I longed to be on one of the airplanes that flew overhead. How I wished to be a bird's-eye witness to history, to watch from the safety of higher ground, to observe without being directly affected. Instead, I was wrapping my arms around my best friend. She was on the verge of tears at the surrealism of it all, and I was, for the first and probably only time in my life, longing for the safety of the closet.
The last line of the chorus in Toby Keith’s song is “I’m not prejudiced, I’m just American.” Immediately after he sang it Kiran turned turned around, “Did he really just sing that?” By now, our feelings of exclusion were reaffirmed. We were interlopers, intruders into a society that self-congratulated its own greatness while also depicting itself as ostracized victims. But, who was this performance really for? In a borderline jingoistic evening, who is given the right to say they’re “Made in America,” and who must earn it?
On the most superficial level, it was for President Trump himself, occasionally the camera would show him clapping and lip synching along. But he didn’t see comfortable in this performance, his enthusiasm for the performance felt contrived. It may have been for the majority of the attendees, their applause and cheers validating the performers after the criticism they received for agreeing to perform for this controversial honoree. Yet even then, there was a degree of separation between us and them -- they were distant and elevated; we stood on muddy grass and largely watched the performance via jumbotron. It was perhaps a performance for the cameras. One can imagine the empowering reverberations of being told that your prejudice is a trait of true Americans, or how such a lyric on live national television can be interpreted as a declaration that “This is the new normal.”
Immediately after the music ended we began walking back. We were surrounded by chatter affirming ‘how wonderful’ the performances were. Almost everyone was donning some sort of Americana paraphernalia, with flags pinned to many of their red, white, and blue outfits. Stalls were selling merchandise to commemorate the evening; many of the vendors were minorities, the irony of capitalistic pressures leading them to sell praise for a man whose policies that would likely hurt them clearly evident. There were food trucks selling items like corn dogs and chicken nuggets. It began to feel like a mix of a county fair and a local fourth of July Parade blown up to massive proportions. And you could see why this appealed to the demographics of the crowd. Many of them were at least middle aged, and you can imagine how this scene fed into the sentimentality of “Make America Great Again.” This is what their childhoods looked like -- pride in a country that looked like you, a time and place where their faith in God and in their fellow man need not be investigated, where everyone in their small towns knew each other by name. They didn’t need to question their place in America, and they didn’t need to question America’s place in the world. And while the racism and xenophobia undermining their movement shouldn’t be diminished or given a pass, perhaps many of these people don’t see themselves as racist. They don’t actively hate anyone who’s different from them, they just don’t understand why others have a chip on their shoulder. They might even have PoC friends and coworkers that they like -- they’re different than the ‘thugs’ and ‘illegals’ that they see in news reports. To them, racism isn’t systemic obstructions to social mobility deeply ingrained into institutions and attitudes within our country. Rather, they think that we should consider ourselves to be a post-racial society because they know better than to call a black person the n-word.
As we somberly walked over the hill that we had just sped-walked over about an hour prior, we realized that Trump himself was about to speak. We made our way back down the incline, watching him speak through a screen that was partially blocked by the branches of a tree. Trump began talking about the powerful movement we were witnessing; the more the crowd cheered the more scared I became for the future of our nation. It felt metaphorically appropriate that we should watch him speak from the sidelines. The changing definitions of who’s included in the vision of America were physically manifesting in our lives, and we were beginning to see just how large of an impact such parameters could have. Later, as we watched the firework show that capped off the evening, this thought was further solidified. We watched from over the hill, more or less alone in front of the Tidal Basin. The display was beautiful; for a night that spurred such chaotic thoughts and emotions, the organization of the spectacle was impressive. At one point, the fireworks spelled out “USA,” but from our view the “S” was misfigured. Kiran was left speechless by the end; I was trying to make a joke as a coping mechanism. When reached the gate to leave the event, the security staff was being told that they were done for the evening. With more than half the crowd still inside, I took this as an indication of the unintended consequences of the inevitable budget cuts -- were we still safe here?
Yet if there was to be any cosmig signaling this evening, it came in the most simplistic and crude form. Not only were we watching Trump speak from our own personal annex, but we were also standing right by the porta-potties for the event.
