You Already Know What This One's About

I'm usually pretty clearheaded about things. Sure, I have my lacunae like anyone else, and lord knows I've made bad decisions and demonstrated woefully poor judgment from time to time. But for the most part I'm quite realistic in my outlook: neither an optimist nor a pessimist, I don't see the glass as either half-full or half-empty, but I might be inclined to ask why the glass is there in the first place, what the likelihood is that it will remain there for a certain period of time, and perhaps, if I'm thirsty, if I might have a drink from it. For the most part this character trait has served me well, I think, insofar as it keeps me on an even keel, and, if it sometimes means I can't quite muster the giddy enthusiasm that others feel when things are going well, it also means that I rarely plunge into despair when things go poorly. It takes a lot, in other words, to get me worked up.

This is especially true with respect to my outlook on politics, society, etc. One possible definition of what I do for a living is that I study and teach about the awful things that humans do to one another. This is not because I have a morbid fascination with violence and death, but, rather, because I think that by understanding these things we can begin to take steps toward minimizing them. Still, it is undoubtedly true that humans frequently do really terrible things to one another and that, on balance, the really terrible moments in human history appear to outnumber the really wonderful ones. At least this is true with respect to what we might call History-with-a-capital-H - that is, the sorts of big historical events that make it into history books. I remain agnostic as to whether history-with-a-small h - e.g., the daily lives of ordinary people that go unrecorded and unremarked-upon - is also filled with more badness than goodness.

So believe me when I tell you that I was as surprised as I have ever been when, driving home from Philadelphia this afternoon and reflecting on Obama's victory last night, my eyes began to well up with tears. Right there on the Garden State Parkway.

Kind of like they're doing right now.

The people who elected Obama have done something extraordinary, and it will take some time for the reality of it to sink in. Listening to his acceptance speech last night, I couldn't believe that the same country in which I have lived for most of the past 8 years - the country that twice elected George W Bush, that so gleefully bounded off to war with a people we don't and can't understand, that has shown so little consideration for the damage we do to the planet and the people inside and outside our borders who suffer to make our lives comfortable - that this country, with its anti-intellectualism and its lowest-common-denominator popular culture, with its apathy and selfishness, with its lack of imagination, its suspicion of outsiders, its crippling resignation - that this country had just done this great thing. It has already become a cliche to argue that this election has shown the world what's best in America, that the lofty ideals we espouse are still alive and well, awakening as if from a long slumber. I don't know if that's true. But what does appear to be true is that ordinary people made this happen - that democracy, despite all the structural obstacles to its proper functioning in this country, is still possible and, moreover, is capable of yielding great things.

Yesterday Meagan and I pounded the pavement deep in West Philly, knocking on doors and asking people if they'd made it to the polls yet. This was deep-blue Obama territory - mostly working-class, mostly black - and there wasn't any question of having to persuade people not to vote for McCain. The point was to ensure that people knew where they were supposed to vote and to remind them to do so. Most of the houses we (along with an older woman whose name I never caught, but who once shook hands with Bobby Kennedy) visited were empty, and nearly all of the people we did speak to had already voted or were just about to, so we didn't really manage to enhance turnout in the neighborhood directly, apart from giving directions to one guy who pulled over in his car to ask us where the polling place was. But nearly everyone I spoke to, after an initial hesitation, smiled when they saw I was with the Obama campaign - and when they did that I glimpsed excitement and determination, a feeling of solidarity with neighbors and family, a sense that this time the system might actually work for them. Most of the people we saw yesterday, whether the people in their homes or the volunteers at the campaign venues, had probably never been politically involved before, had perhaps never even voted before, but here they were trying to make the world a better place. And this is how he won.

Part of joining a movement like this means submerging your ego a little. I know my contribution was so miniscule as to be almost nonexistent - indeed, I probably cost the campaign more in hot dogs, donuts, Fritos, coffee, and gasoline than I contributed yesterday - but the cumulative effect of these miniscule contributions has been astonishing. Obama's right when he says this campaign wasn't about him, but about us.

It's inevitable that the glow of yesterday will fade, that Obama's halo will fall. The troubling compromises, moral and otherwise, will probably begin before he even takes office. Utopia is not around the corner, more bad things will keep happening, and America will undoubtedly go on being its exasperating self. But what happened yesterday is something that can't un-happen. Whatever happens next, this thing that we did has already been done. This morning as I got in my car, I saw a black mother leading a little girl down 46th street on her way to school. The girl was all in pink, the mother was walking briskly, and I thought: that little girl's world is going to be much, much different than her mother's has been. And then I got in my car and drove home.