I went alone, and left alone, but I've never been with a larger group of friends in my life.
When I first arrived, the crowd was mostly watching CNN on jumbotrons. I was listening to NPR, as well.
Occasionally someone would just arrive, and ask me what the electoral projections were so far. I'd give them the CNN total, but I'd also give them the NPR projections that were coming in first. Pennsylvania. New Mexico. And when the CNN PROJECTION flashed across the screen, the crowd would throw up their hands and cheer, because Obama had fewer electoral votes to go, and for the dreams of a nation to be realised.
I did a bit of wandering around, and decided to stop when I was behind an old man who was trying to take pictures with his cell phone. He was not the most proficient, but he was getting the job done. He stood there, alone. Bundled up in an old yellow windbreaker, a scarf, and a hat so old the colors had faded into a single, undiscernable grey. He was hunched over, partially due to the cold, but partially by a lifetime of work. Yet he was sending pictures to an unknown loved one, giving a glimpse of the magic he was seeing.
As it got later, and more and more projections rolled in, the crowd filled in, and the tension grew. Most people didn't realise it, but once Ohio fell to Obama, the race was over. The only thing that remained was for the polls to close in California, Washington, and Oregon to give him the majority of the 538 electoral votes in play. As the clock slowly ticked on, a gay hispanic man and his companion were trying to figure out what he needed to win. I told them Virginia had been called for Obama by NPR, but not yet CNN. They high fived, then hugged. 13 more votes of hope. I had just finished texting my sister that it was over, now, when the final polls closed.
CNN projects Barack Obama as the next President of the United States.
It wasn't even a second, but for maybe a third of a second, there was silence. No chatter among family or friends, no cell phone conversation. Just nothing.
And then it happened. The screams of a hope realised. The cheers of release. Of a thought that was impossible, but had now just happeend. Barack Obama is the next President of the United States.
A hundred thousand hands around me went up in unison, to match the chorus of voices.
A group of 4 Muslim girls, aged about 14, erupted. They took turns hugging each other, and screaming. Tears wet their faces, as one fell to the ground. Another girl pulled her up, and embraced her, refusing to let go until the moment was over.
A black woman of about 50 jumped up and down. But not just that. She held her face as she started to weep in the purest show of joy I've ever been witness to. She stopped jumping, and just stood there. Hands covering her face, but a smile so wide it could not be hidden by her hands. She turned to her family members: "We did it! We did it!"
I've never seen anything like it. I don't know if I ever will again. I doubt it. I don't think front row tickets to political realignment come along very often. The barrier of race will no longer be as strong. The road to success will never be as high. And millions of parents can tell millions of children, yes you can.
I'd like to say that I saw the galvanization of a generation tonight. But I don't think that's a fair statement. I think it's too limited, and too exclusive. I saw hundreds of years of oppression not washed away or forgotten, but overcome in a way so many thought would never be possible. I saw the apathy that supposedly classified the youngest generation as indifferent and useless, shattered by teenagers hugging their parents because they had all struck a blow for something they believed in. I saw rich and poor, black and white, young and old, together. And never have the words "United States of America" meant as much to me before as they did tonight.
And never before has it been so true.
Yes. We. Can.