What if?

Obama's coming tonight.

I had to park way down on Broadway, by the old railway station, across from 2nd Baptist to get to yoga. Every parking space was taken by 5:30 pm. I cut through the alley for a few blocks, padding across the bricks on my disintegrating eccos, carrying my yoga pants. The sun was setting. The whole town bathed in golden light. The old Bell South building lit up like the temple of Solomon, amber against the clear blue sky. It's warm this evening. People were drifting South along the streets towards campus. All sorts of people. There's this happy feeling in town--it feels quiet but charged. It feels like Easter morning, only a little more carnival.

After yoga, the sun had set, but the feeling in town was the same. Everyone I saw smiled at me and I smiled back. I got some ice cream (chocolate orange sorbet) and went across to the Dakota, called Jay from the house phone.

"I just called you." He said.

"I figured."

"Are you downtown? I feel one hundred years old. We were shooting in the woods all day--three miles in three miles back--boom jib camera all on my back. I don't know whether I'm cut out for this."

"Are you going to go to the rally?"

"No...that whole crowd thing..."

"Me either."

His phone went dead then and he hung up.

I went home. Lilly and I watched The Office. I went back to working on my research proposal.
Then, Lilly suddenly said, "I want to go."

"Go where?"

"To see Obama. I want to go."

I looked at her. Shrugged. "Okay. Let's go."

All the sudden she was on fire to leave, nagging us. "Come on. Hurry. "

"Jesus, Lilly."

Nick dropped us off. We started walking toward campus, getting caught up in the flow, the crowd, going faster and faster. I called Jay. "We decided to go."

He laughed. "Me, too!" I could hear the crowd over the phone. "I'm here, too! You won't be able to find me--but I'm here, too."

But we did find him. That's the funny thing about Jay and I. We always make the same decisions--turn right, turn left. We instinctually follow the same path. Jay took turns lifting Lilly and I up on his shoulders, and I could see Obama--far away.

It was a nice crowd. Easily 50,000 people. Everyone polite. Everyone happy. Good feeling. I hope he wins.

The thing is, though, with Obama, I always expect him to say something else. I don't know what it is. But somehow, I don't get what I expect. It doesn't move me. Maybe I'm cynical, maybe I'm tired. But the words don't roll. The words don't ring. Just about--but they never go over the top. Almost...almost...

Well, we'll see. I hope he wins. I hope he keeps his promises.

We need a lot. We need so much.

I want this to be the country of the kind. I want the hungry fed. I want there to be dignity for the poor. I want us to be reasonable. I want the hate to disappear. I want things to be...real again. I'm tired of turning on the television and seeing these fake lives. I'm tired of our aspirations centering on material gain instead of ideals. I want there to be earnest young men running around college campuses again. Where are all the earnest young men?

I don't know. I want change, but I'm afraid to even hope for it. Something in me has copped to the fact that politically, I don't count. That the best I can do is duck and cover, and scrape out some small place for me and mine.

What if things were fair again? What if that was the expectation? What if the poor weren't villified? What if? What if? What if one out of three people didn't get cancer? What if our sick were cared for? What if we woke up again to the conviction that if we wanted to, we could make a difference? What if we didn't have the inner certainty the cards were stacked against us from the beginning?

Interesting.

That's my 1/2 hour.

That's my 1/2 hour.

Homecoming

It was homecoming yesterday. Nick was marching and had to be dropped off at the crack of dawn at school. Lilly and I went to watch him. We parked down by the mosque (I get such a kick out of our town having a mosque--minarets are usually not part of the skyline in America, unless you're in Las Vegas. The folks that run it have a little store there, and they have non virgin olive oil for around 8 bucks/gallon. I use it for deep frying catfish. I hate to brag, but since this is anonymous I think it's safe: I make the best fried catfish in America. And since I don't think they're eating too much deep fried catfish anywhere else on the planet, I think it might be safe to say I make the best fried catfish in the world. That's just my opinion. And my family's. And everyone who's ever eaten it.
So, back to homecoming. The mosque is about5 blocks from the parade route. I like to watch it on 9th street, because there's a coffee shop right there I can duck into. It was a beautiful day--just perfect. 55 degrees, blue blue cloudless skies the leaves just starting to go golden. Lilly came with me, with her camera. She's at this phase where she's looking down on the mass culture. I'm a little dismayed by this because what I know that she doesn't is that cynicism is coat you borrow at first that you can't then take off with any ease. I mean, cynicism, the real nasty life sapping stuff will hit and strangle every sunny day eventually--why start so early? But both my children don't know that yet--they just want to be cool. So there she was, in an oversized grey cashmere sweater, cargo capris and, accidentally--a hat with the home team's logo on it. "Darn!" she said, "now they'll all think I actually care about this." We came to 9th street, in front of the Episcopal church, and we'd arrived just in time. We could hear the bands up the street and see the lights of the motorcycle cops leading the parade. And right there, in front of us, was my best friend from highschool, Heather.
Heather is 2 years older than me and we grew up together. Heather taught me to drive and how to put on mascara and, incidentally, how to roll a joint. Heather was the first of our group to do everything: the usual stuff. And she gave us enthusiastic reports from the front. She had a boyfriend that she really loved. (He's now a curator at the Guggenheim). Every beautiful loop cruising heart of saturday night wild lovely memory of my adolescence is due to Heather obligingly sticking me in the back of the car when she and her prettier friends went out on the town, Aerosmith blasting loud enough to damage your kidneys. When I moved back here I was really looking forward to striking up our friendship, but it didn't happen. We had lunch once, I think. Our daughters were the same age, but she never invited Lilly over. She cut off from everyone from high school, I found out. None of know why.
Last summer, her dad died, and while he was in the hospital for 3 weeks, accomplishing this, she called me almost every night. Late. We would talk and talk--about her dad, about everything. We used to do that in high school. Then he died. I went to the funeral with Jay and I remember thinking, well this is terrible, but at least Heather and I are friends again. But afterwards, I didn't hear from her. I left a few messages but my calls didn't get returned, so I gave up.
So there we were yesterday, watching the parade. I tried to point out Nick in the lineup, but couldn't find him. Just a sea of trumpets. Then we made fun of people going by, which is what we always used to do. She's really funny--skinny and blonde, pretty wrinkled now,--and she laughs at her own jokes which makes the whole thing funnier. She had her two boys with her, and they scrambled for candy with the other children, almost under the wheels of the oncoming floats.
Lilly was getting restless, so I said goodbye.
"We have to go to Ernie's."
"Happy birthday--the 23rd right?" she said.
"Yeah--41 can you believe it?"
"Well, you look 28."
"Thanks!"
"If you like, cover up that little pouchy thing under your chin---hahahahaha!"
"I thought my cleavage would distract from that." My lack of breasts has been an ancient joke.
"Now that it's by your belly button."
I flip her off and leave.