I'm aware that it's long, and that some of the first half seems a bit self-indulgent. This was written primarily as a memoir for myself; a chronicle of the day that I've deemed so epic. Perhaps you did "have to be there", but the scope of the event was wide enough to channel the attention of all the local news networks for most of the day, as the events were truly "catastrophic" to the day's events, which ended up being chaotic and unorganized.
If you don't want to read, then that's fine with me. But I hope somebody enjoys it!
Read, and enjoy
My Day With the President
By Matt G
It was 5:25 AM. My alarm had just gone off, forcing me awake and to stagger into the shower, barely even able to see, let alone comprehend what I had hoped the day would turn into. Barack Obama, President of the United States of America, was giving the Memorial Service at Lincoln National Cemetery only 30 minutes from my house in honor of Memorial Day. His service wouldn’t begin until 11:30 AM, but we were intent on arriving early to reserve a good spot. Obama was no longer just our senator, or even a Presidential candidate- he was our country’s Commander in Chief. This was a big deal.
John Clemons swung into my driveway at quarter-to-six, after I’d brewed myself 4 cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee- the equivalent of a “large”. I slipped a Cubs hat on and made sure I had my camera, iPod, and phone, as I grabbed my travel mug full of caffeine and slipped out the front door. John and I picked up breakfast sandwiches and a half-dozen donuts from Dunkin’ before picking up Gary and Ricky Danciu, after which we were finally ready to commence on our journey to….Elwood?
It took us approximately 35 minutes to arrive in Elwood, IL, a painfully small town, where the most established building appeared to be Watson’s Pub, and the obviously-brand-new LED marquee at the fire station offered more color than the fading paint on the town’s few houses. The landscape was stereotypical of the Midwest- cornfields and industrial warehouses and loading docks lined the streets, and the further we drove into Elwood (all the while cracking jokes about his apparently lost brother, Jake), the further we convinced ourselves we had no idea where we were going. Just when we thought we would have to stop and ask for directions, however, we would spot another police cruiser just up the road, and continued to play connect the dots with the town’s posted law enforcers until we reached the isolated, remote parking lot where we would leave the car.
Stepping out of John’s sedan, we all stretched our legs and gazed into the distance at the long line forming against a set of barricades. Gary and Ricky gathered their raincoats out of the backseat and we started towards the crowd, reserving a spot at the end of the line as it continued to grow for the next few minutes.
Busses moved the line along briskly, as a security guard perused the line and inspected bags, blankets, and coats for obvious contraband and firearms. At least it wasn’t airport security level, where even minimal amounts of the most seemingly-innocent liquids could be known ingredients in homemade explosives, and therefore prohibited- although someone with the right flavor of insanity probably could have conjured up enough napalm using only their water bottles, Triscuits, and lithium batteries to make the afternoon less than enjoyable. But the residents of Elwood- and its more densely populated surrounding areas- were clean. In about the amount of time it has taken you to read this paragraph, we had advanced towards a bus, and were about ten people back from the next shuttle to the cemetery, when Ricky spotted a portable bathroom and deemed it not only a necessary- but appropriate- time to go.
“I’ll be back,” he assured us. “I swear.”
“I’ll leave without him,” said Gary, under his breath. “I will leave. Without him.” Gary is five years older than me, and a year older than John. Ricky is Gary’s even older brother, by two years. I’ll save you the trouble of the math- from oldest to youngest: Ricky, Gary, John, Me.
Ricky returned just in the nick of time as we boarded a bus and were handed programs. Opening them, our eyes were all immediately drawn to the bottom of the agenda- “Memorial Day Service….President Barack Obama”. We were becoming gradually less tired and more excited. Every minute that passed was a minute further from 5 AM and a minute closer to seeing the President in the flesh.
From the bus, we were dropped into another queue as the sun rose and grew warmer. The humid air encouraged sweat, and the overall mugginess of the atmosphere made the waiting far from pleasant. We did, however, pass the time by listening to Gary’s stories of travelling with Luther College’s Nordic Choir, and discussing various universities across the country. We were waiting to go through metal detectors, which hadn’t been opened up to the public yet. By the time we reached the metal detectors, it was about 8:00 AM, meaning we had passed close to an hour in the second queue. We anxiously sprinted over to the next stop en route- another damned line.
