Reflections of Washington D.C. part 1
Last year I was privileged to be able to travel to the US with a group of young leaders from Asian and Pacific countries as part of the International Visitors Leadership Program^. Many of the meetings and sessions were organised by local volunteers and the content and context chosen by invited guests.
This post* is part 1 about my experiences in Washington D.C.
*******************
Introduction - one year on
Washington D.C. was my first city to explore.
Following the gruelling trip from Sydney to LA, and then across the vast width of the US, I remember arriving late at night at an airport where arrivals catch a tram to the luggage area. The airport was new and crisp, its walls white and ceilings high. All the shops were shut, and at one point I was unsure of where to go as our group of arrivals caught elevators down a story to wait for the tram. Seeing no signs or people to point me in the right direction, I simply followed them.
It was put to me the day before by a taxi driver in Sydney that the taxi driver's in the US were rude and arrogant, and that I had to watch out for them. I remember late at night at Washington waiting only moments for a taxi and being greeted by a very polite man with an Indian accent. 'Yes sir, very much sir' he would saw as we talked. Although it was late, the road seemed to stretch some length as I looked out the window for my first glimpses of the US. I saw large block buildings, some 6 to 10 stories high, scattered for miles. I was reminded of sections of Melbourne, such as St. Kilda, where bustling commercial centres joined buildings end on end, only this cities stretch seemed to go much further.
I arrived one day before the program's official start so was able to explore the city. Having first visited cities such as Melbourne and Sydney as a young adult, I recall being struck by the differences and peculiarities of structure and landscape: Sydney with its beautiful harbour and select sections of the city; Melbourne with its trams and close surrounding suburbs, eateries and laneways.
Previously, I had been to Sydney a number of times but only really set out around the Darling Harbour area. On one trip I went for a cruise through the harbour and spent time at the north shore, across the bridge. Another time I found myself walking during the day in the cities parks in the centre and the bustling commercial centre. Suddenly, I came across this green area, having thought I knew much of the city, and was awestruck by the vibrancy and richness of a city park. I walked through the commercial hub of the city, having previously thought that the breadth of the city itself was a commercial hub, and came to find sections of wealth divided by geography.
In Melbourne I stayed at hotels at the docklands end, and so made an effort to walk throughout the day and at night across the city, north to south, to truly feel the place. The architecture of old buildings; its attention to detail; its effort and toil representing the habits of a time passed, struck me as vocal points of history and place. The bustling walkers through the city, of all ages, of all different attire and all on different missions, reminded me of what is talked about up north where I'm from - where city life is busy and you don't get time to stop, think and reflect.
With these experiences and the newness of each journey I was eager to set foot in the US.
*******************
A place I'd like to revisit
A memorable place I visited in Washington was a cafe called Busboys and Poets. I remember vividly the set-up: the corner bookstore of marginalised and eccentric books stretched to the high ceiling; the cafe and lounges which looked familiar and like the ones back home yet occupied by Americans (many glued to their devices enjoying the free wifi); it's busy waiters moving and serving as if those who were there should know the rules of human traffic and its ebbs and flows; the side room with its murals filled with creativity, politics, history, activism. Fortunate for us, we were there to hear from a Professor who had written books about America's position in the world.
The website of Busboys and Poets reads:
I remember revisiting Busboys later in the night at the suggestion of Shallal. It was poetry open-mic night. Our small group waited at the bookstore exploring the many books that cannot be found in mainstream stores (the US is so big that it has a little of everything for everyone, as an Australian recently reminded me). The event was already booked out and we were eager to get in and get a seat. One by one different artists approached the stage and gave their version of whatever they liked. I was awe-struck at the depth of talent and diversity of the many artists in the audience. There were poems about politics, identity, love, race, belonging, sexuality, history and so forth. Just by seeing each artist you could see the richness and difference in histories and position. At one point, a man delivered lyrics aimed at his partner but shared with the audience. Another young woman shared her views of the world including dark moments of her history, and what this now meant to her; she was met with boos of disdain from the crowd. Another shared his feelings of race, his anger and poise coming through strongly as he projected a voice that appeared to go through many trials and tribulations, including drugs. The emcee, a flamboyant gay man, reflected on each piece with controlled judgement and sparked laughter from the audience with his jokes. One year on, I have vivid memories of the night and am grateful for the experience. To me, this type of event typified what a large and prosperous country can offer in all its diversity and talent. The underground nature of it - a simple night out - gave authenticity to its voice and the freedom of those to choose to come and share their stories and gifts.
