INAUGURATION OF BARACK OBAMA

PRELUDE: THE GREAT MARCH ON WASHINGTON: August 28, 1963 Wednesday was the day of decision of this summer of our decision. It was what the hopeful call the last and the greatest of civil rights demonstrations—the August 28 march on Washington. And I was there. I was a part of the jostling, hot crowd that lined the main streets of the city. I was a part of the 250,000 believers in equality and dignity of man. I helped to express this belief by adding my own dignity as a human being to the dignity of others, who have long been striving to have this dignity recognized. The pride which I knew was bursting inside of me, I saw reflected in the solemn eyes of every glistening black face, every flushed white face. The morning of the 28th started differently from most mornings. The sun was not its ordinary misty yellow; instead, it was a huge round flaming disc. Even the heavens had lighted the torch of liberty and set it aglow above the city—the city which is our last hope for justice—the city which was beautiful in its anticipation, thrilling in its pulsing throb of something big to come. I joined my group at the Bible Way Church, a Negro church several blocks from the monument area and surrounded by the tall sadness of slums. The crowd was predominately Negro—for once, the tables had turned and I was in the minority. It was a strange feeling. But here, the comparison ends. For I was treated always with kindness and hospitality. For example, I had wanted to buy a civil rights button but was told the supply was exhausted. Hearing this, a Negro man who stood near me reached into his own pocket and handed me his button. He refused to take any money for it—instead, he began to talk about this cause which has been the instigator of so much heartache. He spoke of the time he returned from serving in the Second World War. He had fought courageously, as was evident by the metal plate in his skull and the stub of a finger on one hand. He was hungry when he stepped off the train into Union Station, as all servicemen are hungry. Yet that day, this man who shed his blood as nobly as any white man for America, was refused a sandwich in the station restaurant. But no one cared that day. No one saw the dark-skinned man crying, that day. But they will see—they will see. And I thought to myself, this is why we are marching today. That we might prevent another soldier from the humiliation of tears, that we might stop another mother from explaining to her child, that we might stop the wall which is growing between white and black—a wall more terrible than any wall in Berlin. The march began. People watched from the sidewalks, from the barbershops, from the bus depots. Small Negro children with big serious eyes peered from dark doorways. There was a strange bond, a feeling of kinship, between every marcher. Such a feeling is unparalleled—for it is kinship between Negro and white man which is a rare thing today, yet very precious. There was no color barrier in this march—there was no real black and white, but one tremendous blending, with injustice as its source. I had reached the point where I can say, in all honesty, that I could not see color anymore. The famous were there, of course. But this march was not a tribute to the famous. It was, as one of the speakers said, a tribute to the thousands who had come, the thousands who could not be named, but who clapped and prayed and shook hands and smiled at one another and cried softly and stood proudly. To you who stand in the shadow of the Great Emancipator is this march dedicated. To you, old man leaning against that tree; to you, white minister with that banner in your hand; to your, dark-skinned student with your head bowed to your lap—to you all, who are now only a sea of faces stretching from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial, do we pledge this day. The day was not perfect. It was not without its share of trouble and irritated words. People fainted, people got sick, and the sound of ambulances wailed through the cheering voices. It was hot, it was crowded. People stepped on toes, on fingers. It was hard to see, it was hard to hear. But I shall never forget the feeling which rose and grew in me as I stopped to stare out across the reflecting pool. Behind me were the columns of the Lincoln Memorial and the statue of Lincoln with his benediction from the Emancipation Proclamation. In front of me as far as I could see, on all sides of the pool, were the people, listening quietly to the voices of the leaders they could not all see, maybe had never seen. It took my breath away to see so many people—I felt like I was looking at a Bible picture of Christ at the Sea of Galilee, surrounded by the crowds. How can I communicate what I felt? I was standing with a thousand friends, all of us looking into the pool which reflected to us the towering white monument backed by blue sky, and framed by a people whose song reverberated through the air—and across the world. I cried only once—during the last speech, by Rev. Martin Luther King. when he was announced, the sitting thousands rose as a single person to pay their tribute to this beloved leader. His voice rose on the wind, saying all the unsaid things in the heart of every man, every woman, every child who stood there. He assured his people that this march was not the end, that the Negro would not be content, hereafter, to sit quietly. “I have a dream,” he shouted. The dream—true and full equality, not given grudgingly, but given through love. He beseeched the crowd to feel no bitterness toward the white race for “We cannot walk alone.” A mighty swell of applause shook the city, as the downtrodden, the persecuted, and tormented black man saluted his white brother. Then I felt my tears. I shall never measure the pride I felt as the grounds cleared instantly following the concluding of the program—as I saw crowds of policemen sitting on the grass lawn because there was nothing for them to do, no trouble to avert, no need for fire hoses or police dogs or paddy wagons. I shall never measure the pride I felt as I walked back to the House Office Building. My aching feet, my pounding head, my parched throat were forgotten—burned away from the glory of wearing a button which read, “I was a civil rights marcher, August 28.” --Nancy Duncan, August 28, 1963

THE INAUGURATION OF BARACK OBAMA, January 17-20, 2009
Tuesday January 20, 2009 was the day of decision of this winter of decision. It was the day of hope revived! It was Barack Obama’s Inauguration day in Washington DC. Miracle of miracles, this son of a Kenyan man and a Kansas woman has just become the 44th President of the United States.
And I was there.
Just as I was there on August 28, 1963 for what was to become the greatest of all civil rights demonstrations, was there, standing below the Lincoln Memorial along the shimmering Reflecting Pool to hear and thrill to one of the most magnificent speeches of all time, the great Rev. Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream.” I was just eighteen years and newly arrived in Washington that summer of 1963. My father, Robert B Duncan, had been elected to Congress from Oregon in 1960, and I was moving to Washington to join my family and attend Georgetown University. When I heard about the March, I knew I had to participate. By the end of that memorable and unforgettable day, I was so moved by all I had seen and heard that I went straight back to my father’s office and wrote an article about it which was later published by some of the Oregon newspapers and also inserted into the Congressional Journal.
Forty-five years and five months separate these two dates: August 28, 1963 and January 20, 2009. And by some miracle of personal history, I have been present for both of them. And feel again impelled, as so long ago, to set down my thoughts on paper.