This line, however, offered the visual of the President’s podium and the surrounding seating area, which came with a hefty side of anticipation and excitement. The four of us joked with surrounding members of the queue to pass the time, as Ricky’s keen sense of unsanitary-bathroom-detection perked up, causing him to sprint like a gazelle to the faraway port-o-potties. Gary shook his head once more, this time with a smile, as we collected Ricky again and were let into the seating area.
It was a bit chaotic at first, with people scrambling to get chairs. We had anticipated standing the entire time, but there were probably close to a thousand chairs set out surrounding the stage. There was a front section, with maybe 30 rows, ending with a barricade where some news cameras and other media personnel were positioned. Behind the barricade were 4 rows of handicapped seating. John, Gary, Ricky, and I were in the first row behind the handicapped seating, in the second section. The podium was close- we would be as close as we could ever hope for to seeing the whites of the President’s eyes in person. It was 8:20. We had over three hours to kill.
The first hour passed with little discussion. It was easily in the upper 80’s- perhaps I would even be bold enough to suggest it breached 90 degrees- with the humidity. By 9:30 we were antsy, and held an in depth discussion on movies, the Academy Awards, and a guessing game pertaining to each of our “Top ___ Movie” lists. Ricky became bored with this very quickly and opted for a walk when we failed to change the subject. Gary soon followed, leaving John and I alone at the seats. The heat was becoming unbearable in the early morning sun, and I could feel my neck beginning to scorch. I stood up and leaned against the chairs in front of us, which were still vacant, as I turned and faced John, who was slouching low in his chair.
“Funny. There’s still quite a few rows of chairs open in the back,” I observed aloud, “but people are still choosing to set up camp on the lawn instead. It’s strange…but I guess it’s so they can lay down and stuff so they’re more comfortable.” I was merely talking to pass time at this point. Simply babbling.
“Wow,” said John sarcastically. “What an excellent analysis of the situation.” He curled the corners of his lips and cocked an eyebrow, emphasizing the insult. A small family seated behind us, with younger children, chuckled as they listened in.
“You know what, John? Someday I’m gonna have kids. And someday, those kids are gonna be 4 years old. And everything I say is going to be brilliant to them.”
“Yeah,” interjected the mother seated behind John, “And then they’re gonna grow up.” She winked as we all laughed together. Gary and Ricky returned soon after and we continued to kill time however we could, accepting free water bottles from the volunteer Boy Scouts to stay hydrated, counting down the minutes until Obama-Time.
Finally, 11:00 rolled around. The “pre-show” had been underway for about a half hour, and Obama’s entrance was highly anticipated as it battled the potential of a terrible thunderstorm. In the distance to our northwest, a thick patch of dark lavender clouds moved in ominously. With luck, they would pass to our side, but either way, the crowd was anxious and eager to shoo the service along to see Barack Obama. At 11:20, someone moved in to sing the Star Spangled Banner, as tiny droplets of rain began to shower the crowd. Just drizzling, at first, the rain was a relief of sorts. The muggy air and extreme hotness of the sun were rid of when the mist arrived. “…and the home….of the…brave!” was followed by a sharp crack of thunder, as if on cue, and the rain picked up immediately. This threw the patriotic crowd into an energetic frenzy as some danced in the rain while the rest cheered and whooped. The rain thickened and picked up with every passing second, and the crowd suddenly turned worried about the rest of the ceremony.
The Pledge of Allegiance was said. The rain fell harder.
The royal color guard presented flags and raised the American flag from half-staff to full. Even harder.
Finally, to the massive whoops of the crowd and what had become almost a torrential downpour….Barack Obama took the stage, umbrella in hand. We could hardly believe our eyes and ears as he stepped up to the microphone. Our Commander in Chief. In the flesh. We had seen him on television, heard him on radio interviews, watched him on the internet, and impersonated him ourselves as we pleased. But this was the real deal. Whether you were in love with the country’s leader, or you disagreed with everything the man stood for, this was a matter of respect, and a formal event now brimming with dignity and honor, smack dab in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. Our jaws hung agape as we listened intently to his words.
