Our Election Day Diaries

It has taken us a few days to digest the enormity of what has happened in America and we’ve been trying to figure out what to write about it. And although we are sure there will be more thoughtful, erudite observations about the election from us in the coming days and weeks, we decided to start by sharing our Election Day experiences with you.

We were not together. Donna was at home in Brooklyn, Virginia in North Brunswick.

From DG:
Election Day was the most extraordinary day I have yet been given the grace to live through. It was spent in a flurry of phone calls, e-mails and texts shared with friends. We were all giddy and shared our experiences of standing in line to vote, how long it took, how much fun it was. Now, I’m a New Yorker. It is rare that folks describe standing in line as fun. And when it was my turn in the booth, it all felt so simple, so regular. I expected to be emotional, but as I clicked my lever next to the Obama column, it seemed completely regular, like all of the votes I have cast since my 18th birthday—let’s not count. But I enjoyed the regularity of it. The candidate was special, but the act was routine—one I will repeat again the next time election day rolls around.

As for the returns, I watched at home with my husband. I needed the quiet and the focus to wait for the numbers. As each new state was called in Obama’s column I felt more sure, yet more tense. I just wanted him safely over the electoral college top. And then it happened. About 30 seconds after the polls closed on the West Coast California’s 50 votes were added to his total and it was done. A new era had begun. My husband and I were quiet. We could hear horns blowing and people cheering in the street. I went downstairs to my Mom’s bedroom to share the moment with her too. After all, she was the one who raised me to believe that I could be whomever I chose to be regardless of my race. Clearly, she was right.

The next morning when I went outside, my garbage man waved and wished me a “Happy Obama Day!” I was in my car heading to Jersey, listening to an NPR talk show when a caller described the celebration that took place at Carlton Place and DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn. Now, when I was brought home from the hospital, many moons ago, we lived at Carlton and DeKalb. Somehow hearing that made me feel like I had indeed arrived at exactly the right place at the right time in my life. I felt challenged by our new president to find ways to make my neighborhood, my city, my country or the world a better place. It made me feel giddy again. I hope to let that feeling move me forward for quite some time to come.


From VDB:
This is the email I wrote to my family after I voted.

I have returned from voting--at the polling place where I have cast my vote in EVERY election for the 16 years I have lived in New Jersey. I have always understood, since I went to the polls with my parents every Election Day when I was a little girl, that the right to vote was important, sacred even. The polls were in our elememtary school P.S. 74 in Buffalo and we'd always stop by the PTA bake sale on the way home. Cookies and cupcakes notwithstanding, my mom and dad stressed the gravity of Election Day and indoctrinated my brother, sister and me with their philosophy--that exercising your right to express your opinion about your community, city and country, through your vote, was never, ever, to be taken lightly. I voted for George McGovern in my very first presidential election...yes I'm that old! I even recalled the occasion, a few years ago, when because of the death and funeral of my Uncle Tommy in NYC, my family from out of town, was here with me on Election Day and not able to go to the polls. So at 7:30 PM, when we returned to NJ from the cemetery in Queens, they all went with me as I cast my vote for Bill Clinton's second term, because I was the only one who could.

That being said, none of those votes, not one of those elections compared to what I experienced on November 4, 2008. Once home, for reasons I know I don't have to explain, when I got home, I wept. My tears were for my ancestors--and all of our ancestors who descended from those who were brought to this country in chains and owned as chattel until Lincoln issued the Proclamation in September 1862 that later became law in January 1863. For our ancestors, who despite being freed, suffered the indignity of Jim Crow and inequality and who those were not allowed the right to vote until the National Voting Rights Act in 1965...and even then, for many it was not easy. And so I cried some more. Because unlike Barack's grandmother, Toot, who passed on the day before seeing her beloved grandson win this historic election, and my dad who passed almost 25 years ago and many, many more grandparents, aunts and uncles who have gone on, my mother, Neechie, at 85, lived to be able to cast her vote for the first Black man to ever be nominated by a major party for the Presidency of the United States of America...and to join us all in awaiting the results and celebrating his victory.

I believe he is the man for the job.
I believe he is the leader for this time.
We Have Overcome!

It is a great day!

Baracklingly,
Virginia

And this is my day after Election note.

I am still recovering from the most amazing night of my life--and I do not say that at all lightly--I have had quite an extraordinary life if I allow myself to think about it objectively. But last night was the winner, hands down--or up! I was at Makeda Ethiopian Restaurant, "my spot" in New Brunswick--surrounded by friends and strangers of every race, age and background which is the usual crowd-- the America that elected Barack Obama-- in that restaurant. We laughed, cried, cheered and screamed...and I drank more than my share of champagne! I started to cry again when Vermont, was the first state to be called for Obama. When Pennsylvania came in I stared to scream along with my tears of joy. During the evening I would leave the boisterous celebration periodically to go out and take or make a phone call, because it was too noisy in Makeda to hear. And outside on the streets, people were parading--with homemade Obama signs and banners, screaming, cheering--car horns were blaring. Rutgers students poured out of the dorms and swarmed the streets with Obama flags made from their bed sheets chanting "Yes we can!" I even had a student offer me a hug to because I just couldn't stop crying. The New Jersey Democratic Party party with Gov. Corzine and Sen. Lautenberg were holding their party at a hotel across the street--so it was a lively town. When I got home at 2AM, I spoke with a good friend, a photographer, who was in Grant Park, so he'll have great shots--I can't wait to see them.

I am hoarse, my throat and chest are sore from screaming, my eyes are swollen from many many tears. But I am happy. "O" so happy! And as the Target ad I just saw says--"It's a new day."