This time, my experience covers not just one day but four, beginning on Friday, January 17. I read in the Washington Post that there will be a ceremony celebrating Dr. King’s birthday at the Lincoln Memorial at one pm—a group of schoolchildren will recite “I Have a Dream” in his honor, and of course to mark also the extraordinary event of Barack Obama’s election as the 44th president of the United States! He will be inaugurated at the other end of this long mall in just three days!
Same place as forty-five years ago. Same grave and brooding statue of Lincoln within the shadows of the memorial. Same long vista of the reflecting pool. But these 45 years and five months later, there’s a major climatic difference. The day I am remembering was a magnificently hot day under blue skies, whereas today, it’s way below zero, the Reflecting Pool is frozen, and the few people who have gathered for this occasion, a couple hundred instead of the 250,000 on that long-ago August day, are not dressed in T-shirts, light summer dresses, sandals, but are bundled up until you can barely see anyone’s face: scarves, wool hats pulled down low, bulky down jackets, mittens, books.
Except for the kids. Almost as soon as we get there, we see them coming, a line of chattering laughing kids, all fourth graders, wearing bright multi-colored hats and jackets and with their bright multi-colored faces beaming out at us, unlike we shivering adults, they don’t seem to notice the cold, they’re about to perform and are as excited as if there were indeed thousands in front of them instead of parents, teachers, a few park guards, and a few tourists.
We join the group of kids and teachers and go into the Memorial with them. These are kids from the Watkins Elementary School in Washington. The teachers and parents greet us warmly, and especially when they learn we live in France, and that my husband, François, is a real French photographer! “You mean we’ll be in French newspapers?” they chorus, and we nod. We talk a little about France with the kids and I mention the Eiffel Tower they’ve surely heard of.
“You mean you live in the Eiffel Tower?” one little girl asks!
“Well not IN it,” I reply, trying to let her down gently. “But very near to it.
I talk to one of the teachers, Annie. She tells me that the school has been doing this ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial for five years.
“But this is a special year—this is the culmination of the dream made real,” she says. “These children are the living proof of Dr. King’s dream.”
While waiting to go on, the kids are told to sit down on the floor of the Lincoln Memorial basement room and picnic lunches are passed out to them: hot dogs, apples, chips. One of the teachers, brilliant in a pink fluffy hat and matching pink scarf, sends a sack lunch over the kids’ heads for the two of us as well! We all munch on our hotdogs. On one of the walls is a life-size photo of Abe Lincoln, we all are under his gaze and his eyes seem to watch over us tenderly. Next to the photo are the words “The man who gave meaning, honor and purpose to the Nation speaks to us.”
“OK, kids, it’s SHOWTIME,” shouts the teacher. Hats and scarves and jackets are hastily put on again and everyone moves upstairs and onto the broad balustrade of the Lincoln Memorial. “Will Barack Obama be here?” one of the kids asks me. “Well I don’t think so, he’s so busy today,” I reply, “but I’m sure he’ll watch it on TV.” (Though in truth I doubt it, we seem to be the only press presence around! It’s too bad though, I can’t think of a better or more beautiful tribute to him than this one to his mentor Dr. King.)
The children line up in front of the pillars, the shadowy statue of Lincoln behind them. Into the air rises a pure soprano voice singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” I look out toward the mall. Though it’s nearly empty today, I can fill those frozen pool banks with the thousands of people I remember from that August day all those years ago, I feel their presence with us.
The performance begins. Each child has memorized one line of the speech. The first one goes up to the podium, he’s not very big and the microphone has to be lowered a little bit for him. But his voice soars out, confidently, strong and bold, an astonishingly powerful voice for such a little kid, as he belts out the first line of the speech, “I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.”
And they are off with it. One child after another comes up shouts out their line with fervor and delight. Black, white, Asian, the children come up to recite this speech that I first heard right here by the very man who wrote it. This time every single line of the speech is spoken in a different child’s tonality, each high sweet pure voice just like music. Martin Luther King would be proud.
The children have come to the most beautiful part of the speech.
“I have a dream,” shouts out a little girl.
We begin to shout out, just as the people did at this part of the speech in 1983.
“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
“I have a dream…I have a dream….”
Our audience can hardly restrain itself. We’re shouting out “I have a dream” along with the kids. And then, we are at the powerful last paragraph.
“Let freedom ring And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
I look around at the small audience gathered up here. There isn’t a dry eye among us. And I feel the same unity of spirit and purpose I did forty-five years ago, the same sense of community and hope. It’s been a long forty-five years in some ways, but in others—how short, how short! Who could have, who would have believed it!
And as our Grande finale, we all sing together along with the children, “We Shall Overcome.”

