I’ve been to the World Series. I shared a “Kumbaya” moment with 54,999 other people at Yankee Stadium. I witnessed this.
I have no business sulking and yet that’s exactly what I’m doing. Why? Because millions of people are in Washington for the inauguration and I’m not. Sure, it’s cold there. Sure, it’s a logistical nightmare. Sure, it’s easier to watch the proceedings from the comfort of my living room. But how many times in life do you get to be a part of this?
They’re coming from all walks of life – from ordinary citizens to the other “O.”
Even Dave Winfield will be there.
And let’s not forget Cheney,
despite pulling a muscle lifting boxes.
All the former presidents will be on hand….
I should just accept that I’m sitting this one out, be content to observe history from afar. So why am I feeling as if someone denied me access? Why am I taking this personally?
In a word? Woodstock.
My parents wouldn’t let me go, and I’ve never gotten over it.
“The crowds! The drugs! The sex! You’re too young to be exposed to all of that!” they said in the summer of ’69.
“But Jimmy Lowell is going,” I whined, launching into a list of all my friends whose parents weren’t saying no to them. “It’s about the music.”
My parents were unmoved. They made me stay home. I worked at my summer job as a camp counselor that weekend instead of being in upstate New York doing this.
How cool would it have been to get all muddy with other, similarly blissed out teenagers, and hear live performances by Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Crosby, Stills and Nash?
Yeah, I have the DVD of the movie. The soundtrack too. It’s not the same.
After the inauguration I’ll hear the stories from the people who were in D.C., and it’ll be Woodstock all over again.
The good news is it’s not just about the music this time. It’s about the chance to change our world. Time to grow up.