Things were about to go to shit.
We set our alarms for 5 am the next morning. Anyone who had attended prior inaugurations had repeatedly told us we would need to get there early to get a spot. After hitting the snooze button a few times, we finally motivated ourselves to wake up and begin a day that we didn’t really want to happen. We groggily made our way to get coffee and bagel, carrying with us an extra bottle of iced coffee, water bottles, a blanket, and umbrellas.
As we approached the entrance to the inauguration parade route (we had figured that since we didn’t have tickets or anything it wouldn’t be worth it to try and get into the inauguration itself), we encountered the same group of protesters who had led the dance party from Wednesday night. This morning they were leading a Cock-Block Parade, wearing just as colorful outfits as the dance party and throwing glitter as parade attendees made their way into the security line. As Kiran and I blissfully walked through the Brigade, Rihanna was blasting from someone’s speaker: “We found love in a hopeless place.” The song ended, and the Brigade began a chant: “We’re here, we’re queer, we’re fabulous don’t fuck with us.” It was the one time that day that I felt comfortable in the crowds that day; it was the one time that I felt a true, strong sense of hope.
When we made it to security, we realized we’d have they were going to confiscate our water bottles and umbrellas; not a big loss, but disappointing nonetheless. The security guard of my line decided that my Illy Iced coffee was acceptable to bring in since it was soft plastic and unopened. Kiran’s guard saw the glitter that had stuck to her blanket and asked if she had brought an ‘art project’ with her.
By now it was around 8:30 in the morning, even though we had originally planned on arriving earlier. We went straight to the parade route, expecting to see at least some sort of crowd forming by now. This was history -- of course there would be plenty of people there. But, that wasn’t the case. It was surprisingly empty. There was more than ample space to walk alongside the route; almost nobody was actually lining up yet. It was decidedly odd: the capstone of one of the most remarkable election cycles in America’s history, and no one was showing up yet.
We used the openness as an invitation to walk around and explore the area, deciding to head towards the general direction of the White House. When we reached as far as we could go without having tickets, we asked if we could sit in the bleachers. We were told no, they were reserved, and turned back around.
We then exited this segment of the parade route to see if we could find another entrance closer to the White House. Almost immediately after leaving the heavily-secured route, we were bombarded with yells from unofficial vendors -- we considered buying rain ponchos from one of them, but decided we didn’t need them. We rather quickly found out that we would’ve needed to acquired tickets in advance to enter any of the closer entrances, so we returned back to the area that we had originally gone to. Even though our mission had failed, it was still nice to walk around. It helped keep us warm, and it was definitely better than sitting all day. However, we couldn’t help but notice a strange and discomforting phenomenon. Seemingly every time we passed a Trump supporter, they would stare at us, look up and down, and then quickly glance away in contempt. The signal was clear: this was their day of celebration, and we were intruding on it.
I felt the need to revert to processes I thought I had left in the closet. I lowered my voice an octave and kept one hand in my pocket, the other holding Kiran’s as I tried to act like a devoted boyfriend to her. I never, ever, want to pass as a Trump supporter, but I also didn’t want to be such a visible target. In the moment, I was overwhelmingly grateful to be living in New York City, a place where I never feel such pressure. But at the same time, I couldn't help but wonder: is this how things are going to be now? And while I logically knew that such pervasive homophobia would likely never find its way into the streets of Lower Manhattan, my heart still ached for all the kids who lacked such security. It was terrifying enough to come to terms with my sexuality during the same time that LGBTQ+ rights began their rise as a mainstream issue. I remember lieing in bed every day after school, plugging in Born This Way, and letting the war rage on in my head: who should I listen to? Lady Gaga telling me “I’m beautiful in my way,” or the pundits on Fox News or implications of my religion -- I can’t choose this, I must change. The fear that I felt during that period in my life was at times paralyzing if not traumatic. While wondering if the contempt of the Trump supporters around us were about to become the new status quo, I wanted to shout to all the kids in small towns wrestling with their marginalized identities: it will be okay. I’m here for you. We’re here for you.
