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.
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