eight years gone

Eight years ago, around this time, I was sitting on a bus in the lot by the Pentagon, full mostly of people I hadn’t met until a few days prior. I had traveled to DC with a small group of fellow Chicagoans to join the Lesbian & Gay Bands of America as they marched in the inaugural parade. The LGBA was the first openly gay organization to be invited to march in the parade.

The band was made of of members of bands from across the country. Many of the participants were old friends, from years of attending national conventions and events together. For some, like me, this was the first time participating at the national level. But it didn’t matter if it was your day 1 or day 1000 with the LGBA, everyone was immediately your new best friend.  

The whole event was grueling -- long days, endless practices, freezing weather, lots of time on your feet. You’re exhausted, you haven’t been sleeping well, all you’ve been doing is traveling and go go go, but it’s full of memories I’ll treasure:

• The cheers and tears on the bus whenever an NPR broadcaster announced that Obama was officially the 44th President of the United States.
  
• Listening, with hushed awe, as Obama addressed the nation for the first time as President.
  
• Playing “Ode to Joy” with a group of 100+ people of all ages, races, ethnicities, genders, sexualities. Bursting into tears, because for the first time in eight years, so many people could finally see a future that included hope and change and equality.
  
• Turning the corner to march down the main stretch of the route, past the Presidential reviewing stand. It was so cold, and so late. We were in one of the last segments to march, so by the time we came through the city, much of the crowd had dispersed. The spotlights were blinding, and the whole time you’re marching, you’re only thinking: “don’t fuck it up”. Stay in line, play the song, march straight forward.
  
  But you can’t help but sneak a look up at the President as you’re going past. And even though the crowds were largely gone, even though Obama probably could have been phoning it in by that point, he was still up there. You could see him, and Michelle, and the Bidens, watching us as we passed. Smiling at us, waving. Actually paying attention. Michelle even grooved a little with the music.
  
  And you don’t think it means much, you know? it’s such a simple, trivial thing. But it does. It really does. Knowing that the President saw you, acknowledged you, for just even the briefest of seconds.

Here are two last thoughts: one from my own journal that I kept during the event, and one from the LGBA’s artistic director for the parade:

Me, traveling into DC:

I wound up sitting next to a young woman from Kenya and an older gentleman from California.  Everyone was talking about what their plans were for the inauguration, and when I mentioned that I was marching with the LGBA, the gentleman was visibly moved and excited by the fact that the LGBT community was going to be represented in the parade.  He insisted on taking my photo, wanting to be able to say that he had met someone who was going to be representing the LGBT community in front of the new President and the country.
 The importance of what I was taking part in really started to hit me then.  Here’s a stranger, who I’ve never met, whose name I didn’t even know, telling me how proud he was to know that an openly-gay band had been selected to march in the parade.  This is not just your average high school or college band, representing their state or school system or anything like that.  This is a band of people from across the country from all walks of life, putting a public face onto the LGBT community.  We have the potential to touch the lives of so many people just from our participation in this event.

From the parade’s artistic director:

When [we] were finished with our mandatory meeting on Monday evening, we were approached by a series of uniformed military personnel who wanted to shake our hands and wish us luck. At first, I attributed this all to good relationship management but it seemed that we were being approached by more folks than was strictly necessary for that, and I began to realize what these people were really saying to us.
 And then, as we went to leave, one more young man chased us down the hallway so that he wouldn't miss his chance to shake our hands and wish us well. There was an intensity to his well wishes that moved me past simple realization to a much deeper understanding of what our performance was going to mean for people who cannot live their lives as openly as I do in my protective bubble of San Francisco.
 I made it to the Metro train before I started crying.

I’m sad and scared for many reasons about what’s going to happen to this country, but I am sad, deep down to my bones, that we’re saying goodbye to a president who -- even though he was not perfect, even though he did many things I disagreed with -- still tried to see all of us as human, as American, as worthy of care and love and thought and dignity. I am sad that we’re saying goodbye to a President who found obvious joy in a scrappy, rag-tag marching band, pulled together at the last minute, with 12 hours of practice, silver jackets, and itchy wool berets.