Pride?
I feel proud of my country.
I feel proud of my country.
Even as I type this, I find it hard to process the fact that it's true: I finally, finally feel proud to be an American. So proud to stand behind the man who represents our nation.
Very rarely do you get to experience a historical moment and know, in that moment, the weight of what you're experiencing. As CNN announced the words, "you're looking at the 44th president of the United States of America," as our entire group broke into cheers and tears and took celebratory shots of expensive tequila, as the streets outside erupted with fireworks and honking horns, I sat on the floor etching into my memory every detail of the night: who I was with, who I had called, who I had cried with.
Fittingly, the election night party was at Jake's house. When Obama's win was officially announced, we all went to his window overlooking Alberta street and screamed. The neighborhood screamed back. I then called (in order): my parents, who were just opening a bottle of champaign; Ellen, who was crying with her friends at Middlebury; Ben Stevens and Ben Malbin, my dear housemates who are fast becoming my best friends in the world; Josh, who was celebrating amongst a mob in Portland proper; and Joe, who was being lame.
After the celebration at Jake's, I met up with the Bens and we went out to the bar for some $2 "freedom beers" before heading home. The evening ended with a drunken, emotionally exhausting phone call/love confession between Ellen and me.
The footnote to this story is that I was supposed to be on a plane to Vermont today. I woke up at 6 this morning and lied in bed crying, thinking about the plane that was taking off at that very minute. This is the right choice, though. I think if I had gone to visit her, we would have dropped all pretenses of being "friends," had a beautiful and most likely tumultuous two weeks, and then this whole painful, fucked up process would have started over again.
So it's a hard day, but I'm taking care of myself: letting it be okay to lie in bed, drink coffee, and listen to archival "This American Life." Waiting on a possible visit from Josh (but not holding my breath), avoiding a visit from Joe, and hoping for a phone call from Erich, a frighteningly witty guy I met at the party last night. Incidentally, I like Erich a whole fuck ton and I'm hoping he can help me break my "J" streak.
We did it.
I feel proud of my country.
Even as I type this, I find it hard to process the fact that it's true: I finally, finally feel proud to be an American. So proud to stand behind the man who represents our nation.
Very rarely do you get to experience a historical moment and know, in that moment, the weight of what you're experiencing. As CNN announced the words, "you're looking at the 44th president of the United States of America," as our entire group broke into cheers and tears and took celebratory shots of expensive tequila, as the streets outside erupted with fireworks and honking horns, I sat on the floor etching into my memory every detail of the night: who I was with, who I had called, who I had cried with.
Fittingly, the election night party was at Jake's house. When Obama's win was officially announced, we all went to his window overlooking Alberta street and screamed. The neighborhood screamed back. I then called (in order): my parents, who were just opening a bottle of champaign; Ellen, who was crying with her friends at Middlebury; Ben Stevens and Ben Malbin, my dear housemates who are fast becoming my best friends in the world; Josh, who was celebrating amongst a mob in Portland proper; and Joe, who was being lame.
After the celebration at Jake's, I met up with the Bens and we went out to the bar for some $2 "freedom beers" before heading home. The evening ended with a drunken, emotionally exhausting phone call/love confession between Ellen and me.
The footnote to this story is that I was supposed to be on a plane to Vermont today. I woke up at 6 this morning and lied in bed crying, thinking about the plane that was taking off at that very minute. This is the right choice, though. I think if I had gone to visit her, we would have dropped all pretenses of being "friends," had a beautiful and most likely tumultuous two weeks, and then this whole painful, fucked up process would have started over again.
So it's a hard day, but I'm taking care of myself: letting it be okay to lie in bed, drink coffee, and listen to archival "This American Life." Waiting on a possible visit from Josh (but not holding my breath), avoiding a visit from Joe, and hoping for a phone call from Erich, a frighteningly witty guy I met at the party last night. Incidentally, I like Erich a whole fuck ton and I'm hoping he can help me break my "J" streak.
We did it.