Email from America ... Three: The Elephant on the Train.

 

My first sight of the Capitol Building – which I take at first glance for the White House - comes through the glass wall of a corridor at Ronald Reagan airport, a far-off conical dome which at this angle looks slightly tilted, like an elaborate teapot sculpted out of chalk. It is stunningly beautiful. Built by a variety of architects over a period of around three decades, it is a triumph of the Neo-classical, in its way as iconic as the Presidential home its self. Its presence as an emblem of Democracy has taken on a new poignancy since January the 6th, 2021, whose shameful events require no retelling here.

I watched the previous US Presidential election from my kitchen in Calderdale, England. I will watch this one in the United States its self - and while my visit to the country was prompted by a variety of personal motivations, prominent among them was the desire to undertake it at this moment in its history - "an immensely consequential moment", as the veteran US political journalist Bob Woodward recently described it, managing to somehow conjure up a phrase that is simultaneously understated and profound.

The election is the elephant in the room. I have seen no demonstrations, heard no passionate proclamations of support for either candidate. I've seen many posters and stickers, t-shirts and magazines, street stalls selling merchandise promoting each candidate - even, bizarrely, Harris and Trump themed chocolate bars. But there is none of the heady atmosphere I recall from, say, 2008, when the excitement of the moment was palpable even from across the pond.  I've seen just two men wearing "MAGA" hats - one white, one Asian - and in general the fervour of the activist fraternity seems far more channelled into events thousands of miles away in the Middle East than on their own doorsteps. I get the sense most Americans are exhausted, and want the result on Tuesday to be sufficiently emphatic to draw a line under recent turbulence. Everyone I speak to hopes for a positive result - and for that result to be respected.  

But in spite of the above, I approached Washington with a heavy heart, expecting the worst. And as I board my Metro train out of the airport confines, I wonder what awaits me when we edge into the city. Protests? Riots? Barricades? 

The carriage is quiet, save for a few people chatting between themselves. A young man with an enormous Afro sits in one corner, radiating calm; a beatnik type occupies another, guitar on back. Clusters of friends dot the seats. It is the most diverse train carriage I have ever been on, yet the groupings are largely mono-cultural. There is little interaction or eye contact between unconnected passengers. We are, as we would say in England, keeping ourselves to ourselves.

Just as the train is about to depart, a squat man in shorts and t-shirt ambles on, his silent wife waddling beside him. Almost immediately he strikes up conversation with a young man in some sort of mobility scooter, and although I do not hear the opening exchange it is clear the election is the topic.  As we glide past the sprawling airport terminals, I strain my ears. The disabled man, a Democrat, has already voted. The older man says he's a Democrat, too. 

“But who runs the government?” he is asking – in a voice that does not invite an answer. “I know Joe Biden!” he insists, lets this hang for a moment, “and I’m asking you - who really runs the government?” He leans closer. “You’ve heard of the Cuban Missile Crisis?” The man in the scooter nods uneasily. “Well, I’ve been preparing for nuclear war since 1962, and when you look at all that's happening in the world ... let's just say, we’re closer than ever now … ” He is starting to stockpile food, he says, somehow sounding all the more sinister for the cold, knowing smile curving on his lips, as he asks again, “who runs the government? Who’s in charge..?” He smiles angrily, stares knowingly, and as the language of the conspiracy theorist drips from his lips, I shuffle down the carriage, and stuff myself some seats away, grateful for the chatter that drowns out his ramblings. They are the usual contradictory nonsense, and full of the flaws that any objective reading if history illuminates, yet at this tense time they are the last thing I want to hear.

Nervous to the pit of my stomach, I tighten up, watch the George Washington Memorial Parkway spool by, and the moat of trees that divide this knot of freeways and bridges from Crystal Drive and the gardens and garages of wealthy Washingtonians. Soon we are burrowing beneath the capital. I turn up the music on my MP3, feel my hands glued to my belongings. I have never felt so ill at ease in all my life.

Emerging at the National Convention centre, I take a wrong turn and get lost among the streets - a hard thing to do in a city where all are neatly arranged in numerical and alphabetical order. It does not help my anxiety that I notice an additional post above the nearest street sign, which reads “Evacuation Route.” 

Still expecting to run into angry crowds and baying mobs, it strikes me that this is the singularly worst time to have travelled to this city. Thinking back over the last few months, we have so far encountered a debasement of political debate. Racist rhetoric. Assassination attempts. Repeated refusals to rule out disputing the result, a reaction that has become commonplace today across the world, as even previously reasonable people seem increasingly likely to fall back on conspiracies rather than accept that others have legitimately voted for a different vision than their own. 

I pick up pace, mad at myself for losing my way, and for losing my wits. Be sensible. Be realistic. What is the worst that can happen? Well,  I am not especially political or partisan. I am not especially religious. But as I head up 9^th St and see the pink-tinged spire of the Catholic Church of the Immaculate Conception glittering in evening sun, I find myself praying to God – whoever or whatever that means nowadays – that this all ends peacefully.