Later, the next day, I caught a taxi and the senior black American driver recounted the days when Martin Luther King Jr was killed. "People rioted all along these streets. People were out in the streets and they were angry". Apparently, the location of Busboys was a central part in this story.
Back home in Alice Springs I mentioned the place to friends. Two people I knew were aware of the place. One was an American citizen who was a co-worker. The other, a young Australian who worked in activism, had also been there. She told me she was there at the time Obama was elected, and recounted how the streets were lined up with people wanting to get in. The air of buzz and excitement at the thought was obvious.
*******************
Memories etched in my mind: the Holocaust museum
A powerful experience was my visit the Holocaust museum. I went there twice: first on the day I arrived when Hurricane Irene travelled up the east coast, and secondly with the group I was travelling with. On the first day rain was pelting hard. The museum, built with bricks and construction similar to the buildings of old Germany, was grim in appearance and darkened by the mood of the distant Hurricane.
I remember vividly one section at the top, where visitors need to cross between two different sections of the building through a tunnel with glass windows and thick, cold steel (see the picture below at the top). The rain pelted as I walked through. I remember being stung by the images and horror I had seen, thinking about them as I saw rain pelt and hit the glass above and to the side of me. Because the Hurricane was close I was one of the only visitors, a fortunate experience given the personal space and un-busyness that I am used to where I live and grew up.
The second visit allowed me to absorb bits of information that I missed on the first trip. On this occasion I saw old women with stark white hair helping at the counter - volunteers - and survivors of the holocaust. In my mind now I picture them smiling with visitors and helping them with directions, glad that their experiences and the experiences of their loved ones can be remembered and acknowledged with purpose and regret.
In the museum there were many impressionable sections. Hallways displayed photographs of family portraits of those who were lost. These displays were in mixed frames, close to each other, as they rose high and above the height of the wall and around the platform directly above me until they disappeared. Because I could not see where the wall met the roof the impression was that they went on forever. The portraits were of individuals and families like the millions of portraits around the world. At another section an actual door with markings and signs was displayed. At one part an extensive cabinet with thousands of figurines showed mostly women and children lining up to go down to a lower level for what they were told were showers. At the other end of the building were operating tables where jewellery and gold were removed.
On the second occasion I saw others crying as they walked through. They were middle aged and senior people, and I imagined them to be directly affected by the experience sometime in their life and along their family lines.
I saw video footage about surgeons performing all kinds of tests. I saw that what was done was not only Jews but disabled and gay people. At one stage was a pile-up of burnt out shoes. I learnt about the international response and how dedicated journalists and radio announcers constantly gave updates of what was happening. The Olympics were held and were hailed as a success (propaganda by Germany to show that nothing bad was happening). Some Western countries went from dealing with the issue of mass migration of Jews (even turning back boats) to intervening. I learnt about individual stories of people who, by luck, escaped extermination and were never to be reunited with their family. At the end section of the museum I was surprised to come across a familiar image - a section for young people based on a book a journalist in Alice Springs had given to me as a gift for my children some years back. The book sought to teach young children what had happened.
I had always been struck by the history of world war II. This time I was able to see the many images and stories; some personal, some of the logistics and organisation of a collective craziness, some of the events as they unfolded leading from one to the other. I was interested to learn of the early days of Hitler's rise; the resentment following the first world war, the defeat and his jailing, the political tensions and dynamic, the initial dismissal of a far right political figure by the mainstream majority, the drastic events of the election that saw him first elected, the swift response and later the horror.
On the walls and throughout the museum are words etched in stone:
*******************
A unique experience
On one occasion in D.C we watched a famous speech by Barack Obama when he was a Senator: A More Perfect Union. The Philadelphia speech was penned by Obama himself, rather than a speechwriter (a rarity in politics at a senior level). In many ways the speech reflected Obama's political philosophy and approach as reflected in his previous writings.
As with any campaign, the depth of content in his writings was known to the politically astute, and mostly those on the democratic side of politics, but to the larger population this depth was invariably unknown. The events leading to the Philadelphia speech was to then turn attention to these matters at a crucial point in the campaign.