* * *

That afternoon, I pick up our tickets for the Inauguration. To do this, I go to the Association of Former Congressmen, an office in downtown Washington. I am given a packet of papers. When I look inside, I’m astounded. I have two SEATED tickets—something I never expected. We will be in the “orange” section, which is just directly below the Capitol. There is also an engraved invitation to the Inauguration:

The honor of your presence Is requested at the ceremonies attending the Inauguration of the President and Vice President Of the United States January twentieth Two thousand and nine The Capitol of the United States of America City of Washington By the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies 11:30 am

Inside the packet are also the Inauguration ceremonies program, as well as a photo of Barack Obama and another of Joe Biden, I am pleased for myself but also for my father, it is nice to know that former public servants such as my dad retain a little clout here in Washington DC—at least in being able to get inaugural tickets for their daughter!!
I have only attended one other inauguration, that of Lyndon Johnson on January 20, 1965. At the time, my father was one of the serving congressmen from Oregon, and that time too we had seated tickets. I was with my mother, a college roommate, and my sister Laurie who chiefly remembers that her mother dressed in her a charming but not very warm blue coat and that she froze during the ceremony. The weather service is predicting very cold weather for this one as well.

* * *

On Saturday, January 18, we make a visit to the National Portrait Gallery. Almost as soon as we enter, we see in the nearest corridor to the left the red, white and blue portrait of Barack Obama that has already graced so many magazine covers since the election. But this is the real portrait, and we learn that it just arrived this very morning. People are lining up with their cameras to take a picture of it, or to have their picture taken with the portrait. With my friend Laura, we too line up so my husband, French photographer François Le Diascorn, can take our picture. It will no doubt be as close as we will get to our new president, to this already famous effigy of him.

* * *

Monday, January 19, 2009: Today is the official celebration of Martin Luther King’s birthday and I have come to the National Cathedral for a ceremony celebrating his life. By the time I arrive, the cathedral is nearly full. I am struck by the racial harmony of the gathering—it seems truly a composite of our country at this historic time. There are many children—and they are encouraged to write letters to Barack Obama and for that purpose, paper and pens have been scattered around the Cathedral. The master of ceremonies is a young poet, Bomani Armah. The atmosphere is warm, convivial, young, hip-hop! Yet with an undertone of gravity. Bomani Armah is wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Martin Luther King, but it’s the Martin Luther King who was in prison, with a prison number under his mug shot. Martin Luther King’s time in the Albany, Georgia jail is evoked by Armah, and how Dr. King wrote a letter from within prison to President Kennedy about the 18 million United States citizens, victims of discrimination, whose citizenship rights were denied them. Armah begins his welcome by welcoming “a few who aren’t here but who I want to welcome anyway” and he cites President John Kennedy, Rosa Parks, and Martin Luther King.
“But this is a birthday party,” he shouts, “and I want to hear you all. Let’s have fun!” And the church rings out with an echoing shout.
An 18-year old violinist, Daniel Davis, plays an original composition mingled with a recording of Martin Luther King’s speech and I hear again, as two days ago, the echoes of that great historical moment. I remember how I had searched in the newspapers to see where I might meet with a civil rights group marching that day. I found the name of a church and headed there early that morning. It was a modest all black church, but the eager white teen-ager was made to feel welcome. Now the King is being honored in the most beautiful cathedral in the city.
Another poet comes up to the podium, and out of his poem detach the words “people who fall in love despite the color of their skin….” I had hoped actually to attend this ceremony with a very old friend of mine who lives in the District. Forty-five years ago we were students at Georgetown together, and at the ages of eighteen and nineteen, we fell in love. Though his skin was dark and mine was light, that didn’t seem to make any difference to us, though it did to many of the people around us. We spent a very intense couple of years together, it was 1964 and we worked with other students to produce a “Filibuster FOR the Civil Rights Bill” down on the Washington Monument grounds. And along with just being college students, we also integrated a beach, supported the Mississippi Free Party, and faced down a neo-Nazi. Sometime after I had moved to New York, the relationship ended but not the friendship, and I had hoped to sit here in this great cathedral with my old friend, holding his hand, and contemplating the incredible journey from then to now. He couldn’t make it, but his presence is with me here.
The ceremony closes with the Urban Nation Hip-Hop Choir, again a mixture of skin colors but everyone dressed in black, singing John Lennon’s “Imagine.” The whole church joins in—there doesn’t seem to be anyone here, despite their age, who doesn’t know the words.

* * *

That evening we get our clothes and provisions ready for Inauguration day as if we were going on a voyage to Antarctica: glove liners, long underwear, little packets that you put in your shoes and gloves which “heat up”, chocolate bars, hats, scarves, two thick pairs of socks, cameras, notebook…. We have to prepare for several hours of what is being predicted as sub-zero weather. We’ve also read that no large bags will be allowed, so we stuff our pockets with the necessary items. We set the alarm clock for 5 am to try to beat the crowds on the Metro. We will be leaving from a suburban Virginia station.

