DC

Earlier this month I traveled to Washington, DC. We stayed in a very nice hotel downtown, the kind with doormen and a concierge. The lobby smelled strongly of "fruity soap" (see Ned Devine), which was not what you'd expect when walking past a huge Christmas tree.

We stayed in the penthouse. It's quite a heady feeling to press the top button in the elevator. Maybe it's my imagination, but it seemed like those who had to push lower numbers looked at us with more respect. The picture is from our balcony. You had to lean out and look sideways to see the monuments, and it was cold and windy, but we had a balcony.

The penthouse view of DC must be common for those in power. For over a century, laws have limited the height of buildings in the capitol. But there are no limits on egos. It's difficult to see all the way down to the street.

I've been to ground level DC before. I don't mean window shopping in Georgetown, which is a humbling experience. Walking into a store where the dresses are locked up because they cost thousands of dollars will slap you right back into your proper demographic.

I mean the ground level where the sidewalk is covered in an old drunk's fresh urine. Where a guard stands outside the bank. Where panhandlers beg on every block.

We left the penthouse to go to the new National Museum of African American Culture and History. It's a hot ticket in DC and hard to come by. I was surprised to see that we were among a handful of non-African Americans there. I stood in line for the bathroom behind a German woman. She told me she'd taken a picture of the White House to document it "before the fall of Western democracy." There was a young couple in their twenties. And us.

I'm used to being one of the only people in the room who need SPF 60. That's the situation every day in the adult ESL classroom where I teach. This was clearly a place to celebrate being African American. I saw young boys gaping at sports stars and musicians and dancers and writers, perhaps glimpsing their future. I heard women about my age exclaim in recognition of someone important to their youth. I was privileged to be a witness.

While I was lingering at the August Wilson exhibit, a man said, "I studied with him."

I said, "I was looking for something here about Minnesota. I know we lay claim to him."

"He lived in Minnesota for a while, but his plays are about Pittsburgh. He was a great man. You know, we didn't have cell phones back then, so I don't have any pictures." He laughed.

After waiting in line for almost an hour, we went down to the history exhibits. They're in the basement. You ride down in an elevator back in time. It's designed to feel like the bottom of a slave ship. One woman became upset immediately and had to leave. The most disturbing thing for me in this area was the fact that Denmark took part in the slave trade. That's getting awfully close to my Norwegian roots.

I didn't cry there. I almost cried at the Jefferson exhibit. Before this, my favorite DC tourist spot had been the recreated Jefferson library at the Library of Congress. Floor to ceiling books in five languages on every subject imaginable. He wrote his own Bible, too, amended to conform to his theological sensibilities. I loved that about him.

But all of his intelligence, all of his studying, couldn't rid him of his blind spot—slavery. His familiar statue stands in front of a large brick wall, each brick etched with the name of one of his slaves. Sadly, Sally Hemings, the girl he impregnated as a teen, and all of her children by him, are on that wall. Even sadder are the slaves with only one name. Toby. Phyllis. Caesar. Suckey.

It was at the slave auction exhibit that I cried. Domestic slave sales increased dramatically with the ending of international slave trade. I stood before a drawing of an auction while listening to a description of babies being torn from their mothers' arms. It was the wall that got me. An entire wall with descriptions and prices of people for sale. One boy, five years old, $5. Oh my God.

We moved on through the Civil War, Reconstruction, the Jim Crow era, and the Civil Rights Movement, complete with lunch counter. We hadn't sat down for hours, and my feet were throbbing.

At the end, a worker called, "I'm not gonna tell you what's in there, but you have to go."

I trudged up a ramp and into a beautiful room. Shiny granite walls were inscribed with quotes from Martin Luther King, Jr. and others. Water rained down from the ceiling into a pool in the center of the room. A place for reflection.

"Maybe they're not interested. Maybe they don't think it's about them," said my friend about the absence of non-African Americans at the museum.

I hope that's not the case. I hope more people like me go to the museum. Because it is about me. I've lived for nearly six decades in a country built on slavery. I stepped into privilege and made good use of it.