We once again entered the parade route. We went through security again, once again they were confused but ultimately allowed my Illy coffee. The scene was still quiet, but this time when we were greeted by two girls carrying cardboard protest signs in support of immigrants. Seeing them was like taking a giant sigh of relief: it was the first confirmation that we were not alone in our despise.
It soon became clear that it would, in fact, rain later that day. Since security had taken our umbrellas, we decided it would be in our best interest to leave the parade route again and buy some ponchos. It took about 15 seconds outside the perimeter for us to find someone selling ponchos, and immediately we turned back around. We went to the same entrance as last time, except this time I was one line to the left from the one I had used last time. This security guard wouldn’t let me take in my iced coffee; I asked if she could ask for a second opinion since I had already taken it in several times. She curtly replied no. It was slightly jarring; even though we’d gotten mean looks, we hadn’t actually been treated with any disrespect yet. Later, as we noticed all the other parade attendees who had been allowed to bring in their umbrellas, we couldn't help but wonder if we had been subjected to some sort of discrimination.
We were finally ready to settle down and wait for the parade. We found a ledge next to some stairs and got comfortable on Kiran’s blanket. And then we waited. And waited. And waited.
It wasn’t long until a mother and her young son joined us on the ledge. She told us they were from Utah and had come to DC to witness history. Her little boy was adorable; he was just old enough to be aware that something big was happening, but not quite old enough to understand the details or the magnitude. We continued talking for a brief yet entirely pleasant period of time, making shallow, universally true commentary: yes, this election was insane; yes, today will be historical. While it was our political beliefs were probably self-evident, we still wanted to avoid saying anything too revealing; we were here to witness, not to fight.
Yet all around us were those willing to shout.
The first shouts we heard came from protesters. They were a relatively small group, but warranted our attention on the basis that they were first. As they marched in front of us in a conga-esque procession, they filled our ears with the chants that anyone involved with any sort of protest and/or activism since the election would be familiar: “No Trump, No KKK, No fascist USA,” “This is what democracy looks like,” “hey hey, ho ho, Donald Trump has got to go.” Many of them carried signs with them: some makeshift cardboard signs with slogans hastily markered on, some carried an updated version of Shepard Fairey’s updated “Hope” posters that now had red-white-and-blue images of minority women; one woman captured the sentiment of most of the protestors: “ugh, UGH, UGH!” We smiled at them as they passed by; they were in a way a pleasant surprise. Given that Washington DC is a decidedly liberal city, it probably shouldn’t have been a surprise to see others there to express their dissent, but at the same time nothing was really a given anymore.
Of course, as the day went on the number of Trump supporters increased. And of course, the quickest indication of their presence was their red hats. Some of them looked like official Trump merchandise, others were obviously foreign-made knockoffs that they had purchased from the vendors by the entrance. Some of them were jubilant in their enthusiasm for Trump, as the day went on they wavered closer and closer to their fence with their phones clutched in their hand. Nothing could metaphorically ‘rain on their parade,’ not even rain itself. Others were decidedly more toned down in their support. The ‘bros’ of the Trump movement all mingled together -- put a beer in their hands and remove some of the contextual clues and it might as well have been a laid-back tailgate before a baseball game. Some came angry and prepared to counter the protestors, bringing their own signs in support of Trump and against Hillary. With the election already long-over and the outcome more than clear, it was perplexing why they still felt the need to attack the person they already had victory over. Was it an over-compensation to the fact Trump lost the popular vote? Or was it a way to justify voting for a man who captures all the -isms and -phobics “because her emails?” Meanwhile, a select few took the opportunity to troll or turn the whole thing into a joke. One pro-Trump protester carried a sign with Pepe the frog dressed as Trump. The innocent internet-meme turned symbol of the alt-right shows the undesirable effects of the ‘democratization’ and virtual communities provided by the digital age, as well as the alt-rights ability to be both reactionists and provocateurs -- their mastery of the art of ‘trolling’ via incendiary remarks is a powerful tool for them, allowing them to corner liberals into acting like ‘triggered snowflakes.’
