NOVEL ATTEMPTS by ashraya gupta

We were watching Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert—when Obama’s picture came up with the words “President Elect”, I waited for the punchline. Then I changed the channel to CNN. I couldn’t quite believe it. People started cheering out of their windows. A car passed, with someone riding on top of it. We rushed outside and joined a crowd of undergrads. Everyone walked up Broadway to 125th Street. Underneath the marquee of the Apollo Theater, a group was chanting, “Yes we did!”.

The crowd at Adam Clayton Powell State Office Plaza was unbelievable—drum circles and smiles. At one point, a bus drove by; the riders were dancing in the aisles. We banged on the windows, they banged back.

We decided to go to the Shrine, a little bar on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd., right around 134th St. Everyone we passed cheered at us. We gave them high-fives and hugs.

As soon as we got to the bar, I knew we’d come to the right place. The interior is papered with album covers—Prince, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder. It’s the cabinet of Chocolate City right there on the walls. Everyone was dancing to a West African beat. A white business man in his Wall Street best started grinding with a black woman in a tall turban and white caftan. This, like nothing else I had seen, captured the sentiment of the night.

Then we all quieted down and watched the television feed. He walked towards the podium. We screamed at every thank you and then he started his speech. A few minutes in, I realized that he was making me cry. No public speech has ever been able to do that to me. And certainly, no politician. This was watching history unfold before me and I held my breath, as if it would help me hold in the moment.

There was something alarming about my lack of cynicism. I wasn’t used to this. Stranger still was seeing the power of a charismatic speaker. It was almost frightening, in a way—these masses of people, united by a singular emotion. But it was also inspiring. My cheeks hurt from smiling so wide.

I do not know that Barack Obama will be a great president, or even mediocre. But I have never been as proud, or really, as surprised, at my country. And I have never so clearly felt that it is, indeed, mine.

As I walked home, the dead, damp leaves around the perimeter of Morningside Park glowed golden under the streetlamps. I could still hear his name, crowed out by the last few stragglers of the night.

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Today, I recorded a quick cover of John K.’s “I Can Hear”: here.

Not really sure about the chords or words, but it’s one of my favorites.

Tags:   Created · Election · History · Life · Music · Obama · Politics · RememberedNo Comments