Day One of the new administration, and we have our first media conspiracy. The Washington Post is grossly underreporting the number of legitimate ticket-holders who were denied entry into the inauguration. The article claims approximately 4,000 people were turned away at the Purple Gate, but there were many times that number around us and behind us when the gate clanged shut minutes before noon. Beyond it, we could see the empty Capitol lawn where we were supposed to be standing.
We had spent hours standing the dark Third Street tunnel beneath the National Mall, desperately trying to keep hope alive as time marched relentlessly forward toward the big moment, but the line of ticket-holders moved hardly at all. In the end, many, many thousands were left with nothing but aching feet and broken hearts—packed together so tightly that we couldn't even escape to a warm, comfortable spot to watch on TV.
It all started with such promise. Despite criss-crossing the DC metro area until long after 1:00 a.m. on Monday night—successfully chasing down inauguration tickets, upgrading to even better tickets, then delivering our original set to our friend Georges, who had also made the trip from California—we managed to get up and out by 6:00. We got a ride to the Metro station from Carol, and even found seats on the train. Spirits were high, everyone was in a celebratory mood, and bundled up as we were, it didn't even feel that cold.
Oh, how long ago that seems...
Excitement rising as we are descending. We emerged at the Judiciary Square stop and consulted the map on the back of our tickets. Then we followed the happy throng of humanity toward the Purple Gate. At the entrance (actually, the exit ramp) to the Third Street tunnel, a cluster of DC cops directed ticket-holders down into the mouth of the hole. It was only 7:00 a.m., but we couldn't believe how many people were already in line, which extended almost all the way where the tunnel emerged on the southern edge of the Mall.
So we did the only thing we could. We waited. We chatted to the other people in line around us. We stomped our feet and practiced our salsa steps and shouted "woo-woo-woo!" and "O-ba-ma!" to stay warm. And as the hours until the ceremony turned into minutes, we hoped and prayed that the huge crowd behind us didn't decide to make a frantic push for the exit.
The tide begins to turn. We were cheerful and optimistic at the time, but in retrospect the whole thing seems ridiculous and even dangerous. There were no porta-potties or trash cans. There were no police, except for the vehicles that sped through the tunnel with sirens blaring, dangerously close to the line of people. Rumors spread up and down the line: people were jumping the line at the gate, a security breach had shut down the Mall, someone had printed thousands of bogus tickets. But no one really knew anything, until we finally emerged squinting into the cold, late morning sun.
The line in the tunnel had been mostly orderly, policed by a few self-appointed line marshals who harangued and harassed anyone who tried to cut. But the scene on the streets above was total chaos. People surged toward the gate, even though it was clear from the sea of humanity ahead of us that we would never make it in on time. Police and National Guard stood in tight clusters of three or four, doing nothing to keep order or provide direction. There was little we could do but ride the tide of ticket-holders toward the Purple Gate.
At 11:45, we could see the entrance. A woman with a bullhorn, unseen and poorly heard, repeatedly shouted that only those with purple tickets could enter. Everyone had a ticket, and people waved them in the air frantically. The crowd began to chant: "Two, four, six, eight. Open up the Purple Gate!" But it made no difference. Minutes later, the gate swung shut and we were trapped.
Surrounded by millions, we were suddenly alone. There were no loudspeakers or jumbotron screens where we stood, and it was impossible to move, so the enormity of the day collapsed into the small space around us that we could see with our own eyes and hear with our own ears. People who had waited a lifetime or travelled thousands of miles began to weep. A man got down on one knee (how, in that dense crowd?) to propose to his girlfriend, and we applauded. Someone with a radio shouted a play-by-play of the ceremony. The crowd cheered when word went out that "Cheney's done! Biden is sworn in!" But, in the end, we learned of our new President when the nearby cannons exploded in a 21-gun salute, startling the numbed throng around us.
And it was over. The crowd dispersed surprisingly quickly, spreading onto the streets around the Mall. Within ten minutes we were standing on the Capitol grounds, trying to understand what had just happened. We walked across Constitution Ave to the Dirksen Senate Office Building, where coffee and cookies awaited at a reception hosted by Iowa's senators and congress-people. Then we returned to Justin and Carol's house, to watch a recording of the ceremony on TV.
In the grand scheme of the day, so full of hope and joy for so many, our complaints start to seem petty. So we had to stand in a tunnel for a while, and we got shut out at the gate. Big deal—especially in comparison to the countless number of people who fought and struggled for centuries to make this day possible. But still, we feel robbed of our celebration and hurt in a place that will continue to ache long after our feet have stopped throbbing and the chill has gone from our bones.