Despite the manifestation of political polarization occurring right before our eyes, we never once felt a sense of immediate danger from the crowd. With both Marines and police officers lining the entirety of the route, it was clear that it wouldn’t be in the interest of anyone to incite any trouble. That was, until my mom texted me to be safe because of the protests. At first I thought she meant the cock-block brigade and thought she was being ridiculous, but then a quick scroll the Twitter showed the images of the anarchists going through the street. They were just several blocks away, and suddenly the weird booms we had heard earlier and the repeated reminders to be safe that played through the speakers took on a more ominous connotation. We knew that we were safe while inside the perimeter, but were praying that the conflict would be resolved by the time we had to leave.
Eventually, after hours of waiting that felt like several days, the inauguration finally began. At first, we tried to watch along on a YouTube livestream on my phone, but quickly gave up when it mismatched the speakers playing the audio of the event. We resigned to just listening, sitting in solemn silence as the ritual began. As Mike Pence was sworn in, the joy from two days prior had almost entirely dissipated: this was no longer a cute community bonding activity, this was real. The progress of the past several years flashed before my eyes as it became abundantly clear that all of was now in question. Marriage equality, the defining policy advocated by LGBT activists, was achieved through a Supreme Court case and never properly codified into law -- depending on who Trump nominates and the cases they chose to review, this milestone in the LGBT movement could be taken away in with only a fraction of the time and effort it took to achieve it.
Then Trump delivered his Inaugural Address. He described a harrowing image of America, one that more closely resembles the Urban Plight of New York City in the 1970s than the reality of the city today. Kiran and I made eye contact with our jaws dropped, incredulous at this alternate universe Trump was describing. We were less terrified at his speech, and more at the fact that so many in the country would believe it. The image of America that his speech conjured was vastly different than the America we knew; the concern was whether this was a statement of how things were/are, or a prophecy of what they will become.
After the inauguration itself finished, we continued waiting for the parade in a stunned silence. We were cold, we were hungry, and we were tired. I became increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of eating warm soup wrapped in blankets, or of a sunny day on the beach where I could just take a nap and not worry about anything. I wanted to escape into comfort and innocence, into a state of mind where I wouldn’t have to face this harsh new reality of a Fear-Based New World. There were many times I wanted to just break down and cry. How did we let this happen? What would the atmosphere had been like had Hillary won? It was too much to handle; too much mental and physical stimulation for my exhausted and malnourished body.
My escapist fantasies were constantly interrupted by a trio of Trump siblings who can best be described as brats. They youngest was probably in Kindergarten, the oldest in fourth/fifth grade. We first noticed them as they played in the grass adjacent to the ledge we were perched on. As they ran around each other, we were both mildly amused and annoyed at their consistent screeching. This quickly escalated into an utter exasperation. Our ledge had now been filled with both Trump supporters and protesters; one older woman carried a sign above her head saying “Fraud,” the woman behind her kept peering over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t missing anything important. Yet the kids took a small opening on the ledge as an open invitation for them to join. As they fumbled up and onwards, they kept bumping into me. The kids were entirely oblivious of the space they occupied: to them, the world was still entirely their playground to conquer. Their father was in the crowd standing by the fence; he was most likely aware that they were bothering all of us, but he didn’t care. They were just kids, just ‘boys being boys.’ As the afternoon went on, the boys just got louder. They made fun of the liberal protestors signs, repeating sound bites straight from Bill O’Reilly’s mouth, speaking as if they had some sort of expertise on foreign policy or the economy. Hearing their jaunts felt like getting mansplained to by someone a third your age, yet their unchecked confidence meant that there was no way they’d ever accept the possibility of being wrong let alone under informed. This all came off as an obvious grab for attention, yet whenever someone stopped to aim their camera at them they would scream their objections. It was clear they self-imposing a sense of spectacle about them, but they couldn’t decide whether it was to one of celebrating victory, of mocking the losers, or of an ostracized victim of underrepresentation. Regardless, it was inexplicably annoying, and they made me grateful to never have to worry about an unplanned pregnancy.