* * *

Tuesday, January 20, 2009, INAUGURATION DAY!!! We are all up early and have so many clothes on we all look like Michelin men. (And I learn later that a few thousand people who had tickets were turned back from the ceremony for lack of space—the inauguration planners had not calculated that heavily-dressed people would take up more room!)
There are four of us going, myself, my husband François, my nephew Daniel and a good friend Karen. And through one of my politically active cousins in New Mexico, we have tickets for Dan and Karen too although they are in the blue section. There’s already a good crowd at this Virginia station, but it’s not overwhelming, and we get standing room in the Metro. First hitch though: at the fourth station, a voice suddenly comes on announcing that someone is sick on the train and that ALL the passengers must get off, that this train is being taken off service. We look at each other disbelievingly. François, a good Frenchman used to ignoring rules and regulations when at all possible, declares he’s not getting off the train. But Karen, a law-abiding American has already gotten off with Daniel and they are following instructions to go up the stairs. Around us a huge confused crowd is milling—and I’m caught in the middle of it, shouting to Karen and Dan to “stay with us, stay with us”, shouting to François to “come with us, come with us.” Just as Karen and Dan disappear upstairs, the announcement comes to all get BACK ON THE TRAIN. There is a roar of anger and a huge push of people pressing back on. In the chaos, I don’t see my husband anymore and begin shouting his name—is he back on the train? I make a decision and jump back in too. Yes, he’s there, but we’ve lost Karen and Daniel and won’t see them again until the end of the day.
We emerge on the south side of the Capitol. It’s about seven-fifteen by then and the streets are already packed with people, most of whom have affixed some kind of Obama souvenir to some article of their clothing: buttons, hats, scarves, T-shirts, bags, you name it, it has Obama’s name and picture on it. Even the most elegant women—one woman in a pricey white fur coat and hat—seem to have to physically display their sentiments—she is wearing a classy white and black “Obama” scarf.
Already the soothsayers have been confounded about this day. First, no one believed it would be possible at this time in our history to elect a bi-racial president. Yet it happened.
And the weather report for today was clouds, very very cold, maybe some snow flurries. But when we get outside, we see blue sky and sun!
But it’s time to get in line for the orange tickets. We’ve assumed because we have seated tickets, that we’ll just be able to walk right in the gates. We haven’t counted on the fact that there’s about 60,000 of us with seats!! We find the “orange people” and discover a serpentine line that winds around and around on itself. My husband—and Frenchman!—has no intention of standing in a line when he could be working, and this is when I lose my third and last companion for the day. He says he’ll go around taking pictures and meet me inside for the ceremony, and I go to stand in line. I at once learn that our tickets, while having numbers, do not have assigned seats, and realize it’s highly unlikely I’ll see my husband again either today. But our line is full of very compatible people, the people in front of me are from Minnesota and offer me Irish soda bread, and we chat amiably until we reach the check point.
I’m inside the Orange Section by about ten. The first section is filled, but I’m in luck, the second section, separated by a large space, is empty, so I get a front row aisle seat. I am directly in front of the Capitol building with its five immense American flags draped from the pillars. Up there are already some of the VIP guests and some of the performers. Then I turn and gaze behind me. The view is simply overwhelming. I can see all the way down the mall to the Washington Monument and already it is completely thick with people. Many many more people than on August 28, 1963 though that seemed itself immense at the time. I hate to fall into the old clichés, but yes, it’s a sea of people completely filling up all the space, and like a sea when light falls on it, this human sea shimmers and sparkles, from this distance, it seems to be moving and swaying ever so gently, indeed, like water, and there’s a powerful hum risig up from it, the murmuring of thousands and thousands of voices coming together.
I’m sitting next to two young women from New Jersey. We watch the swirl of people pouring into our section, many having their pictures taken or taking pictures themselves. Lots of people on cell phones, apparently try to meet up with other people. I have no cell phone so can only hope my companions are all in as good a place as I am. I listen to comments around me. Someone says they spent two hours on the freeway and two hours in the Metro. I hear someone else say that there are three million people here (news that turns out to be inflated but there are a lot!). An occasional “O-bama, O-bama” cry takes up and dies out. Here in this “VIP” section, there are fewer Obama artifacts, nothing too flashy, some buttons, a few T-shirts (Obama’s image with the word HOPE on one), a few small flags.
It’s nearly time, and here come the major VIPS, the senators and congressmen, the former presidents, the Supreme Court Justices etc. It is interesting to note the applause scale. No one pays any attention to the arrival of the congressmen and senators. The Democratic former presidents—Carter, and especially Clinton, get rousing applause. The first George Bush gets a scattering only. Mrs. W. Bush gets almost nothing. But when Michelle Obama arrives, the crowd—even this relatively staid one—goes wild.
The current president—for just five minutes more—is announced. He’s greeted with stony silence or catcalls in the Mall, but here, in this gathering of political people for the most part, many people respectfully stand. Not all however. The woman next to me says quietly and firmly, “I am not standing up for George W. Bush.”
Aretha Franklin in an extravagant black and white hat worthy of the Folies Bergeres begins to sing, and never has “My Country Tis of Thee” sounded so beautiful or so relevant, she pours her soul into it and the music vibrates all around us. “Sweet Land of Liberty.”
The Vice President-elect, Joseph R. Biden takes the oath of office.
A famous group of musicians plays—violin notes soar across our heads and out into the blue sky, played by the famous Itzhak Perlman.
I look up to the great white dome of the Capitol. See black figures up there—black angels with guns, watching over us all. Sign of the dangerous times in which we live.
And then, suddenly, all murmuring ceases. No one speaks, no one moves. The silence around me, and behind me, the silence of this two-million strong crowd is tremendous, louder than any roar could possibly be. It is a thrilling, heart-stopping, intense few seconds of absolute quiet. The tension mounts around us, it’s almost unbearable. And despite the cold feet, the full bladders (apparently the orange VIP section does not merit its own porta-potties which are all placed outside this section), the grumbling stomachs, the long wait, everyone is on the edge of their chairs. I can feel my heart trembling, I can feel excitement coursing through my body, and I hope I’m not going to faint at this crucial moment! For this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for these many weeks.
And it comes. President-elect Barack Obama is announced. We watch him approaching on the large screen, and then, with our own eyes, we see him before us. A great cry pours out from the people’s collective voice, and those of us seated stand. There is thunderous applause around me, and I hear the roaring of the ocean of human beings at my back.
We see him raising his hand, repeating the words of the oath of office.
We see him hugging his wife Michelle.
We see him shaking hands with those around him.
We see him taking his place at the podium.
We hear him begin to speak. He is giving his First Inaugural Address. Barack Hossein Obama is the president of the United States of America.
What a journey I have made, from August 28, 1963 to January 20, 2009. What a journey we have all made, what a journey my country has made.
As I walk out with my fellow Americans, elated and exhausted, I come across a vendor shouting out, “Get your button that says ‘I was here’, Get your button, ‘I was here.’” An image comes to me from forty-five years ago, of an old black man who greeted me at the entrance of his modest church somewhere in this city the morning of the march on Washington, and gave me his own precious button, insisting that I take it, button that read “I was a civil rights marcher—August 28.” I know he is gone now, but I think of him today. I wish he could know that I have never forgotten him, I wish he could have seen this day. I wish Martin Luther King could be here too. I wish my mother could be here. There are many I wish could be here with us today.
I stop to buy a button. This one reads, “Obama. Making History. I was there. January 20, 2009.” I pin it on my coat and walk happily and proudly through the streets with the crowds of my equally joyous compatriots. We know we are in a “winter of our hardship” as the new president has eloquently reminded us, we know clouds have gathered, and there are new ones on our horizon. But today, against all predictions, the sun is shining and Barack Obama is our president.

