January 20, 2009 was a morning unlike any I’ve ever experienced – and not simply because our country was about to inaugurate our first African-American president. Or because his policies imply that significant change is afoot. Or because the idea of “hope” that mobilized an entire generation of young voters was finally being realized.
All those are true, of course. But I’ll remember that morning as the one I spent freezing with thousands of others in the claustrophobic Third Street Tunnel on I-395. After weeks of outright euphoria that I had scored tickets to the big show (thanks to Rep. Dave Reichert from the great state of Washington), we arrived at the Purple check-point Tuesday morning to a hum of excitement in the air. The line was already massive, but everyone was in such great spirits that it was easy to smile off the several hour wait we had ahead of us – and the frigid temperatures that were already numbing our toes.
Around 10:30am, though, the mood distinctly changed. The line had moved somewhat, but not enough to instill confidence that this throng of ticket-holders would get through security before the ceremony began. Panic started to set in, and the tunnel seemed to pack in even tighter, as once-friendly neighbors began to nudge and jockey for position. Finally, the pack began to move swiftly and there was a huge cheer as my section came out into the sunlight. But that cheer died quickly as we looked ahead and saw the street just as packed as the tunnel. More than that, it was pandemonium. Chaos. As we continued to shuffle forward, smashed closely together, and rounded the final corner to approach the purple gate, you could feel the collective hearts of everyone around me drop. Other ticket-holders were moving – but away from the security gate.
We knew instantly that we weren’t getting in. The confused murmurs became frustrated demands: Had the gates already closed? Had they never opened to begin with? Had non-ticket holders finagled themselves in before the tens of thousands trapped in the tunnel and, in doing so, taken our spots? Determined not to leave until we’d confirmed that there was absolutely no chance, my friend and I pushed forward toward the Purple gate. I wish we hadn’t. Frustration had bubbled over and the crowd that gathered just outside the Mall entrance was downright angry. People were screaming, swearing, pushing, climbing onto cars and media vans... But, at 11:10am, this demonstration was obviously futile. No one else was getting in. We moved away from the gate as quickly as we could and started running – sprinting – down city blocks, away from the crowds and in search of the nearest available bar. I may be missing history, but I certainly wasn’t going to miss history.
Don’t get me wrong. I still have perspective about what that day meant for me, and for the United States. I still teared up watching Obama give his inaugural address. But, instead of standing among millions on the national mall, I watched from a cigar bar in Chinatown, where the disaffected proprietor had to be coaxed into un-muting the television. My perspective does not disregard the fact that my experience was marred by a poorly-executed event. In the five hours that I waited in line, I never saw a single staffer or police officer. No one was running crowd control or providing information. And, in the days following, the reported number of ticket-holders locked out seems grossly under-estimated and the apologies seem half-hearted.
I’ll never forget my time in what is now being called “Purplegate” or the “Purple Tunnel of Doom.” It is a unique experience that I’ll have forever – and share with thousands of strangers. But, four years from now, I better be on that Mall.