“Good afternoon everybody. Excuse me…everybody? Everybody listen up. We are a little concerned about lightning. This may not be safe. So I know all of you are here to commemorate the fallen, but what we’d like to do, if possible, to have people move back to their cars. And if this passes in the next 15 to 20 minutes- I will stick around- and we will start this ceremony up again. But we are concerned about the safety of the audience, particularly the children in the audience. So if we could have everybody move back to their cars, obviously a little rain never hurt anybody, but we’re concerned about the lightning and your safety. Thank you.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Gary. We all agreed and hustled to the exit of the stage area where there were queuing tents set up. These were approximately 100 yards from the bus stations. As we made our way over, the rain seemed to pelt us harder with every step we took. Eventually, it hurt to be outside, trapped in the wrath of the rain. We forced our way into the shelter and continued to be pummeled by the rain. It seemed to be a step ahead of our logic and had taken to blowing in sideways, with winds high enough to rock the sand-filled barrels holding the heavy pavilions down. “They’re going down,” Gary said with worry in his voice. It wasn’t as if it was a prediction, but a fact that he knew would occur. We all simultaneously glanced over at the bus depots and back at each other; back at the depots, and then each other. The rain resembled the beginning of “Saving Private Ryan”, as Tom Hanks and crew stormed the beaches of Normandy in the howling rain. People were slipping in the mud, shouting as if crying out in battle, and braving the continuous battering of bullets as the rain stung everyone within reach. We decided to make a run for it and partook in the not-so-glorious battle against the rain. Gary cried out in battle, John followed, laughing hysterically, and Ricky ran alongside, smiling and enjoying our escapade. I led the pack, turning around to witness the epic proportion of the numerous groups sprinting for shelter. Unfortunately, we were met with none, as the bus depot shelters were packed to the brim, and we huddled outside the buildings, realizing that since dryness was sort of irrelevant, and instead focusing on remaining warm.
Within time, we made our way into the shelter of the bus depot and debated our situation, in the mass confusion of hundreds of other clueless people. Soon, it was announced that the Secret Service had shut down all transportation surrounding the premises- including our bus transports- and would not resume traffic until the President had decided it was time to leave, and was a fair distance from the town. I shivered, absorbing the lasting effects of the cold, hard rain. Obama’s words rung clear in my head,[/i] “A little rain never hurt anyone…[/i]” True, but perhaps a lot of rain had the potential to. I was uncomfortably cold and still stung from the sharpness of the raindrops. Much later, when it had been announced that the busses were just beginning to fire up and make their way toward the cemetery where we were stranded, we moved ourselves outside in hopes of getting on a bus right away. For at least 15 minutes, a bus was nowhere in sight. The rain had slowed significantly, but was still steady, and was accompanied by a consistent breeze. I was becoming so cold, it hurt. Ricky tried to entertain us by being obnoxious, sometimes inappropriately so in the company of so many irritated people, but eventually people substituted irritability for humor, and attempted to laugh the situation off. Gary scolded him at first, and then shook his head, waving off all notion of control and instead giving way to the insanity of the afternoon. It was already 12:50; we had been literally stranded in the rain for over an hour, only half of that time with a roof over our heads. We were once again in the rain, though, and it was becoming unbearable. Ricky stepped forward to find out how far the remote lot was from the bus depot.
“2 or 3 miles,” he reported back to us, more optimistically than we were comfortable with. “We can run that.”
“Ricky, I can run a mile in about 9 minutes. That puts ME at about 25 minutes to a half hour, at LEAST. We’re waiting,” said John.
“Think about it, though- we’d be running, keeping warm, and we don’t have to take the roads- we can cut across these huge fields,” I reasoned. Gary stepped in to be the voice of reason.
“Even if we got directions, we’d have no idea where we were going without streets. WITH streets, John is right. We can’t spend another half hour in this rain.”