Holding my head up again as an American!

Sunday, November 2, 2008: I am trying to hold down the rising sense of anticipation and pride within me, the sense that something very very good is on the horizon, is about to happen. GOOD NEWS finally, for me, for my friends and family (especially for my young nephews and nieces), for my country and for my world! As I write this, the 2008 presidential election is still two days away, and as many commentators like to remind us, “anything can still happen.” And yet, for the first time in all these weeks and months, I can feel change in the air, I am starting to feel confident that the miracle will in fact take place—that the horrible Bush years will soon be behind us, and that as an American living in Europe, I will at last be able to stop blushing and apologizing for my country, stop having to shake my head and repeat for the umpteenth time, “I don’t know, I don’t understand it either, how ‘they’ could have elected Bush!” Distancing myself from “them”, from “over there”, from my own country, disowning it, implying that “they” and “me” are very different entities.
But of course, despite my adopted French nationality, I remain profoundly American, and never is this more evident than during a US presidential election. My French friends are of course interested, well-informed, and concerned about what happens in the U.S. But none of them are as involved as I am during a presidential campaign, and they do not suffer as I do over the great defeats (2000, 2004 in particular), nor will they be able to experience the tremendous joy I fully expect to feel early Wednesday morning Paris time, say, about 2am (8 pm New York time). I will be up, I will be at my computer, I will be unable to sleep that night or wait until morning to learn the results. For, as a citizen of the US, most powerful country in the world, I cannot avoid, as no concerned American can avoid, feeling a sense of responsibility—and often shame—for my country’s actions. This is what distinguishes me from my fellow French. (Yet, now, being a French citizen also, I feel a double responsibility—for the actions of two countries around the world!)
And if, as I now am coming to believe, Barack Obama is named the next president of the United States, my French friends will be thrilled and happy but they will not feel the primary emotion I expect to feel—pride! I will finally be able to hold my head up again as an American. I will be representing from that moment on, a country that has chosen to look outward rather than inward, and that has for the majority of its citizens at least put the notorious racism that has dogged our country for so long behind it, has judged a man not by the tint of his skin but by his intellect, his gifts, his qualities to be a good leader,. When I was eighteen years old, the summer of 1963, I arrived in Washington D.C. just before the great March on Washington. I had gotten a job in a Florida congressman’s office. When I announced I was planning to march, I caused fear and consternation in that office—the others were all planning to stay home with their doors locked! I had no one to march with but that didn’t deter me. I found in a newspaper the name of a church where marchers were meeting, and early the morning of August 28, I was at that church. It turned out to be a black church, but instead of being ignored, I was heartily welcomed, and I will never forget one old man coming up to me and taking off the huge button that read “I WAS A CIVIL RIGHTS MARCHER, AUGUST 28, 1963” right off his own chest and handing it to me! I wore it all that day, and I have it yet. Nor of course can I ever forget standing with my fellow Americans black and white under a tree along the Reflecting Pool and listening to Martin Luther King’s voice ringing out so powerfully with the speech to become so famous “I have a dream.” I went home after that incredible day and wrote my first journalistic piece, recounting my experience that day (story which was published in the Oregon newspapers and in the Congressional Digest).
When I was nineteen years old, I fell in love with a fellow student at Georgetown whose skin tint was also different from my own. It was 1964. We worked hand in hand for the 1964 Bill of Rights. We desegregated a “whites only” beach just half an hour from our nation’s capitol. We faced down a neo-Nazi who saw us sitting on a park bench and stood with arms folded and expression full of hate right in front of us, unmoving. When our pictures were in a Washington newspaper together (speaking at a demonstration for the civil rights bill), I received hate mail sent through the newspaper.
Later, I worked in the small Mississippi town of Grenada, just a few miles away from where three white civil rights workers had been murdered. the summer before. My cousin and I joined a boycott of the downtown white stores, and were spit upon as we marched around the square.
Those years were also the years of the assassinations. President Kennedy. His brother Robert Kennedy. And when Dr. King was shot down too, it really did seem to be the end of the dream Then came the Nixon years, and I left the country, never to return there to live again.
There have been ups and downs since then in my country’s history, it hasn’t all been bad, but there also hasn’t been a whole lot to feel much pride about since then.
Until now.
I wasn’t even an Obama supporter at the beginning of this campaign. I supported the lovely and competent Hillary Clinton all the way through the primaries, and had the great privilege of voting for her in my Oregon primary election. I think she would have made a fine president, and her election as a woman would also have been highly symbolic, and perhaps I will live to one day see a woman in the White House. But I do believe that Barack Obama’s election will have an even greater symbolic import than would Hillary Clinton’s at this particular moment in our world’s history. America’s reputation is in tatters. Our country, once a symbol of liberty and democracy however imperfect, is today hated by many of the world’s people (among whom there is a great range and variety of skin tints!). But if the election goes as it should Tuesday, while the world will not instantly change, the peoples of the world will instantly have a different vision of America. I believe there will be an immediate rise of good-will toward my country from all around the world and that Barack Obama will know how to profit from this good will, make America worthy of it once again, and so increase it rather than, as Bush has done, squander and dilapidate it. This is my hope.
I can hardly wait for Wednesday. I wish I had a button I could pin on my chest saying, “I AM AN AMERICAN, AND FINALLY PROUD TO BE ONE, November 4, 2008.”