The context was at a pivotal time in his campaign for the Presidential nomination against Hillary Clinton. Video revelations of Pastor Jeremiah Wright went public and viral. These videos showed Rev Wright condemning America and saying words in tones and words which reminded every viewer of anti-American sentiment and feeling. I recalled watching it on TV in Australia at the time and being shocked and surprised at what took place. The predicted response was to feel anxiety towards a nation polarised and pressured by such issues, and at a time where these pressures were building in a crucial election.
During our session one person reminded us that at the time nobody knew if this would destroy Obama's campaign. The campaign between Obama and Clinton had been drawn out and was highly contested. Obama's response had to be honest and go to the heart. So much was at stake. The speech had to be honest and transformational.
The contents of the speech, consistent with Obama's earlier writings in his books and public speeches, demonstrated his ability to inspire. It was unlike anything a candidate had presented before. At the time I remember it as a speech reflecting his political and policy narrative to date and, on this occasion, as I looked around the room and some people were emotional watching it.
For those who have been fortunate to experience the journey of watching Obama go from Senator to President, and to (after this post) observe the years that will follow his Presidency, the speech will stand as one of the greats in history.
Here's a closing story to the speech and one of my favourites in political history:
*******************
^ I am grateful for the opportunity presented by the US Consul-General office in Melbourne and, on the ground in the US, the support of the US Department of State and partners.
* (In line with what is appropriate, I have not set out to write about experiences where a person can be attributed to comments because the discussions took place in an environment where people could be free to discuss matters without being publicly misconstrued. This is why some of the descriptions are generic.)
This post* is part 1 about my experiences in Washington D.C.
*******************
Introduction - one year on
Washington D.C. was my first city to explore.
Following the gruelling trip from Sydney to LA, and then across the vast width of the US, I remember arriving late at night at an airport where arrivals catch a tram to the luggage area. The airport was new and crisp, its walls white and ceilings high. All the shops were shut, and at one point I was unsure of where to go as our group of arrivals caught elevators down a story to wait for the tram. Seeing no signs or people to point me in the right direction, I simply followed them.
It was put to me the day before by a taxi driver in Sydney that the taxi driver's in the US were rude and arrogant, and that I had to watch out for them. I remember late at night at Washington waiting only moments for a taxi and being greeted by a very polite man with an Indian accent. 'Yes sir, very much sir' he would saw as we talked. Although it was late, the road seemed to stretch some length as I looked out the window for my first glimpses of the US. I saw large block buildings, some 6 to 10 stories high, scattered for miles. I was reminded of sections of Melbourne, such as St. Kilda, where bustling commercial centres joined buildings end on end, only this cities stretch seemed to go much further.
I arrived one day before the program's official start so was able to explore the city. Having first visited cities such as Melbourne and Sydney as a young adult, I recall being struck by the differences and peculiarities of structure and landscape: Sydney with its beautiful harbour and select sections of the city; Melbourne with its trams and close surrounding suburbs, eateries and laneways.
Previously, I had been to Sydney a number of times but only really set out around the Darling Harbour area. On one trip I went for a cruise through the harbour and spent time at the north shore, across the bridge. Another time I found myself walking during the day in the cities parks in the centre and the bustling commercial centre. Suddenly, I came across this green area, having thought I knew much of the city, and was awestruck by the vibrancy and richness of a city park. I walked through the commercial hub of the city, having previously thought that the breadth of the city itself was a commercial hub, and came to find sections of wealth divided by geography.
In Melbourne I stayed at hotels at the docklands end, and so made an effort to walk throughout the day and at night across the city, north to south, to truly feel the place. The architecture of old buildings; its attention to detail; its effort and toil representing the habits of a time passed, struck me as vocal points of history and place. The bustling walkers through the city, of all ages, of all different attire and all on different missions, reminded me of what is talked about up north where I'm from - where city life is busy and you don't get time to stop, think and reflect.
With these experiences and the newness of each journey I was eager to set foot in the US.
*******************
A place I'd like to revisit
A memorable place I visited in Washington was a cafe called Busboys and Poets. I remember vividly the set-up: the corner bookstore of marginalised and eccentric books stretched to the high ceiling; the cafe and lounges which looked familiar and like the ones back home yet occupied by Americans (many glued to their devices enjoying the free wifi); it's busy waiters moving and serving as if those who were there should know the rules of human traffic and its ebbs and flows; the side room with its murals filled with creativity, politics, history, activism. Fortunate for us, we were there to hear from a Professor who had written books about America's position in the world.