“We’re going to, anyway!” shouted Ricky, “With the way these damn busses are running, we’re better off!” The argument continued until we decided to push past the majority of the crowd and line up on the curb, with a few gathering others. The masses shifted to the curb where we were lined up, as a Pace Bus Company employee roamed the street, shouting that the busses were only minutes from the cemetery. My face had gone numb, as well as the shins of my bare legs. I was leaning forward to keep my thoroughly soaked shirt from clinging to my body, further chilling my blood. John was offering to hug for warmth, as many others were. I declined and insisted I was alright, as headlights in the distance peeked over a hilltop and rounded a small corner to the cemetery’s lead-in road. The applause from the waiting masses mirrored that of their praise for the President. It was a remarkable moment. Though at first, it sounds like quite an exaggeration, it was as if we had been saved from a desert island. Hypothermia wouldn’t have set in for hours, with the humid air still providing some source of vague warmth, though at times it seemed like a façade, but we felt as though we were inches from death. The vast difference in temperatures experienced in the past two hours had outdone some bodies. I’m a youthful, strong, and healthy 18 year old boy, and even I was on the fringe of calling myself “alright”- I couldn’t hardly bring myself to think about what this was doing to the elderly, let alone the countless babies in strollers being pushed around everywhere. Parents had dragged their crying children out of bed, and baby-talked them all the way to Elwood, the children unable to respond. Parents insisted that their kids would have seen and heard an acting President in the flesh, and now were met only with the risk of serious sickness.
As a bus pulled up to the curb where we were standing, everyone shoved to squeeze their way into the doors, ensuring themselves a spot. I pushed from a side, where I was in front of a group of several middle aged ladies covered in blankets and ponchos as I shivered in my shorts and a t-shirt, vulnerable to the cold and losing stamina. “Sir!” one of the ladies said to me as she tapped on my shoulder, “Haven’t you ever heard of ‘ladies first’?” She winked as though this was clever, and her semi-proud smile faded as my lack of amusement set in.
“Not today, ma’am.”
Her friends laughed at her as I established my place in front of her in line. It was rude. I acknowledge that. Hours upon hours later, in the comfort of my home, as I sit warm and healthy in my family room watching television with my family, I still don’t care.
I peeled my shirt off of my body as I sat down in John’s car, embraced by the heat. We smiled and nervously laughed, almost asking ourselves if the act was acceptable now that we were “safe”. Would we have died? No. Was there a chance of sickness? I guess, possibly. I mean, I have a bit of a cough, but even that seems to have dissipated not even 24 hours later. The fact of the matter is that at the time being, we had just won a battle against mother nature. A fierce struggle in which we were pitted against two extreme discomforts, and would thereby be invited to exaggerate the story for years to come, enlightening our children with the tale of the time we went to see Barack Obama speak, but the event was postponed by a violent rain, presumably heavy in acid content, leaving people dead and stranded in the curbs, as we ran for our dear lives as the dead actually began to rise from the graves at the cemetery and chase us onto busses (which then broke down with the air conditioning stuck on full blast, leaving us right on the brink of death due to hypothermia until we could manage to escape and heroically speed away in our car, leaving thousands prey to the chaos).
Nobody spoke until we got pulled into the long line of cars to leave the parking lot and head home. John plugged his iPod into the car and played “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. The irony, while clearly intentional by John, was left unspoken and we let the moment sink in.
“Can we just never speak of this again?” asked Gary. “Can we just go home, go back to our lives, and forget that this whole ordeal even took place? I don’t ever want to go back to the way I feel right now.” There was sarcasm to his tone, but not enough to suggest he was actually serious.
“No.” said Ricky, definitively. “We’re gonna remember this forever. First of all, we’ll always remember that it was YOUR idea!” as he pointed to John and smiled. A crazy, insane look appeared in his eyes as he ran with his little speech. His smile grew wider after every line, delivered with more and more joy. “And we’re always gonna remember that we waited over four hours in sweltering heat, and almost two hours in the most brutal rain we’ve ever experienced, to hear the leader of our country tell us it would be better off if we just went home. And damnit, it’s gonna make us laugh.”
I smiled. I was warming up. No longer was I numb. John switched the track as the song ended. “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”, by Bob Dylan.
Everyone slept as John drove home.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/05/31/obama-memorial-day-speech_n_595340.html
Very nice style of writing I must say 