Yawn

As far as cultural institutions go, the Apollo Theater has played an unparalleled role in guiding African-American culture into the mainstream. The Theater has churned out African-American entertainers over the past 75 years, helping them to become national celebrities and international legends. This phenomenon is not inexplicable by any means: the Apollo was one of the first theaters in the country to integrate, becoming the place where black performers could stand in front of extremely diverse audiences and a bevy of entertainment professionals without wearing blackface or singing in a minstrel show. It was a beacon of opportunity that became a platform for achievement, and that reputation made it a home for change in the black community. The Apollo built a reputation for having a national voice, where Civil Rights leaders met regularly, where James Brown sang “I’m Black, and I’m Proud,” and where Barack Obama chose to have his largest New York campaign rally last year.

The Apollo has helped America get to the point where we are now because it is an entirely unique nexus, claimed as home both by African-American communities and by Americans at large. Not only introducing black culture into popular culture and serving as a center for community organizing, the Apollo also became a place where people could begin an essential dialogue about what it means to be African-American and what it means to be American, exploring the intersections of these spheres and, over time, helping the distinctions to blur.

I handed out American flags this morning in the Apollo Theater’s lobby, as the general public filed into the auditorium to watch Obama become the 44th President. Saying, “Welcome to the Apollo Theater,” always has had some meaning attached to it, as the institution resonates strongly and uniquely with all sorts of individuals from around the globe. But this morning, saying, “Welcome to the Apollo Theater. Happy Inauguration Day,” and handing each person an American flag was a significant moment. I was not alone in recognizing its significance.

A couple of white women in their 50s took their flags and looked at each other. One said, “Can you imagine? Us. A couple of flag-wavers. I never would have thought.”

An older black gentleman paused and looked at me upon my having wished him good morning and welcome. “I WILL take one of those today.”

I recognize today’s significance because we all are minorities in our own way. I am a white man, but I am gay and Jewish. People are all something that can be labeled, something that the majority is not, and that plurality is the thing that America has always claimed to celebrate but only rarely truly celebrates. Achieving a plane of respect and equality is America’s goal, and there are very distinct moments when the nation takes a giant step toward that. Today, we took one of those steps, and it was long overdue.

The inaugural ceremony was a testament to our plurality, a guide of how to respect it, and how to further our national agenda as individuals. From the mistress of ceremonies to the instrumental quartet to the participating reverends to the new President’s inaugural address, the message was clear: in basking in this moment of oneness, let us work together to make our existence better, to achieve that which we need to achieve, and to meet our challenges as one, under the thoroughly American banner of empowerment, hope, ingenuity, and will.

Among the day’s images I likely will not forget, a schoolboy of about 10 years flashed onto the screen during Obama’s speech. I thought, What a moving juxtaposition, this black kid alongside the man who achieved what many thought impossible! What a message of hope for the next generation to be watching this incredible moment in history! And then the schoolboy yawned onscreen.

That is why today is powerful. While we all can seek to learn a lesson from the calls to action from the podium on Capitol Hill, what really matters is this: that 10-year-old, African-American boy yawned while the first African-American President addressed the nation for the first time. Obama’s unlikely candidacy is over, the historic election has been won, and now President Obama is just President Obama. Kids everywhere will yawn during his speeches over the next four (or eight) years, and after that, he will become another in a long line of homework chapters to read for U.S. History. His historic candidacy will become an answer on a multiple-choice pop quiz; it will become trivia. Today is powerful because it crystallizes so much of our American story into one moment, with one hand on one bible, one man taking one oath. That’s all history. Today is about tomorrow and that which we want to be, as individuals and as a nation.

To some extent, the Apollo and Barack have served a purpose, fulfilled a duty, played a role that will be more important than anything they have left to accomplish. They have given names and faces to the very ideas of struggle and achievement, voices to minorities, provided light in darkness. To some extent, whatever either of them does moving forward will be done in the shadow of that prior accomplishment. We all start today from the ground up.

My favorite part of today’s ceremony was the poem, written and delivered by Elizabeth Alexander. It encapsulates so much of what today is about: our long and often ugly national history, the great diversity of life in our country, our common needs, and what we might take away from President Obama’s momentous oath of office.

Praise Song for the Day
By Elizabeth Alexander

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.