The website of Busboys and Poets reads:
Busboys and Poets is a community where racial and cultural connections are consciously uplifted...a place to take a deliberate pause and feed your mind, body and soul...a space for art, culture and politics to intentionally collide...we believe that by creating such a space we can inspire social change and begin to transform our community and the world.A highlight of our trip was to meet and hear from the owner, Andy Shallal (see this Washington Post piece here). Shallal talked about what was behind the concept and his vision and passion as an artist and activist. We talked about freedom, what it meant to him and what it meant for America and American history. (This concept - freedom - was to become a key focus of my trip which I will write about later)
tribal statement
I remember revisiting Busboys later in the night at the suggestion of Shallal. It was poetry open-mic night. Our small group waited at the bookstore exploring the many books that cannot be found in mainstream stores (the US is so big that it has a little of everything for everyone, as an Australian recently reminded me). The event was already booked out and we were eager to get in and get a seat. One by one different artists approached the stage and gave their version of whatever they liked. I was awe-struck at the depth of talent and diversity of the many artists in the audience. There were poems about politics, identity, love, race, belonging, sexuality, history and so forth. Just by seeing each artist you could see the richness and difference in histories and position. At one point, a man delivered lyrics aimed at his partner but shared with the audience. Another young woman shared her views of the world including dark moments of her history, and what this now meant to her; she was met with boos of disdain from the crowd. Another shared his feelings of race, his anger and poise coming through strongly as he projected a voice that appeared to go through many trials and tribulations, including drugs. The emcee, a flamboyant gay man, reflected on each piece with controlled judgement and sparked laughter from the audience with his jokes. One year on, I have vivid memories of the night and am grateful for the experience. To me, this type of event typified what a large and prosperous country can offer in all its diversity and talent. The underground nature of it - a simple night out - gave authenticity to its voice and the freedom of those to choose to come and share their stories and gifts.
Later, the next day, I caught a taxi and the senior black American driver recounted the days when Martin Luther King Jr was killed. "People rioted all along these streets. People were out in the streets and they were angry". Apparently, the location of Busboys was a central part in this story.
Back home in Alice Springs I mentioned the place to friends. Two people I knew were aware of the place. One was an American citizen who was a co-worker. The other, a young Australian who worked in activism, had also been there. She told me she was there at the time Obama was elected, and recounted how the streets were lined up with people wanting to get in. The air of buzz and excitement at the thought was obvious.
*******************
Memories etched in my mind: the Holocaust museum
A powerful experience was my visit the Holocaust museum. I went there twice: first on the day I arrived when Hurricane Irene travelled up the east coast, and secondly with the group I was travelling with. On the first day rain was pelting hard. The museum, built with bricks and construction similar to the buildings of old Germany, was grim in appearance and darkened by the mood of the distant Hurricane.
I remember vividly one section at the top, where visitors need to cross between two different sections of the building through a tunnel with glass windows and thick, cold steel (see the picture below at the top). The rain pelted as I walked through. I remember being stung by the images and horror I had seen, thinking about them as I saw rain pelt and hit the glass above and to the side of me. Because the Hurricane was close I was one of the only visitors, a fortunate experience given the personal space and un-busyness that I am used to where I live and grew up.
The second visit allowed me to absorb bits of information that I missed on the first trip. On this occasion I saw old women with stark white hair helping at the counter - volunteers - and survivors of the holocaust. In my mind now I picture them smiling with visitors and helping them with directions, glad that their experiences and the experiences of their loved ones can be remembered and acknowledged with purpose and regret.
 |
| My photo from the outside and rear of the museum. At the top you can see the tunnels that connect sections (I remember the rain pelting on a day when the museum was virtually empty). |
On the second occasion I saw others crying as they walked through. They were middle aged and senior people, and I imagined them to be directly affected by the experience sometime in their life and along their family lines.
I saw video footage about surgeons performing all kinds of tests. I saw that what was done was not only Jews but disabled and gay people. At one stage was a pile-up of burnt out shoes. I learnt about the international response and how dedicated journalists and radio announcers constantly gave updates of what was happening. The Olympics were held and were hailed as a success (propaganda by Germany to show that nothing bad was happening). Some Western countries went from dealing with the issue of mass migration of Jews (even turning back boats) to intervening. I learnt about individual stories of people who, by luck, escaped extermination and were never to be reunited with their family. At the end section of the museum I was surprised to come across a familiar image - a section for young people based on a book a journalist in Alice Springs had given to me as a gift for my children some years back. The book sought to teach young children what had happened.