Garden Surprises

I think what I love most about a garden are its surprises. Of course I love planting flowers and seeing them emerge, I love my roses every one of them, I love seeing the perennials return year after year. But the most delightful part of a garden for me is to see nature going its own way, doing its own thing, showing me year after year that I’m just its handmaiden, that I’m only the caretaker, not the owner of my garden. Nature is the ultimate decider of how things are to be.
Here are some of the surprises I’ve had in my garden since I became its caretaker, now ten years ago.
The first year in Jonchères I planted sage up at the upper border of my back garden. It has flourished and just now is fragrant with purple blooms, and what I love about it is that it just grows there by itself, I never have to water it, and it comes back fuller and more beautiful every year.
But to my astonishment I found in poking around in my front garden this spring, lo and behold, sage! Now it’s up, a blooming purple patch there too, where there had been a kind of bare patch that had been a little needy. Nature, blowing sage up and over my cottage, from back to front, filling in a garden hole!
A couple years ago, in redoing the communal pathway going through our property, a truck severed the large yucca plant that had been growing in my rock garden. The yucca looked completely dead and I was quite upset and was all ready to ask the village to get me a new one (since it was a decision of the village council to redo that path). But then one day, I happened to glance a little more closely at the long rib that had been left. And what did I see—not just one but SEVEN new Yucca plants pushing out from it. It turned out to be extremely good for that yucca to have been cut “to the bone” so to speak, and I have even had to dig out a couple of the new plants and plant them elsewhere!
That same first year, one of my neighbors, Jeannette, gave me a little seedling of some plant which I planted in my back garden. It grew and bloomed with delicate blue flowers that would close up at night, open up in the daytime. I was quite fond of it But then, after a couple years, I didn’t see it anymore. Then one spring, about four years ago, we came down to the cottage to find the whole rock garden hillside full of that blue flower, called “lin” in French, flax in English. I was thrilled, and said to myself, now I’ll have tons of this flower every spring.
Nature must have heard me being too self-satisfied over “my” blue lin because the next year, there wasn’t a one in my garden—but down the path in my neighbor’s garden, there was tons of it! It had all migrated down to her!
This spring, I’m happy to say I had several bunches of “lin” again, some of them growing IN the pathway, others in among my lavender plants, and I took great pleasure in those lovely pale blue flowers, but never again will I presume upon Nature necessarily providing them to me every year—it will be as Nature chooses!!
My garden came with a huge garden of lavender, all I have had to do in it is pull out some of the old woody ones and plant new ones. But what I love is moseying around in my garden and finding other little clumps of lavender there where I never planted any: along the north side of the house for example, or in among the irises, or down in the lower garden!
This year, there were, scattered all over the garden and also on the hillside above my garden, patches of pink flowers, definitely wild, but which I had never seen before and certainly not in such profusion. Will they be back again next year? Maybe, maybe not.
. Every year I get lots of surprise wild orchids in my garden. I’m told that wild orchids grow where the air is very pure which pleases me. They pop up anywhere, under my back stairway, in the shadowy slope below the house that descends to the little main road of our village, up at the very top of the back stone steps leading up to the top of the garden. I’ve come to recognize their large glossy leaves and when we do our annual late spring grass and weed mowing, I go around the garden first with my pruning shears cutting carefully around the orchids so F will see them and they won’t get mown down. This year there is a whole group of them on the east side of the garden, just under the forsythia—some with delicate white blooms all up and down the stalk, others with just a purple tipped flower at the very top….a whole exotic garden growing of its own will—and Nature’s, naturellement!
Along the back path, I noticed this year two very tall green plants growing just a couple feet away from each other. I knew I’d never planted them and I wondered what they would produce. The other day I went outside, and they both had bloomed: a large taper on each one with up and down rows of yellow flowers—looking like immense yellow candles. I have no idea what they are….and realized I need a book on wild flowers in France to help me identify some of the garden surprises!
Other wild flowers that have come on their own to my garden are Queen Anne’s lace, wildflower which I love not only because of its beautiful lacey white blooms but because it always makes me think of my grandmother Dill who first pointed it out to me, and wild red poppies like the ones you see in the famous Monet painting—I’m absolutely delighted I’m finally getting red poppies in my garden, I’ve been wanting them for ages and even tried throwing seeds around once without results—but here they are now, who knows how or why?! Another regular to my garden also is Blue Chardon, with its prickly leaves and prickly blue flowers and from which one can make a bouquet to last all winter. A huge one seems to be coming up just next to our bamboo this year.
But the very biggest surprise in my garden came last year, and it’s an even BIGGER surprise this year! Last year, right next to my Queen Elizabeth rose, I suddenly saw lots of green runners, and in looking at them closely, recognized them from Grandma and Mother’s gardens—sweet peas! Where did they come from? I never planted them. But they grew thick and heavy and I finally had to put a couple trellises against the stone wall to train them up and away from my roses, and they bloomed all summer, fragrant deep rose colored flowers. This year, I’ve got about quadruple the number of sweet peas and they have spread all over the yard, back and front. I found some at the foot of a cypress tree and trained them up so that they are blooming all around it. Others are in the iris gardens. Others up in the rock garden. And in my front garden where they first began I had to put up a third trellis! I know I will have to probably cut some of them out at the end of the summer if next summer I don’t want a garden full of sweet peas and nothing else—but what a wonderful flower it is nonetheless, and not the least because it just flew on its own into my garden, and clearly is thriving here!
At the beginning of my life as a gardener, I was distraught if I planted something and it didn’t do well or didn’t take, died or just disappeared. I used to make “flower maps” of everything I had planted, try to keep track of it all, but as some things vanished and new things appeared, my “maps” became quickly out of date. Now I’m much more philosophical as a gardener. I know for every plant I lose, Nature will spring one of its surprises on me, something new and wonderful will appear. I don’t let my garden get to the jungle state—but at the same time I leave it a certain amount of freedom to just “do its own thing”. And so, hand in hand, Nature and I take care of this little plot of land loaned to me for a few blissful years.

