It’s been a long eight years.
On election night 2000, I sat on my couch with my neighbor Danielle, shocked and incredulous as the networks started to call the election for Bush. As she left to go home next door, I reassured her that this moron — who couldn’t even name another world leader — couldn’t possibly cause much harm, that our system of government and our constitution would prevent any lasting harm.
The next day we didn’t know who was president. And there was a glimmer of hope.
Well, we all know how this all turned out, and it turned out so much worse than even the most pessimistic of us could have imagined.
But we did survive, most of us, and now we are presented with the check at the end of the evening.
I don’t know if it is the result of the constant pounding of the last eight years or just a general depression brought about by dark mornings and underwater mortgages, but I am finding myself emotionally devoid when it comes to the departure of Dubya. One would assume that I’d be the first to whoop and holler, but I just don’t have the energy.
And the incoming president? Really, look at it all on paper: the first ever black man to be elected president; the first to come from my generation and representing a post-baby boom populace; a president who by all appearances seems to reflect a truly inclusive attitude (which, of course, angers everyone equally). He didn’t get into office by demonizing groups of people or invoking fear. The message was hope, something we haven’t had in a long time.
So, why am I not ecstatic and jumping for joy?
