First was the crazy looking white guy. Ensconced in the front row at the Bohemian Caverns and jealously protecting the empty seat to his right, only two possibilities existed. Either he was a delegate from an obscure white supremacist group hell-bent on making a statement at a landmark of American black culture (invisible six-foot-tall white rabbit at his side) or he was the victim of a cruel Craigslist joke. (“I know. Let’s send him up to U Street and make him listen to some withering acid jazz while I don’t show up.”)
Second was only a few hours later – 3:55 a.m. down the street at Ben’s Chili Bowl. The alcohol-fueled hour-long wait for an overcooked chili half-smoke and plate of cheese fries fueled the tension. Note to restaurant owners everywhere: Locking the front door doesn’t just keep people out; it keeps people IN.
Finally, the Surge of the Silver Ticket Holders. A gate was opened or a fence was beaten down. Who could tell? And after hours of creeping forward in sub-freezing temperatures, the masses stampeded into the empty space at the foot of the Capitol’s reflecting pool just moments before He mounted the distant pedestal.
He – who they all came to see.
He – who they all came to hear.
He – who represented the fulfillment of dreams for so many present.
He – whose name was repeatedly, reverently, rhythmically chanted by gatherings of acolytes and admirers, taxi drivers and T-shirt sellers:
O – Ba – Ma!
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