Love & Literature

As I look back through my writings—my novels but also my journals—a few main themes emerge. The past and time passing (Nabokov “je suis chez moi dans les souvenirs.”), certain beloved places (Rushville, Yachats, now Jonchères), my attachment to family, and family history, the inspiration and thrill of travel. But above and beyond those themes, running like a thread through all my writing, is the subject of love—love, passion! My journals contain a little of everything of course, but in them every one of my love stories since the tender age of nineteen has been recorded in such detail that I can relive them all simply in going back and reading those scribbled notebooks (now however, mostly typed onto the computer). These love stories then got transformed by the bias of fiction into some of my novels and short stories. One of my novels is entitled The Perfect Lovers, and was an attempt to capture the fleeting experience of falling in love. Another is called Unsent Love Letters from the Heart of my Garden, sixty letters to an unnamed lover. Another of my books (not very successful, it was one of the first I wrote), Through the Sandglass, was based on my first rather traumatic love story with the young Sam Jordan, story of a young white woman and a young black man trying to have a relationship during the tumultuous civil rights years of the early sixties. Another of my books—a novella—is a backward look at a romance in Burma many years ago. Then there is the book called Embrace of Stone and Flesh, in which my dear French husband figures as a Russian poet, and in which two love stories intertwine. I also have a book of poems called Winter Love Poems and a book of short stories called The Poet and other Love Stories. Indeed, while I have also written on other subjects in my novels, essays, children’s stories, accounts of my travels around the world, and an “autobiography through photographs”, it’s clear that the subject that has most enthralled and entranced and mystified me over the years—and so which I have continually tried to unravel and understand—is the mystery of passion and love between two human beings.
So then I thought I would like to make a little list of favorite books whose primary subject is love, books which have perhaps formed or influenced me in my own writing, or from which I may have gotten certain insights into the subject from other writers also impelled to put down either their own story or a fictionalized story or who have written poems or essays about this emotion of love which is the basis of all human relationships.
So here is my list. Perhaps, if this blog begins to be read by others, there will be additions to my list. But here is mine. In another post, I may include a few reviews of some of these books.

Favorite Books on Love and Passion:
Novels, plays (17th- 19th century)
*Romeo and Juliet & Much Ado about Nothing by William Shakespeare

*La Princesse de Cleves by Mme de la Fayette

*Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Emma, Sense & Sensibility, Northranger Abbey, Mansfield Park by Jane Austen

*Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

*Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

*Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy

*The Lady with the Lapdog by Anton Chekhov

*Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

*Wings of a Dove by Henry James

*Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmund Rostand

*Le Roman de Tristan et Iseult (as retold by Joseph Bedier)

Novels, Plays (Contemporary)
*L’Amant & Hiroshima Mon Amour by Marguerite Duras

*Weather in the Streets by Rosamond Lehmann

*Ada or Ardor by Nabokov

*Evening by Susan Minot

*Theater by Somerset Maughn

*Gone with the Wind by Marguerite Mitchell

*Moon Tiger by Penelope Lively

*The Stone Carvers by Jane Urquhart

*Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

*Remembrance of Time Past (A La Recherche du Temps Perdu) by Marcel Proust

*Belle du Seigneur by Albert Cohen

*The Snow Goose byPaul Gallico

*Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak

*The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

*An Equal Music by Vikram Seth

Non-fiction (letters, essays, poems, anthologies etc.)
*De l’Amour by Stendhal

*A Venetian Affair by Andrea di Robel

*The Natural History of Love by Morton Hunt (a non-fiction work on the subject of love)

*Lettres d’ Heloise et Abelard

Sonnets by Louise Labé

Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sonnets by William Shakespeare

Josh in Death Valley

I wanted to include a picture of Josh in Death Valley after writing about him in the last post. He and Laura hiked into a canyon last November that he had remembered from years before and where he thought he would like to have his ashes scattered. Josh had always wanted to do a series of articles on the lowest points in the world, the places below sea level. He and my husband photographer François talked about doing the project together, Josh would write the text, F would take the photographs. It seems most appropriate that Josh would become a part of one of those "lowest places" (a great number of which he did indeed visit) once he left the world in the shape and form in which we've known him.
Just a couple days ago, François mentioned the project again, saying perhaps he will still try to do it--a kind of photographic memorial to his most beloved friend.