Finally, after a second eternity had passed, the parade finally began. As we waited for the display to pass us, the crowd was jolted into a final sprint of energy. Across the street, a group of Trump supporters were cheering “USA;” later, they tried getting a back-and-forth cheer with fellow Trump supporters on the other side. Protestors began adding in their voice with their own collection of chants, and the whole thing began to feel like the beginning of a homecoming football game between local rivals. Except here, the stakes were higher: this was real life, and everything said would sting a little longer. It wasn’t banter that would dissipate at the afterparty; it was indicative of a rift between opposing views that feels increasingly irreconcilable. The woman behind the protest with the fraud sign was now vocalizing her anger -- she came all this way to get a photo of President Trump, and goddamnit she was going to get one. The “Fraud” protester was steadfast, convinced that Trump would see her sign in particular and finally feel ashamed for his words and actions. Kiran and I cast a quick glance at each other, fearful that after a day of remarkably peaceful coexistence this would be the tipping point. In the final moments as Trump’s limo approached, she quickly ducked under the “Fraud” sign to get her photo. Crisis averted.
As the trucks carrying the cameras in front of Trump & Co.’s limos became visible, I raised my own camera in anticipation. I captured the protestors and the supporters in their chants before focusing on the approaching vehicles. My attention was split between the screen of my DSLR and of the physical events in front of me. I thought to myself, as I often do whenever I’m at something that feels of particular significance, that I can’t wait to one day show this video to my grandchildren -- to be able to provide a documentation that I was there, this is what it was like, and to hope they never have to feel the same uncertainty as I did on that day.
When Trump himself drove past us, time seemed to stop for a moment and the air somehow got colder. The Trump supporters screamed and waved their flags. The woman behind us shouted “Fraud! Fraud” and shaked her sign. The other woman compulsively pressed on the shutter button of her point-and-shoot. The brats next to us were the loudest, using all of their blessed youthful energy to support this man whose policies will greatly affect their futures. Kiran muttered an “oh my god” under her breath. I kept filming. I could barely make out Trump’s silhouette in his limousine, but we could all clearly see Barron Trump in the one that followed. His hands and face were pressed against the glass, and I pitied him. He’s barely older than the kids next to us, but now has to somehow manage being the son of one of the most polarizing figures in the world right now. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his head as he saw the crowd: was he in awe of all those there in support of his father, or was he in shock of all the signs so vehemently protesting him?
Other important figures in Washington continued immediately afterwards. As the speaker announced Nancy Pelosi, the crowd erupted into boos. Kiran and I cheered, but we were no match. As the kids next to us quieted down, I overheard one say: “I hate her.” Another asked, “who is she?” I shuddered at the thought of a country that knows that it believes but doesn’t know why, a critique that applies to those all along the political spectrum.
Immediately after the parade ended, Kiran and I were ready to go home. As we walked back to the exit, some of the protestors were continuing their shouts. The exits each had just one small opening to let people out, and as the crowd bottlenecked I held my breath and kept a watchful eye on Kiran. When we finally made our way out, I was on high alert. There was hostility in the air and I wanted to avoid provocation at all costs. I just wanted to get back to the comfort of Kiran’s dorm.
When we finally made it back to American University, we headed straight for the dining hall. I kept my jacket on for our entire meal, unable to shake the freezing chill of the day. Afterwards we took showers, and as the hot water thawed my body it revealed an utterly exhausted near-corpse. We decided to take a nap before we headed out for the evening. I desperately wanted to go to a 18+ gay club that night, because “who knew how much longer us gays would be allowed to have fun now,” a joke that wasn’t really a joke anymore.
It was a wonderful decision. Kiran helped me perfect my makeup for the evening. I had begin exploring wearing makeup because it makes me feel pretty; that night, it felt entirely empowering. My glittery eyeshadow was like a signal to the world -- this little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine. The dance floor that night was a church of liberation, the music like gospel hymns to my ears, the sweat of our bodies our communion. So much of the past few days had led me to restricting myself; that night, I was free.
It was a much needed inflection point to my time in D.C.
On Inauguration Day, everything felt cold, damp, and overbearing. And while the forecast for the Women’s March did not differ much in numbers, the atmosphere was radiating a warm, electric aura. Our Metro ride to the Inauguration Parade was quiet and eerily empty; we kept our eyes to the floor out of disappointment and a desire to avoid confrontation. The Metro on the morning of the march, on the other hand, was packed; at one point our car joined together in a sing-along of “Doe a Deer” from the Sound of Music. The trepidation of the day prior was entirely gone. Now, the anger that is inherently present in the act of protest was mingling the uplifting emotions brought by community. As we walked the several blocks from the closest Metro stop we could get to (the ones actually closest to the protest were being skipped because the stations were too full), I once again couldn’t help but smile. The circumstances that had brought us all together were disappointing if not terrifying, but not even that could diminish the joy that resulted from our bond.
