November 5th 2008

Philadelphia

Dear all,

It's been a while since I did this. I gave up writing letters for a while because my funk seemed better in solitude, because things seemed upside-down and had been for some time and though I had my health and limbs some times this did not seem sufficient reason to face the day.

But last night was a thunderclap. And I wanted to share it with you - not all of whom are here in the US with me - and give flight again to the shackled thoughts in my head.

Did you feel the tremor? That silent rumble that precedes, which makes your hair stand on end and your skin prickle?

I voted bright and early yesterday morning. Skipped breakfast, made a beeline for the polls. It was anticlimactic - no standing in line for hours (in a district full of students, early morning, I rightly guessed, would be the lull). No fanfare, no noise makers; I stood at the machine, its little red lights blinking. I made my choice, and in thirty seconds was done. I hit the button. I stepped out, someone else shuffled in. That was it. I helped choose the next leader of the free world, and you could have missed it if you blinked.

It felt festive; people out with signs; someone with a megaphone rallying the vote. Had there been hovering cars and jet-propelled robots the sense of newness and strangeness and a future waiting to happen might have seemed appropriate. But there weren't these manifestations of Hollywood (aside from the bizarre so-called holographic projection of a person on CNN that night); There should have been more. The skies and earth should have opened, time should have turned inside out. This surreality is what I felt, out of place on a seemingly ordinary fall day. The leaves on the trees had turned fiery orange. There was a drizzle and a dampness, the onset of winter.

In the neighborhoods, people were lining up. They were ready for a party. To say there was anticipation in the air would be an understatement of epic proportions. But to me, it seemed internal; everyone was perhaps feeling the same surreality, but it was in their own heads.

I proctored an exam, I worked on my grant. All the while glued to my computer.

And finally, in the evening, it was time. I sat in a crowded room, trying to read, to grade exams, to distract myself;

Could it really go any other way? It seemed an impossibility. But of course the little phantom in your head, the one that laughed cynically at the past eight years, was busy whispering in your ear. He could still lose this, it says. And you reply: if not now when? And if not HIM who?? This one cannot be lost. If it is lost, all is lost. Our spirits will never recover for the rending would be so bottomlessly deep.

We watched and joked at the guy with the magic wall on CNN. Boy was he going to feel stupid if our man lost.

Soon I was in another room, with friends this time. States were being called; one by one, they were going our way. Pennsylvania goes for Obama, and I feel a rush of pride and warmth towards my adopted home. I'm truly a Pennsylvanian, we've done William and Franklin proud.

Meanwhile my roommate is downtown. She's volunteered for the campaign in these final hours. I haven't volunteered. I haven't done anything - so unlike me. The college activist in me was asleep; a-muddled. I donated $25, that was it.

The past couple of years I've been wondering where we're going, where I'm going, what the point of it all - really, when you get right down to it - WAS. Was reality just a silly joke, a veneer of drama painted on a backdrop, to the theater of the absurd? In politics, in life, things did not seem so brilliant to me. A dog could change your life. That's what it came down to. If you have no idea what that means, it's ok.

So I've been somewhat insulated; not that I didn't care; but there was a wall.

Eight years we'd been thwarted. Having to sweep our grumbles under the rug, accept defeat meekly, question the farce in silence or not at all.

But it was not a mere eight years. Oh no, it was a moment more than a hundred years in the making.

I could feel the ghosts of the past gathering, clamoring, rising, whispering, and finally, parting;

On TV they showed the crowds gathering, running. Ants coming out to rebuild their destroyed nest. Oh little humans! Such fragile spirits, working in unison to give rise to this moment; finally someone to believe in, to hold the phantom at bay, to command its respect and demand it silence its mocking tongue.

I looked around the room. I felt the warmth of the people next to me. It was true;perhaps I would never forget this moment. EVER.

Someone came in late, he'd been volunteering. He told the tale of an elderly woman in a wheelchair who's polling place was not wheelchair accessible. She'd been shuttled around to three different places, each of which refused to let her vote until she finally was in tears and wanted to go home. But Obama supporters would not let it happen - they took her back to the first place, lifted her down the stairs, chair and all, so she could vote.

I want to hear it all; I want to hear all the amazing stories about this day; because it was not, for so many people, an ordinary day.

Oprah Winfrey peeping through the crowd.

Jesse Jackson in tears.

Nameless people dancing in churches.

White, black, brown, moving in unison, shoulder to shoulder.

Oh that the ghosts of the past could witness this!

CNN called it.

McCain addressed his disappointed masses and told them to behave.

And then he spoke.

Was there ever a more masterful poet on the podium? Was there ever anyone who accepted the mantle with more dignity, humility and solemnity? The nagging fear in my head would still not let me be. And so I prayed, and blew silent blessings at the screen. Be safe, dear one. For yourself, for your family, and all of us. You carry us all on your shoulders. I imagined all the people watching, wishing, hoping, the same as me. I pictured all the silent blessings aimed at him, going through the bullet-proof glass, falling gently about his shoulders. Whether you believe or not, it was difficult not to wish this, with all your might.

I saw my roommate this morning. She was with the crowds on the streets. There was joy, there was celebration, there was singing. It was all the people who thought they didn't matter, that there was nothing and no one to trust, that history would continue to be written by those who had won it in the past; it was all of us realizing that OUR TIME HAS COME!

I'm sorry I've been out of touch.

Yours,

Tiloka