That evening, we went to a Christmas concert. This year, the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington DC called their concert "Naughty and Nice." It was both. The chorus is good—even coming from the Land of 10,000 Choirs. They can sing holiday favorites along with the best-robed choir in the land. They can also do a dance line number about eternally re-gifted fruitcake or a scene about the impossibility of a PC holiday office party.

But they are about more than that. The chorus was formed in 1981, the same year that AIDS made it's presence known. Their very presence on stage is witness to their presence in our nation. They also traveled to North Carolina to sing with local groups in protest of discrimination there. They sing at the Capitol Pride Festival every year and have sung at the White House.

"We don't expect to do that again soon," joked the director.

They started a youth choir. A small but joyous group of teens has already learned the value of standing up for who you are. It is a privilege to witness.

That, not the penthouse, is privilege. It is going where you have no business going. Being with people who have no business welcoming you. It is teaching to the rhythm of Muslim prayer times. It is acknowledging both the brilliance and the brutality of our founding fathers. It is celebrating the love of two men. It is working to end the stigma of mental illness. It is about erasing the lines between us.

Cause and Effect

Because it rained, the roads are wet.

If it rains, the roads will be wet.

These are the kinds of examples I give to my students, adult immigrants, to teach cause and effect in English class. It gets tricky when I have to explain that sometimes the clauses in the sentence can be in any order. "The roads are wet because it rained," is just as good as the other way around, but it doesn't need a comma. No matter what, the rain happened first. It caused the roads to be wet. Their eyes widen, and they get that deer-in-the-headlights look that tells me I need to explain it again a different way.

Cause: the election. What is the effect? Some people have told me that we don't know what it is. Nothing has happened yet. Let's wait and see. They are pragmatists. No sense borrowing trouble. We'll deal with it when it gets here.

To believe we are waiting for the changes that will come is to live in a different place than I do. I believed completely in progress. We came so far on LGBT equality. We had a black president. Immigration reform had to be next. How could we ever go backward? When some voted, and others refused to vote on Nov. 8, my belief system came crashing down.

Worse, people I love aren't safe. They aren't white enough or straight enough. They're too female, with body parts available for groping. My students certainly aren't white enough. Many aren't Christian enough. Standing in this America, stripped of a sense of safety, I don't have to wait for the effects of this election. I feel it with every fiber of my being.

I'm also less secure financially in the new America. Until November, I thought we'd planned well for our eventual retirement. I'd been putting every cent I could into saving for it. But Republicans have been yelping forever about Obamacare, and I have loved ones who aren't quite healthy enough for them. Too many preexisting conditions. I fear that their healthcare could be demolished along with our chances of retirement. This pervasive worry is another effect of the election.

But cause has another meaning. It's a noun. Believe in a cause. Fight for a cause.

I will be attending the Women's March on Jan 21. I can't go to DC and stand on the mall, but I can go to St. Paul and stand with Minnesotans. All those who have been unnerved by the election, who have witnessed our country rescind its welcome, will come together peacefully in numbers too great to ignore.

I heard something interesting at work this week. All fall, I've been requesting volunteers to help with my class. It's been slow going. Apparently, though, since the election, we've had a surge in people volunteering to work with our students.

And people are putting their money toward the cause of their choice. The ACLU has seen record donations in response to the election. As they have historically, they will be called upon to challenge hate in the courts. The Southern Poverty Law center has already begun compiling documentation on right wing domestic terrorism. And Planned Parenthood, of course, received tens of thousands of donations in honor of Mike Pence.

The effect of this progressive energization gives me hope. I'm still not able to watch political news coverage, but I've peeked at some news. There are other things happening in the world. Life is continuing. Babies are being born. Perhaps somewhere a tiny tree is starting to grow.

We're hosting Christmas this year, welcoming people into our home, to our table. It's the kind of table that can be made smaller or larger. We'll keep adding leaves until there's a place at the table for everyone. Even those who voted against welcome. Because that's my America.
Because if America wants to be great again, it will only be by opening, not closing, it's doors.