Lives going wrong

By the time one reaches one’s sixties, one has a backward vision of one’s own life, and of the lives of those others with whom one has been close. One can see the roads taken and not taken, the turnings in those roads, the opportunities taken and those that were missed, the wrong decisions (and the right ones), one can see the patterns. And by one’s sixties, one can fairly well predict the end of the road, mostly more of the same as what has gone before. Rarely does one’s life change significantly after a certain age, except for the changes illness wreaks, and then of course, ultimately, the change into non-being when death comes.
For some of my friends and family, the end of the road has come already, the life is finished, complete, it is as it stands and will be forever such, nothing can come to change it.
For others—myself included—we’re still on the journey. But of those of us still on the journey, there are two categories. Those whose lives have turned out fairly well, and those whose lives have gone wrong. Fortunately, I see more of the former than the latter, yet among my entourage, there are some lives that have simply turned bad, and it’s hard to see any redeeming factor in how they are going nor comprehend the disaster, it’s hard to understand why those lives in particular have become lost lives, wasted lives, unhappy lives, tragic lives.
Just yesterday I was on the phone with two friends, both of whom have shipwrecked lives. The ship of one of them, a man in his early seventies, crashed against the sharp rocks of life some fifteen years ago. He had been up until then one of the most cultivated, literate human beings of my acquaintance, a high post in the cultural ministry, and practicing his own art on the sideline. No marriage, no children, but a wide range of friends, famous and not-so-famous. And then, suddenly we heard that there had been a change in his job status, that he had gone into a depression. And from there, it has been downhill all the way—suicide attempts, shock treatment, inability to live alone, and, a spiraling sense of self-loathing and guilt. All pleasure in life vanished, and gradually the inner deterioration has led to an exterior deterioration. This man’s life is hell, yet he cannot seem to either emerge from that hell or end his life—and now he must submit the further indignity of grave health problems.
The second friend was a happy ebullient man when I knew him 20 years ago. Life was all ahead of him, and he leapt forward joyfully to meet it, full of enthusiasm and energy. But now he is caught into a maelstrom of misery: a marriage that is disintegrating, a business going badly, health problems, and without a single second of respite, no time at all for himself, no time to contemplate the world and his place in it, to suck the nectar from the flower. His life has become joyless and he himself is the quintessence of the harried middle-aged man, running from metro to job to home to metro to job to home. How could this have happened in such a short time—that a man’s life just turned around so completely and headed down the road to disaster? Is it destiny, fate, genetic determination, just plain bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, is it the result of one’s character (“character is destiny”). I don’t have the answer, I don’t know what can account for these shipwrecks? And I can think of others, a man who is seriously obese, with plenty of money but who barely leaves his home anymore, spending his life on the computer, a woman who lived much of her life in a tiny closet-like apartment, there too no husband, no children, and who died alone of cancer at too young an age. A childhood friend who in her late fifties just went mad, became a Miss Haversham, inventing a bridegroom, a wedding, for her shocked friends and family (who when they arrived for the wedding found her in her shabby dressing gown with rotting bridal food in the fridge). This friend and I used to write stories and poems together when we were twelve up in my tree house—we lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, graduated with honors, went on to travel, to have a life. But somewhere, in hers, the mechanism just stopped functioning. Her friends do not know if she is wandering the streets or dead—one day, she just disappeared. And then, there is my mother-in-law, who took so little pleasure from life when she was in it, when she could, and who for the past 16 years has been dead to the world although her heart continues to beat, buried alive in a retirement home. Another life gone horribly horribly wrong.
But most of us in my little world, thank heaven, have lives that have gone mostly right. Of course there are rocky patches, of course there are sorrows, mingled with the joys, disappointments mingled with the successes, but on the whole, I would say the majority of my friends and family members have lives that have gone mostly right. Lives that are filled with people who love us and whom we love, with work that satisfies, with enough money to keep poverty at the door, with varied experiences, with children, grandchildren, travel, with sunlit days on terraces. And it is not a premature death nor an illness which necessarily makes a life go wrong—I think of our friend Josh, who has just died of cancer at the age of 62. Far too young. And the past ten years, he was battling that illness. Yet his life never “went wrong” despite his illness—he continued to live life as he always had, and this up until the last week of his life. He retained his love of life and of travel, his humor, his attachment to his friends and family—he did everything exactly right. Last December, he took his last trip, with his wife Laura, to Death Valley, a place he’d always loved, to find a place for his ashes. They took pictures on this last trip of theirs, and the photos of this loving couple in that strange magnificent setting, show them smiling, full of energy, full of life although death was stalking them, intent on the beauty of the world and absolutely conscious of their place in it. Josh, a life well lived.
Time beats its relentless drum. I hear its booming. I know that we have just one thing to do as the drum beats: love life! Embrace it, hold it close, enter fully into it, do not let bitterness or disillusionment or disappointment or sorrow or fear cast its shadow over the years we have left. Tempus fugit. Carpe diem. Seize the day!

First thoughts on beginning a blog

I wonder indeed what Guri Larsdatter would think could she know her great granddaughter is about to set up a blog (a what?!) named after her and which will be able to be read and seen by people all over the world by a simple click of a mouse (a what?!). Guri Larsdatter was born in Norway on April 4, 1865, and in 1882 at the age of seventeen, she left her country, her parents, her younger sisters and brothers to set sail for America, a long and difficult journey during which a young man she perhaps hoped to marry died at sea. She went on to Chicago, met a dapper Englishman, married, had seven children, among them, my grandmother, Florence, and never returned to Norway. If I've named this blog after her, it's because her example has been an inspiring one for all of her female descendants, myself included, and because I heard so much about her from my grandmother and my mother that I decided years ago to take her name Guri as my writing name. I like this connection with the past and with my ancestors, precious people who, however unknowingly, assured my brief existence upon this earth. That's enough for first thoughts, as--sorry, dear Great Grandmother--but I'm not at all sure of what I'm doing here yet. Posted May 25, 2008