As we reached the National Mall, we had no sense of meaningful direction. We knew that there were speakers and a stage somewhere, but not the slightest idea of where that may be. So, we followed the crowd. The crowd took us to the middle of the Mall, right in between the Washington Monument and the Capitol Building. We decided this would be a good place to stop for a moment and absorb our surroundings.
I was acutely aware that this was an historical moment, one of the key times in my life that I would someday tell my grandchildren about. And even though the audiovisual stimulation of the people around me should’ve been overwhelming, I still felt entirely calm. I looked at the obelisk in front of me, how it the off-white stones began to blend in with the clouds. I thought of the chant that I first heard when marching through the streets of Manhattan the night after election, and that I had heard at several occasions the past week: “This is what democracy looks like.”
I turned around to see the Capitol Building and was brought back to my eighth grade field trip to D.C We had rushed to take a group panoramic photo in front before beginning our tour. And then I remember how on that same field trip we saw some Occupy Wall Street Protestors, and I vaguely remember someone making jokes at their expense. I was in the midst of questioning not just my sexuality but my entire identity, yet even then I was not compelled to question the innocence of America. Despite the constant criticism of President Obama that Fox News aired nightly into my family’s living room, at that time in my life I saw no reason to question America’s Greatness.
A marching band had walked up next to us and began playing Beyonce’s Crazy in Love. I think it’s impossible to hear those first notes without the urge to strut the fiercest walk of your life overcoming your body. Somehow Beyonce has transposed her cool confidence into those blaring horns, and every time I gladly permit her spirit to enter my body. It was too cramped to strut in this environment, so instead I channeled her energy into an admittedly awkward flailing of the arms and pulsating of my chest. I sang along to the “Uh-oh, uh-oh, oh no no’s,” and, much like the night before, I felt a spiritual release. How liberating it is to dance without feeling judged for the shape of my body, the color of my lipstick, the limpness of my wrists, the inflation of my gay voice. How emancipating it is to be entirely yourself after years of self-repression. The compliments of strangers of my makeup was a pardoning of the self-guilt that I had stored up my entire adolescence. I had grown up with a fear of being attacked for my identity, but today I was universally accepted. The first day of Trump’s Presidency should have felt more grim and disparaging; I had expected myself to feel more angry and scared. Instead, I felt ecstasy as I discharged the demons of my youth that had once made themselves all too comfortable in the confines of my closeted soul.
Kiran and I decided we wanted a photo to document our presence. We asked two girls who looked like they would be tech-savvy enough to be take a picture on a DSLR; they produced what is without contest my all-time favorite photograph in which I am a subject. In it, Kiran and I are mugging while we hold up our cards. Mine identifies my crime with the words “GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHT,” Kiran’s stance is more universal statement of the same general concept, “RESPECT EXISTENCE OR EXPECT RESISTANCE.” Both of our signs were inspired by those we had seen sometime earlier that week. My lips are a bright red -- the color of passion, the color of sin. The words “LOVE TRUMPS HATE’ adorn my cheek. My hair is freshly bleached blonde, a move that my mother discouraged because she supposedly thought “it’d make me look washed out,” which I interpret as coded language for, “a male bleaching his hair might be considered too effeminate.” Kiran’s beautiful, curly, uncut hair is in a ponytail. Her silver eyeshadow shimmers ever so slightly from this perspective. She has her fake nose piercing on her right nostril. I can’t tell if we look angry or just tired, but the determinism in our eyes is unmistakable. The Capitol Building looms in the background, out of focus but still identifiable by its distinct shape. American flags sag from balcony, and the perfectly gray sky harbors over the home of our most prestigious laboratory of legislation. Yet even then, I look at this photo and I’m instantly filled with hope; I can’t help but ponder the tantalizing idea that we are the future. It may have drizzled on Inauguration Day, but we are a hurricane.
