The Politics of Crying

I barely slept on Monday night. I woke up at 2:45 in the morning, wide awake, wondering if it was time to go vote yet. I got to the polling place 20 minutes early (6:40 AM) and was second in line. Voted and was on my way to work by 7:10. And the line wasn't all that long, which worried me.

An anxious day at work, with my wonderful coworkers who are intelligent, passionate people driving each other crazy with early polling results as we all prepared to leave for the day. And cry. Either way, we professed.

On my way home, the polling place was empty. 6 PM and two hours to go, and no long lines like on the news. Those bastards better have voted absentee, I thought.

At home I toggled between ABC and CNN. Widely disparate numbers for a while, then suddenly they came together and were declaring victory for Obama. At 8 PM?? I had prepared myself for a long, agonizing night, steeled against the devastating crash of the high hope I'd felt back in 2000 with Al Gore's "victory." I scrolled through every network. All saying the same thing. I scrolled through them again. Then I waited.

Even with McCain's concession, I was unbelieving. Then Obama spoke. Calmly, reassuringly, proudly. But it appeared that strong emotion was for another place, or another time.

I cried when they made the announcements. I cried when they showed the crowds. I cried when they showed Jesse Jackson crying. And I cried when they showed a sea of faces, young and old, mostly white, putting their hope, trust, and lives in the hands of this young black man.

But it wasn't the crying fit I had anticipated. It was a silent and steady and cleansing release. Because maybe now it's time for us to stop weeping over what's happening with this country. Maybe it's time for us to wipe our faces, dust ourselves off, and live again.