Here's how the peaceful transfer of power is supposed to work.
Here's how the peaceful transfer of power is supposed to work.
Inauguration Day 2013
When people find out that I served a term in Congress, the first question usually asked is: “What is it really like to serve in Congress?” After much coaching from my wife, Annette, who’s far more politically savvy than I, the usual answer is “It was a great honor to be elected to serve.” More bullshit to follow.
The real answer is that it’s far more complicated than that. It’s a real double-edged sword. Some terrific opportunities to work on important life changing policies. Opportunities to meet and work with incredibly interesting people. And some of the most mind-numbing, boring and generally unpleasant tasks in the world. Like calling people a couple hours a day to ask for money for your re-election campaign. Or sitting though hours of sub-committee hearings listening to “the esteemed lady or gentleman from whatever state” mouth political posturing that has nothing to do with the burning question you want to ask, but have to wait til hell freezes over because you’re a freshman with zero seniority so your question must wait until it’s your turn. Returning to freshman status as a sixty-something year-old retired general is not easy.
People don’t really want to hear about those things, so I generally don’t even try to tell them what it was really like. Instead I say something like: “Let me tell you what the coolest thing I go to do. A few days after my swearing in ceremony, I took part in Barack Obama’s second inaugural.”
Here I am, standing eight rows up from the President of the United States, Barack Obama, as he’s being sworn into office for the second time.
A million people standing in front of us. One out of every three hundred people in this nation, watching as the reins of power of our democracy are assumed.
Bill and Hilary. George W. and Laura. George H.W. and Barbara. The justices of the Supreme Court. Unbelieveable. A boy from the cornfields with raggedy kneed jeans and worn out sneakers, with dirty sleeved tee-shirts from swiping the summer sweat standing there in the freezing Washington DC January air, as folks you only see on TV mingle, shake hands and kiss cheeks as a million citizens watch.
Peaceful transfer of power. No buses burning in the streets. Plenty of security, but no crackling of gunfire. No tanks belching diesel and death.
One lone protester, perched in a tree, hundreds of feet from the Capitol steps, screaming indecipherably about abortion. Capitol police ignoring him. Properly diagnosing that sooner or later he’ll get cold and/or hoarse and come down or shut up. He does.
Annette really has a better view of the ceremony than I. She’s sitting third row from the stage. Dead center in front of the speaker’s podium. The seats reserved for spouses of Senators, Congressmen, Cabinet members and other worthies. A terrific thrill for me to be able to bring her here. To have her witness history.
It’s particularly a thrill because I’d had to cancel taking her to President’s first inauguration. In January 2009 I was in my second year as the Adjutant General, or commander, of the Illinois National Guard. In that position, I’d come to know Senator Dick Durbin and his staff. After Obama’s 2008 election, I asked Durbin’s office for tickets to the inauguration, they came through. Annette had her wardrobe planned down to shores and jewelry when I realized I couldn’t go.
Here we have the first black man elected president of the United States. I’d lived through the turbulence of the 60’s as a teenager and remembered well the thinly covered racism, the pistol shots of Memphis and the beatings of Selma. “God forbid what happens if Obama is assassinated. Chicago will go up.”
“Annette, I have to be in the command center in Springfield, in case something happens,” I told her. Bitterly disappointed, but understanding, she agreed that I needed to be where I could direct a response should something go very, very wrong.
I called my staff together, told them I wanted a contingency plan. Inauguration Day 2009 we watched the ceremony separately. I, in my command center, surrounded by computer screens, crackling radios with CNN ticking events, dressed in camo uniform and boots. She sipping tea and honey in the comfort of home.
Fast forward back to Inauguration Day 2013. Several rows back from Annette, back with the big donors, the folks who can call the Congressman and get the VIP seats, sits younger son, Alex. Third-year law student, campaign workhorse, parade marcher, sign deliverer and occasional speaker when Dad, the candidate, has schedule conflicts. Ushered to his seat by Karl, the long-time Congressional office manager, who’d served my predecessor for two decades. Karl, who knew every closet in the Capitol, announcing every few steps: “Congressman’s son here,” all the while waving the precious red cardboard strips entitling them to entrance to the VIP seats, importantly pushing past lines of people and nodding to security.
Karl, after decades of service as a Congressional staffer in the Capitol, knew exactly how to maneuver people through the halls of power and chaos of huge public ceremonies. I’d given Karl the VIP seat next to Alex, knowing that he would keep an eye on him and ensure that Alex survived the crush of the throngs.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned the depth of gratitude for that ticket. Karl, a black man, was thrilled to be within a baseball throw of the stage as our nation’s first black president was inaugurated for the second time. He and Alex clapped, cheered and high fived their neighbors as the ceremony concluded. It wasn’t until I was leaving office two years later, that Karl, with just a hint of bitterness, said to me, “Congressman, I want you to know how much I appreciated that VIP inaugural ticket you gave me. I was never even given a general admission ticket to President Obama’s first inauguration.”
I just stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. The military maxim of “take care of your soldiers, and they’ll take care of you,” so deeply engrained in me that I couldn’t imagine not including one of my team. Half a decade after leaving office and leaving him without a job, Karl still calls occasionally to see how “the Judge” and I are doing.
(c) William L. Enyart
www.billenyart.com
E-mail: bill@billenyart.com