January 19th 2009 was a cold day, with an alternating sky playing peek-a-boo with the sun. My favorite uncle, Jimmy, had flown to Washington, DC from San Francisco and I drove down with my girlfriend from Philadelphia. President Obama was to be sworn in the next day as the first African American President of the United States.
Two generations of my family were coming together to attend the most historic event of our lifetimes. As kids both of us had lived under and believed wholeheartedly, as Black men, we would never see this day. The other thing we had in common was that we were both raised by our grandmother and great-grandmother, respectively and she was our “Ma.” We met that evening both trying hard not to well up with tears. We contemplated the history we were about to witness in less than twenty-four hours and the sacrifices made by our ancestors to reach this point. Almost as if prompted, we looked at each other and it dawned on us to visit “Ma’s” gravesite and let her know her perseverance and struggle was about to be realized.
For two Black men who had seen the heartache in her eyes, when she would explain to us some things in life would be limited, this was a powerful day. We adored her and we both knew that if she could have hugged or kissed away the reality of racism, her love would have squeezed us to death. We hopped in my car and drove out to her grave site in Maryland. That was hallowed ground for us. Our Ma, was the matriarch of three generations and it is not melodramatic to say, my family would not exist without her.
We pulled up to the cemetery and found the above ground grave site of Ma and her son whose body was housed next to her. Old memories flooded our minds, Thanksgiving smells, Sunday morning breakfast with homemade biscuits before church and the smell of the sweet talc she wore.
We took pictures of the Obama paraphernalia we had bought with her mausoleum plaque as the backdrop. We prayed and both spoke to her. I remember my uncle saying, “you may not have lived long enough to see this, but we are here for you.” I remember the feeling of an icy tear on my cheek as we both touched the raised etching of her name and her son on their plaques.
The next morning was as cold as I had ever remembered in my hometown. The radio said it was six degrees, the time was 5 AM. We had gotten up before sunrise to make our way to the Mall because of the expected huge crowd. My uncle’s niece, who is my cousin had rented a van to take as many members of our family who wanted to attend. We picked up my youngest sister, her niece and with my girlfriend, uncle and me we packed into the van. After arriving within about 8 blocks of the staging area we had to walk the rest of the way due to the heavy security. We stood in the cold for 5 hours, dancing in place, making small talk and drinking lots of hot chocolate.
It was noon, the moment had finally arrived and with no sun to warm us we were frozen inside our layers of clothing, long underwear, parkas, hoodies and multiple gloves. The Mall area was lined with huge video monitors, so those not within eyeshot, could see the President-elect up-close. After a few speeches, a song by Aretha Franklin, the clouds broke as if ordered by Steven Spielberg and stepping into the bright sunlight to be sworn in as the first African American President of the United States of America was Barack Hussein Obama. I wept, tears freezing before they could fall to the ground. My uncle whom I had not seen shed a tear since the death of “Ma” cried. His overcoat tail flapping and a worn S.F Giants baseball cap bravely holding onto his head against the harsh, cold wind. He looked over at me and we both realized the tears were just as much for those who were not there as for the new President.
Vote 2016!