Inauguration and Women’s March on Washington

My brother Tyler and I arrived at the Baltimore airport Friday at 8 am. With an hour of sleep between us and minds foggier than the impermeable cloud cover, we bought tickets and barreled toward Washington in a MARC train. In winter, D.C. makes greyscale look festive; I imagine it is in compensation that the people are so colorful. They came from all around the country, like us. Plenty came from farther. I will not dwell here much on who supported whom. The colloquy is what I cared about. Over the course of the weekend, I saw a city with a population the size of Memphis double overnight with zealots dyed in different wool—twice the troops amassed at D-Day—and surprisingly, I saw peace.

There was anger, too, of course. One grew as accustomed to the sputter of vitriol from hateful hearts as to the shock of shells falling near one’s foxhole—which is to say not at all. I saw a young adult accost a family with an openly gay son (the party allegiances were not what they would seem). I saw a short fight ensue after a photographer pushed a biker for pestering a “snowflake.” It lasted twenty seconds before other bikers broke it up (another surprise). I saw the burning rubble near 14th and K and protesters’ stand-off with police, though I dodged the tear gas. Stories abounded of worse than anything I witnessed, and I have no reason to doubt them.

But one truth struck me often, darting as it did out of shadows and unexpected mouths. Perhaps it is a personal truth; nevertheless, it became my mantra: people are more interesting than their politics. Though our country technically hosts two parties, many of those on the guest lists attend the same ones in nothing but name. The true heterogeneity of our culture is lost in the thousands of miles’ sprawl of our land. Its scope exhausts our imaginations as quickly as our legs. Huddled in our corners, it is easy to classify “us” and “them.” But when we converge on the capital with our bannermen, we hardly know who to fight. Which candidate curried the favor of the Christian mystics who believe that churches are as evil as abortions? Which the anarcho-communists who want to impeach Trump and align more closely with Putin and China? These seem like extreme examples, but there were droves of both and sundry others.

In my mind, I had easily categorized people by who they voted for. But somewhere between my conversation with rambunctious Bikers for Trump at the inauguration and DisruptJ20 rioters later that night, my glass menagerie shattered. These two groups were more akin to one another in action than they were to their middle road allies.

I found even greater outliers in individuals. When I was lucky enough to have a thorough conversation with anyone, I often found them a strangely cut cookie.

I met an Indonesian woman named Elanese who came to the U.S. as an illegal immigrant forty years ago. She received her citizenship in 1980 thanks to Reagan’s amnesty bill. Originally she practiced Islam but later became a Seventh Day Adventist. Her hat said “Trump.” She wanted the wall, and she wanted amnesty for those already here. She had VIP seating at the inauguration thanks to her friend Jon Voight.

I met a fifty-year-old hostel manager named Mike who had joined the Army at seventeen. He grew up conservative on Florida’s Gulf Coast, but 1980s West Berlin swiftly liberated him. He fell in love with Europe, a girl here and there, and was surprised to find himself a stranger when he came home. The hustle and bustle of D.C., the passion and political activism that swept its streets, suited him. So he stayed.

I met a twenty-two year old Pennsylvanian named J.R. who had graduated with a degree in Chinese. His classmates elected him president. He quoted great authors and philosophers with the air of an erudite. He rolled blunts tirelessly (it is legal in D.C.). His parents, school, and state were all blue, but he managed to turn his district red working for the Trump campaign.

I never heard hateful words from any of these three people, and they did not bristle when others or I questioned their beliefs. The real beauty of the weekend in Washington trumped the monuments. It trumped Trump. It was the civil debates I heard, where punches were pulled, but positions were maintained. It was the sober dance of “Make America Great Again” caps and pink pussyhats as their wearers exchanged concerns. Watching minds change is like watching grass grow, or waiting for the haze of grey clouds to pass over the Capitol. We might not be able to see it happening, but our optimism is usually rewarded.

In a country that sprawls the way ours does, our only hope for homogenization, for feeling at home, is active conversation and debate. Lies and hate are the only demons in this world, and they span party lines. People are our only allies against these evils. We have to make our views known to each other, step out of the shadows and reveal ourselves as humans rather than monsters. If we can do this with courage and grace, patience and appreciation, I think we will find little to fight.

The two party system orients us wrongly, because it pits us against each other.

The truth is, we all hate lies. Some of us have just been fed bait and hooked like fish. We may struggle, but charitable hands can set us free. Evidence helps. Believing falsehoods does not make us stupid or worthy of reproach. There is no person alive who never swallowed a hook.

The truth is, we all hate hate. Those of us who feel the latter most have been convinced we are only reciprocating. If a caring person builds a bridge and is willing to meet us halfway, we are more willing to consider the greenness of their grass.

Before flying out of Baltimore Sunday, I learned that there is logic in most opinions if they and their proponents are given a chance to breathe. I learned not to give up on understanding others or peaceably swaying them as long as there is blood in my heart and air in their lungs. I learned that lies are the enemy, that hate is the enemy—in short, that delusion is the enemy. People are just vessels, and they are worth saving.

I learned that mainstream journalism is not so dishonest as many of us have come to believe. I saw the inauguration and the Women’s March on Washington with my own eyes, and I saw camera crews hustling through the streets. I watched the way the events were covered on Fox, CNN, and MSNBC after the fact, and it restored my confidence in communicable truth. There really were at least twice as many people at the march as at the inauguration. There really was a palpable air of peace Saturday that starved hungry jail cells. Our major news outlets are not deluding us so much as we fear, and those who tell us otherwise need charitable hands to unhook them.

Finally, I learned that we must beware lies that masquerade as truth. They are hard to spot; our best bet is to consider their sources. We must beware those who sow misinformation and discredit reputable journalists. The people who do this propagate darkness, delusion, ignorance, and hate. They take advantage of the shadows they create to make us see monsters where there are only people, to make us see enemies where there are allies. They encourage friendly fire, then they divide and conquer. They tell us not to listen and not to ask questions. They do not back down despite evidence, and they fashion their lies as “alternative facts.”

People are far more interesting than the parties they populate and far more worthy of our patience, respect, and efforts at conversion. If we reveal ourselves to each other and make every effort to eradicate the shadows that pretend to hold monsters, we can isolate the sowers of misinformation and fear and reveal them for what they are: people blowing smoke. Then the real work of clearing that smoke can begin—and the smoke will clear, as surely as the haze of grey clouds over the Capitol.