We then continued to mull about the Mall, slowly but surely making our way back to the Metro. Some of the signs we saw made us laugh: “Mike Pence Likes Nickelback” is a humiliating insult that’s comical its absurdity captures the similar absurdity of the day prior. A sign saying “Trump is a FART” produced the same effect. Some made us remember that protesting is a patriotic act; that the right to assemble is at the very foundations of our country. One sign updated the iconic “Don’t Tread on Me” political cartoon from the Articles of Confederation to say “Don’t TRUMP on US,” the snake now overimposed upon a rainbow flag. Others called out Trump for his misconducts, with countless signs condemning him for his comments indicating sexual harassment. Still yet, others were heartbreaking. One woman carried a sign saying “My suffragette grandmother marched for equality and respect. She thought that I wouldn’t have to.” And yet others still filled me with an innocent sense of hope: a young black girl riding on her father’s shoulders carrying a sign with a photo of a girl who looks just like her that has the saying “Women are perfect” on the top. In her other hand she carries a poster of Shepard Fairey’s red, white, and blue portrait of a Muslim woman, underneath it is written “We the People are greater than fear.” We walked past the Supreme Courthouse, the very institution that I had come to revere the year prior in my government class for how effective it is in protecting civil rights. The steps were packed with people carrying signs and screaming the chants of the movement. I took a video in which the crowd is screaming “We’re ready to go;” I respond “We’re Fired Up!” I was glad to have spent several years in choir, because I knew my voice would’ve been long gone by now if I wasn’t so well-instructed in how to project it.
The rest of the day was probably the most stressful part of my time in D.C: traffic was terrible as protesters left the event. I hopped out of my Uber to Union Station in the middle of Downtown only to realize how futile it was to hope to take the Metro to save time. My phone was at 6% as a I frantically called my parents in desperation and ordered another Uber. I missed my train but, by the grace of God, got one of the last tickets on the next one(and didn’t have to pay any fees! Go Amtrak!). By the time I boarded the train, I was exhausted. I hadn’t eaten dinner and had barely slept in 5 days. An incredibly delightful woman sat next to me, and I was glad to have someone I felt I could trust to watch my belongings as I went to the dining car for a much needed meal. My nose was already beginning to feel stuffy -- the beginning of a cold that would become my penance the following week for putting my body through such abuse.
I started my story by describing my love for a girl. But now, I must correct myself. For Kiran is no girl, but rather an incredible woman. As I flip back through my photos of the weekend and the snapshots that exist only in my mind, I’m filled with imagery that makes me eternally grateful for her wisdom, her grace, her patience, and her passion. I look back, and I can’t help but be overwhelmed by gratitude that I got to spend such an incredible week. Not because I was in the middle of our nation’s capitol during a moment that could very well serve as an inflection point in the direction of our nation, but because I got to spend it with her by my side. There’s very few people that I’m comfortable spending time alone with. The closet produced a terrible social anxiety within me, and I learned to dread one-on-one time with the kids from my church for feeling they would want a ‘deep conversation’ for me to reveal something intimate about myself. My intimacy was always that I feared I was too much a perfectionist; the truth was that such ‘perfectionism’ stemmed from a fact I feared ever slipping up in my presentation of self.
And that’s the strange irony of being a young adult under Trump’s Administration. As we begin to define ourselves and our identities, as we enter into the terrifying prospects of adulthood while at the same relishing in our newfound independence, as we finally escape the confinement of high school, we do so with someone who challenges such sentiments. For the first time in my life, I feel safe and at ease with myself. For the first time in my life, I feel free. Yet at the same time, I’m more scared for our country than ever, and not a week goes by without questioning the future of my rights. It’s a cruel cosmic contradiction that has caused sleepless nights of anxiety as much as it has late nights of young freedom. Yet, despite all the pressures and struggles that I’ve become all too aware of — I still have hope. I remind myself that I survived, thrived even, as I questioned my identity in middle school. It was through such deep investigation that I learned to define myself, and ultimately ended up better off because of it. And I have a faith, perhaps naive but a faith nonetheless, that our country will do the same.