I’m Not There: observations from the inaugurations

‘Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood / When blackness was a virtue…

I didn’t wake at 6am to face the winter’s dim dawn. I would leave the capital and its grand tradition of peaceful power to the deep chill of fridged temperatures and unforgiving winds. I pulled the bed covers higher and rolled over onto my left side.

Eight years ago I threaded my camera through the Virginia Avenue crowds to enter the mall and climb that shining monument on the hill. A crowd of hundreds (no more) ringed the giant vision. They clapped as their leader took an oath in light hard rain. Protected by red hats and slogans, we listened intently as a proclamation ended our American carnage.

This time, I watched the rebirth of rage cast shadows in my TV. A woman wore a wide brim hat that sheltered her eyes. A line of statesmen looked deep into their hands without words or answers.

Eight years ago I threaded my way as we descended onto the DC streets with a glorious jeering of pride. I filmed a lady holding a Latino for Trump sign. I heard a man taunt Michael Moore. Sandy Hook was a set up. Further along, we burned a black limo and threw rocks at cops. They stepped forward slowly, scared and wearing riot gear.

I saw gunshop swords in the hands of young hipsters.

I saw a land full of men, their tongues worked like hammers.

This is what America looked like.

This time, I cleaned house, only looking up to watch the man mumbling words to the nation’s anthem. I’m not there, I’m here; I’m now part of the invisible revolution.

This is what American looks like.

Am I wrong?