On the Pulse of Morning

I looked down at the sheet of paper Mrs. Reed, my 6th grade teacher, was handing out to the class. It was full of words that the whole class had to memorize. There was a collective groan. "Do we really have to memorize all of this?" "I can't do this." "Why is it so long?" On the top of that piece of paper was typed, "On the Pulse of Morning by Maya Angelou". It was the poem she wrote and recited at the request of newly elected Bill Clinton for the 1993 Presidential Inauguration. It was the spring of 1993.

I was born eight days after Ronald Reagan was inaugurated to his first term as President of the United States (POTUS). I was too young to know or even care about his subsequent election and the one after that. However, when I was 11 years old in the 6th grade, I became acutely aware of the 1992 presidential election. Mrs. Reed gave the class an assignment that required us to write a report on the candidates and their stances on the issues. This was before the internet age so I used newspapers, magazines, and the local news to write my paper. After we completed our research, there was a mock election for all of the 6th graders. We felt so empowered and excited to be able to vote for POTUS like the adults. Eight years later, I voted officially. My first real election was marred by drama. It was 2000. I was a student at an HBCU. I was in Florida. Need I say more? The next one wasn't much better.

I first heard about Barack Obama around the same time as the rest of the country. He was introduced to us at the Democratic National Convention in 2004. I was impressed by his speech and looked forward to seeing him more in the years to come. Two years later, when he announced he was running for president, I did not jump on the bandwagon. I read his books and was fascinated by his life, but I did not think he was ready to be POTUS. So many people around me were buzzing with Obama fever. I had friends who were precinct captains and campaign volunteers, but I did not acquiesce. I did not want to commit to anyone until I had done my own research. Too bad I didn't know any 6th graders who could do the research for me. I refused to support him just because he was a black man. I was angered every time I heard that someone was voting for him because of his race. I was also angered every time I heard that someone was not voting for him because of his race. I made my decision before the Texas primary using data from http://www.procon.org/ and other sources. I voted early in the primary and then went back to caucus in my first national election in Texas. I was officially on the team - no turning back. For the first time, I actively participated in a national campaign by doing more than just voting.



I did not know what to expect when November 4, 2009 finally came. Would it take days to hear the final results? Would there be mass disfranchisement again? Based on all the watch parties and gatherings advertised for that night, people were anticipating good news. Shortly after 10pm CNN projected Barack Obama as the winner. Everyone had a reaction. They screamed, cried, stared at the screen in silence, jumped for joy, clapped their hands, hugged friends and strangers. My initial reaction was a shout of joy, then silence. I couldn't believe what I saw and heard. Was it a dream? I immediately thought of the impact of Barack Obama's presidency on my 2 nephews. He would show them that they could also aspire to the highest office in the land and actually achieve it. They will grow up seeing a black man in the White House and will not think it is unusual. The next morning I cried as I thought about two little black girls living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. They are not the daughters of slaves or servants, but of the President of the United States of America.






I knew I had to be there on January 20, 2009 when President Barack Obama was sworn into office. I'd thought about going before the announcement, but decided to wait until it was confirmed before buying a ticket. All I needed was a flight and an inauguration ticket because I could stay with a friend in the area. I sent my requests to the 2 US Senators and 1 Representative for my area and waited in anticipation. I received rejection emails from all 3 over the next couple of months, but that only dampened my spirits a little bit. I just wanted to be in Washington, DC to say that I was there when history was made. I want to tell my children all about the day the first person of African descent was sworn in to the office of the President of the Unites States of America.

I will board a plane to Washington, DC by way of BWI tomorrow morning to partake in the inaugural festivities. The profound meaning of that is not lost on me. I am flying into an airport named after the first black Supreme Court Justice to witness the inauguration of the first black President.

Here on the pulse of this new day, I say to my sisters and brothers, "Good morning".

Thank you Mrs. Reed.

'On The Pulse Of Morning' : An Inaugural Poem by Maya Angelou
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of Their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly,
forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me;
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.
Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace,
And I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the Rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today.
Come to me,
Here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed-
On traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers -- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede,
The German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
The Italian, the Hungarian, the Pole,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree
I am yours -- your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space
To place new steps of change
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me,
The Rock, the River, the Tree, you country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
And into your brother's face,
Your country,
And say simply
Very simply
With hope --
Good morning.

January 20, 1993