I finally find the button to reduce the glare on the TV. Smart televisions are built to be smarter than me. But I need to get on with this piece of kit. We will spend quite some hours together. 

We walked to the White House yesterday morning, November 4th 2024. We traversed a circle with seven roads emanating from it, and one going under. Kiki, my beloved niece-in-her-twenties, pointed to the military man on a horse, wondering which one he was. In the same line of sight, five tents are lined at the perimeter; the roar of the underpass is their inhabitants’ white noise. ‘George Washington’, I replied. Not that I recognised the cut of his jib. Mine was an act of inference. I had read the signage. We were on Washington Circle. 

*****

The leaves are brown, yet the sky is blue in the District of Columbia. It is warm under the sun, which makes this flaggy, symbolic city sparkle all the more. Though Arlington Cemetery is on the other side of the Potomac River, the memorials to great dead men, and great dead peoples lie in a continuum. Washington DC acts not just as a centre of American power, it is also a metaphor of the American journey. 

‘The District’ is a place of words; quotes and dates are on every corner. Most of the language is noble, and serious. These thoughts are piously meant, even if America’s imperfect union means they abutt reality every now and again, and make one pause for thought. “You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose”, as NYC Mayor Mario Como said. Smart man. Smart man. 

I had wandered through the Roosevelt Memorial the day previous, before Kiki arrived. Unlike other presidential memorial sites which dazzle by way of size and visual beauty, FDR’s site has accessible, human dimensions, reflecting the humility of the man who shaped the New Deal, from a wheelchair. 

Martin Luther King favoured speaking to the power of solutions and dreams, here Roosevelt describes America’s problems, in CAPS. 

“”I SEE ONE-THIRD OF A NATION ILL-HOUSED, ILL-CLAD, ILL- NOURISHED.”

His words are chiselled above bronze statues of cowered men, queueing at the poorhouse.  

I had traced the path of a homeless old man on K Street minutes earlier. He was shuffling along the pavement at an angle, pulling a basket on wheels with his possessions within. His little trolley held three large, grubby bags, secured carefully. A fourth, smaller satchel, was on top of them. The words ‘Top Secret’ were inscribed in white. It too was secured, with care. This was the inner vault of this man’s life. As he shuffled, I wondered what might be in it. And indeed, what was mine. 

The bronze and queueing men are flanked by FDR’s rhetoric: 

“THE TEST OF OUR PROGRESS IS NOT WHETHER WE ADD MORE TO THE ABUNDANCE OF THOSE WHO HAVE MUCH; IT IS WHETHER WE PROVIDE ENOUGH FOR THOSE WHO HAVE TOO LITTLE.”

He spoke these words at his inaugural address in January 1937. The Great Depression was raging at the time. The drums of war would, through global rippling, finally crash on American soil in 1941. Presumably, those men, and others who had too little, would find jobs in a war economy. 

*****

Kiki and I have been following the incessant election coverage on TV. I have a barbed comment to make about every commentator’s appearance. This seems mildly to surprise her. I guess it’s impolite to speak of people’s appearances, and her generation knows it. 

But hey, come on; it’s fun!

Women for Trump line the roster of a Pennsylvania event. They are dressed in pink, and speak eloquently. They also each have that chiselled, pillowy look on their faces, where the surgeon has been invited to perfect that which god had imparted. Lara Trump, the former President’s daughter-in-law, is last to speak. She’s practised, poised and, to my delight, very very shiny. “We love you” she exclaims on several occasions, to her audience of the converted. “We love you”. 

We watch coverage from the ‘battleground’ States, each with a fresh-faced correspondent ready with their spake. Few look like ordinary people. Since when has journalism required Central Casting looks? Take Shaq. He’s in Minnesota, with loads of words, loads of teeth, but few original opinions. Alex in Pennsylvania is doing a little better, and certainly more than a pretty boy. Then there’s Brad. I can’t remember where he was. I do remember he looks like Dex Dexter from Dynasty. Each reported carefully articulates the same thing, which is that no one knows what will happen in these goddam elections. 

The polls all are within the margin of error. NBC thinks Kamala looks positive and confident on her final night. Fox thinks Trump is relaxed and having fun. Below the speculation regarding the candidates, there is a drumbeat of assurances from the networks that fairness and due process will be followed in the counting. I am sure that the streaming YouTube channels – the Networks’ looming competitors – are most certainly not leading with such received, pandering wisdom. 

*****

Out on the street, the block which encompasses 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is now impassable. We overhear a Secret Service man, who confirms that this was because work is in progress for the inauguration. I find this vaguely comforting. 

We walk to the South Lawn for a better view of the White House. Although we can see its famous profile, three layers of war-like, metalised security lie between us and it. Things are both calm and normal, yet odd and not normal.

This puts in mind commentary I heard, from Lionel Shriver. She describes herself as Americas’s most undecided voter, and has been made anxious by the febrile atmosphere during this election cycle. 

“I’m unhappy with both candidates for different reasons”, she explained. “So I’m preparing to dislike the outcome no matter what”. As she developed her thinking, she landed on a thought to assuage her stress. “Perhaps we’re all being hyperbolic. Maybe, in the long-run, we’ll all be fine; regardless of whichever terrible president we elect”. 

*****

Kiki and I have decided we will go the Museum of American History this morning. It feels right for Election Day. 

We will then visit Trader Joe’s in Foggy Bottom, and stock up for an improvised dinner in front of the screen. The idea of buying groceries in Foggy Bottom makes me laugh for juvenile reasons, and I tell her so. 

The networks have new-fangled buttons to help better-present the results as they pour in, State-by-shining-State. But their analysis is less penetrating than they seem to think. No one knows where we’re headed.  We are in suspense. 

Something that emerges from these days in DC will yet be memorialised here. We don’t yet know what.