Mark the day

There are points in history that mark each generation; events of such magnitude that they become legends passed to the next generation.

We are a story-telling people. From my family history, I can tell you about my ancestress who saw Atlanta burning in the wake of Sherman's armies. I can tell you about the Daisy Bradford oil well, and my great-grandfather who worked it. I can tell you about the great depression. I can tell you about Kennedy being shot in Dallas.

One of my first memories may be a piece of history. I was a little girl, perhaps 2 or 3, and we had driven a long way in my grandparent's motor home. We were on a beach. I remember that they were very excited, and how we set out webbed aluminum folding chairs on the sand. There was an incredible roar - so loud it shook the very air around me, and I clapped my hands over my ears. I was very scared. This fear is probably what sealed the memory in my mind. I remember my mother telling me that it was a rocket. I can't be sure, of course, because everyone who was there is dead now, but it's entirely possible that what I heard was the launch of one of the last Apollo flights, from a beach in Florida.

When I was a junior in high school, our science club gathered in the lab where a giant-screen projection television had been set up. We were excited to watch the launch of the space shuttle, Challenger, since most of our curriculum for that month had been themed to coincide with the first teacher in space. We were watching the launch live.

In 1990, my junior year in college, young men ran up and down the halls of the dormitory whooping and screaming, "They let Mandela go!" the quad turned into an impromptu party. It was the only time in my years there that my rigidly segregated southern college saw white and black students celebrating together, the Alpha Kappa Alphas linked arm and arm with the Kappa Deltas, jumping up and down to the Bob Marley tune someone was playing, speakers propped up in the dorm windows.

In September 2001 I was unemployed. My then-husband called me from work and gravely told me to wake up and watch the news. I saw the second tower get hit. I sat in front of the television, stunned, for hours. I have never been able to watch any of the documentaries. Not even Michael Moore's.

Today, I sat in a folding chair in the largest room in our office, which is our childcare division. J. rolled in a television set and worked the rabbit ears until the picture came in clear.

The camera swept over the scene in front of the White House, I was amazed. I have never seen a crowd that large. People were smiling, happy, cold, and bursting with pride. Barak Obama came to the lectern, raised one hand to the sky, the other on Lincoln's bible, and though both the Justice and the President-Elect stumbled on their words, the oath was made, and he was our44th President.

Today, the first (truly) African-American was sworn in to the Presidency. I celebrated with my co-workers. White and black and brown, gay and straight, college students and VP's, secretaries and executives. We teared up. We clapped. Many echoed, "Amen."

Right here, right now, this is the greatest moment I have been alive to see. I have such great hopes for this President, and my inspiration to make a positive difference in my own community has been strengthened once again. The United States is foundering in a crisis of confidence. We, the people, will be called upon to help right it. It won't be easy, and it won't be pleasant, and we'll have to fight some of our own friends and family to get it done. Anything is possible. We can do anything we set our minds to, if we focus on what we have in common. And we will. Damn right we will.