Four Years Later Last night I walked up to Grand Army Plaza and just sat for a few minutes, staring at the spot in front of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch. It was there, four years ago, where I shot a photo of the spontaneous celebration that erupted when the 2020 Presidential election was called for Joe Biden.
We were six months pregnant with our son then, and I remember being grateful that he would be born into a world freed from a President and administration that openly sanctioned our darkest impulses—the racism, misogyny and bigotry, the punching down, the greed and prizing of personal gain above all else.
I remember a time when the biggest historical demarcation in my life was “before 9/11” and “after 9/11.” The years immediately “after” felt like some load-bearing strut had been yanked out from under the American body politic, and lots of previously reasonable-seeming folks took full leave of their senses. Many never returned to them.
I worried then whether it was a mania born from the wound, or if we were seeing our true face. In darker moments, I suspected the latter. I hoped the moment was singular.
Then came Trump. Then COVID.
Each time, the face showed itself.
And here we are, again.
Like many of you, I need time to sit with this. In the meantime, my focus remains on our son, and the work needed to build and defend the kind of world I want him to be able to live in and—eventually—make his own.