We went into the city on Monday night to avoid the early-morning crowds.
We got up at a very early hour with our friends to walk down to the Mall and claim a spot about 100 feet in front of the Washington Monument.
When it was all over, we spent almost two hours trying to get back to the neighborhood we started from. At one point, I got so overheated that I took off my two pairs of gloves, both my hoods, and my hat. The wind and the cold burned my face and everyone laughed at how knotted and matted my permanent bedhead had gotten over the course of the morning.
But it didn’t hit me until later. We had seats on a packed train home, and my roommate–half black, a victim if so much blatant, ignorant racism in the short time we have lived together, let alone in her whole life–said to me with a giant smile, “I can’t believe Barack Obama is our president.”
Did it mean more to her than it did to me? I don’t know.
I shook my head. “Me either.”