We Baracked the Vote!!

Falling Down

From Virginia

Last week, I was in Buffalo for my mom's 85th and her cataract surgery—what a combo. All went well –we partied for four days because as my mom said “I don’t turn 85 everyday!” Then, after the festive weekend, I accompanied her for surgery on Monday, and although she said, “It feels like I have a bucket of sand in my eye,” the doctor assured us all was (and is) fine. So I headed back home on Wednesday after a full frontal family week.

The drive was uneventful—I actually enjoy “car time” because it gives my mind a chance to wander while I’m looking at lovely scenery—mostly rural farmland in PA and NY. I made excellent time, felt great and was actually planning to join friends who were going out for dinner. But then--while bringing in all the crap from the trunk of my car (which I had first unloaded to the patio ) I walked through the slider, over the threshold and FELL. Some who know me well, will say, “Uh huh--what else is new?” You see--for those of you who are unaware—I am a world-class faller—down the stairs at Penn Station, flat out on a Chicago street during BEA, over a curb on my way for a root canal—I’ll spare you the full list but, it dates back at least a couple of decades. I’m sure you get the picture. Anyway Kerplat!! There I was. I spent a full 10 minutes sprawled on the concrete patio floor while I tried to figure out (1) whether I had or I had not fractured some obscure bone and, (2) how to get my butt up.

So, while Donna was home in Brooklyn sautéing squash and listening to the DNC roll call (see blog 8/27/08) I lay there contemplating my predicament. My cell phone was in the house, the “real” phone was in the house. Might a neighbor stroll by? Fact: I live in a very quiet neighborhood without a lot of strollers-by. So I’m wondering how long it’s gonna take me to move or for help to come along. That’s when I was spurred into action by a big old black spider coming to check out what just landed in her web. YIKES!! Well, I had to get up then, because any creature that has more than four legs both creeps AND freaks me out. Donna says I have “bug-dar” because I can spot a critter 50ft away while I’m in the dark, in the middle of a conversation, watching movie, or, in this case, flat on my butt. So quick fast and in a hurry, I righted the wrought iron chair I had knocked over, put the cushions from the seat on the floor, and using the chair arms, got to my knees. And by some additional means I cannot actually recreate (unless there was another bug threat involved), somehow managed to elevate myself from the dirty, spider ridden (OK, I do get a little dramatic when spiders are involved) slab of cement and dragged me and my luggage inside.

It turns out nothing was broken, just sprained, swollen and hurting. Yep, klutz woman does it again. But heck it's been a year since I fell down the stairs at my friend’s house in Atlanta (see blog entry for 8/13/07) and 4 years since I actually needed an emergency room. And because I have so much experience with injury to my pedal extremities I am in possession of a stockpile of supplies. I keep ice packs in the freezer. My stash of Ace Bandages is more than adequate for the local touch football league. I own both crutches AND a cane. I even have an inflatable ankle air cast as well as a plastic leg cover meant to protect a real cast while showering. I also have become very adept at treatment options.

So I've spent most of the past week with my foot/ankle elevated and iced and POUTING—I find that pouting always helps! I'm OK. Actually got myself a ride (I was taking painkillers from a previous fall so driving was out) to my favorite restaurant for a Bacardi & Barack viewing party for the acceptance speech. Glad I could attend since it was an event I had suggested to the owners. I'm off heavy drugs now, relying solely on the analgesic properties of ibuprofen and trying to get back to work—we’ve got a new book to write!

DG—Fortunately, writing can be done sitting down!

Nomination Night

From Donna:

It was a completely routine moment—I had just tossed the onions and peppers in a pan to sauté before I added the squash—then I looked over at the TV to see that Nightly News had abruptly switched coverage back to the Pepsi Center to catch Senator Barack Obama’s official nomination by the Democratic Party as their candidate for President of the United States of America. Wow. I was a witness to history in my kitchen cranking a pepper mill. As historic moments go, the memory of this one will be easier on me than say, the memory of Jesse Jackson’s speech at the 1988 convention. Right after that elevated moment, I went down to my basement to find that the water heater had broken and there were two inches of water sloshing across the floor. Last night, when my husband and I finally got to the squash, it was quite tasty—I’m taking that as a good omen.

I had been edgy all week, anticipating the nomination—impatient, unable to find two words to string together that made any difference to me despite all the flashes of thoughts zipping through my head. I had been watching the convention in snatches, because stupid commentary made me want to go through the TV and shake people—like when NY Times columnist David Brooks suggested that Michelle Obama’s speech was a missed opportunity to let people really get to know Barack. What the hell does Brooks want to know? Obama’s shoe size and whether he has a tail? So watching the news at 6:30 was the warm up to my evening of convention viewing. Warm ups are supposed to help you keep from straining yourself, right? But in this case, getting the news cold was a soothing relief.

So, as I seasoned the vegetables, and listened to newscasters recap the hard-fought primary, and preview the fact that Barack Obama will deliver his acceptance speech on the anniversary of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream,” speech, it occurred to me that it is appropriate that this first Black person to be a candidate for president of the United States has an African name. Most of us descendents of Africans have no way to trace our real names—the names of our first ancestors brought to this hemisphere. But it is a man with an African name—decidedly different from the names we were given, or took for convenience sake—like Washington, Lincoln or Clinton—who is taking this monumental step, beginning a journey, not ending one. I will be edgy and impatient from now until election day, but I’ll be watching every step of the way and doing whatever I can to further his progress. Not only because he is Black, but because, as Bill Clinton put it, “Barack Obama is on the right side of history.”