I had always been struck by the history of world war II. This time I was able to see the many images and stories; some personal, some of the logistics and organisation of a collective craziness, some of the events as they unfolded leading from one to the other. I was interested to learn of the early days of Hitler's rise; the resentment following the first world war, the defeat and his jailing, the political tensions and dynamic, the initial dismissal of a far right political figure by the mainstream majority, the drastic events of the election that saw him first elected, the swift response and later the horror.
On the walls and throughout the museum are words etched in stone:
First they came for the socialists,(From wiki - “First they came…” is a famous statement attributed to pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) about the inactivity of German intellectuals following the Nazi rise to power and the purging of their chosen targets, group after group.)
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.
Then they came for me,
and there was no one left to speak for me.
*******************
A unique experience
On one occasion in D.C we watched a famous speech by Barack Obama when he was a Senator: A More Perfect Union. The Philadelphia speech was penned by Obama himself, rather than a speechwriter (a rarity in politics at a senior level). In many ways the speech reflected Obama's political philosophy and approach as reflected in his previous writings.
As with any campaign, the depth of content in his writings was known to the politically astute, and mostly those on the democratic side of politics, but to the larger population this depth was invariably unknown. The events leading to the Philadelphia speech was to then turn attention to these matters at a crucial point in the campaign.
The context was at a pivotal time in his campaign for the Presidential nomination against Hillary Clinton. Video revelations of Pastor Jeremiah Wright went public and viral. These videos showed Rev Wright condemning America and saying words in tones and words which reminded every viewer of anti-American sentiment and feeling. I recalled watching it on TV in Australia at the time and being shocked and surprised at what took place. The predicted response was to feel anxiety towards a nation polarised and pressured by such issues, and at a time where these pressures were building in a crucial election.
During our session one person reminded us that at the time nobody knew if this would destroy Obama's campaign. The campaign between Obama and Clinton had been drawn out and was highly contested. Obama's response had to be honest and go to the heart. So much was at stake. The speech had to be honest and transformational.
The contents of the speech, consistent with Obama's earlier writings in his books and public speeches, demonstrated his ability to inspire. It was unlike anything a candidate had presented before. At the time I remember it as a speech reflecting his political and policy narrative to date and, on this occasion, as I looked around the room and some people were emotional watching it.
For those who have been fortunate to experience the journey of watching Obama go from Senator to President, and to (after this post) observe the years that will follow his Presidency, the speech will stand as one of the greats in history.
Here's a closing story to the speech and one of my favourites in political history:
There is one story in particularly that I'd like to leave you with today - a story I told when I had the great honor of speaking on Dr. King's birthday at his home church, Ebenezer Baptist, in Atlanta.
There is a young, twenty-three year old white woman named Ashley Baia who organized for our campaign in Florence, South Carolina. She had been working to organize a mostly African-American community since the beginning of this campaign, and one day she was at a roundtable discussion where everyone went around telling their story and why they were there.
And Ashley said that when she was nine years old, her mother got cancer. And because she had to miss days of work, she was let go and lost her health care. They had to file for bankruptcy, and that's when Ashley decided that she had to do something to help her mom.
She knew that food was one of their most expensive costs, and so Ashley convinced her mother that what she really liked and really wanted to eat more than anything else was mustard and relish sandwiches. Because that was the cheapest way to eat.
She did this for a year until her mom got better, and she told everyone at the roundtable that the reason she joined our campaign was so that she could help the millions of other children in the country who want and need to help their parents too.
Now Ashley might have made a different choice. Perhaps somebody told her along the way that the source of her mother's problems were blacks who were on welfare and too lazy to work, or Hispanics who were coming into the country illegally. But she didn't. She sought out allies in her fight against injustice.
Anyway, Ashley finishes her story and then goes around the room and asks everyone else why they're supporting the campaign. They all have different stories and reasons. Many bring up a specific issue. And finally they come to this elderly black man who's been sitting there quietly the entire time. And Ashley asks him why he's there. And he does not bring up a specific issue. He does not say health care or the economy. He does not say education or the war. He does not say that he was there because of Barack Obama. He simply says to everyone in the room, "I am here because of Ashley."
"I'm here because of Ashley." By itself, that single moment of recognition between that young white girl and that old black man is not enough. It is not enough to give health care to the sick, or jobs to the jobless, or education to our children.
But it is where we start. It is where our union grows stronger. And as so many generations have come to realize over the course of the two-hundred and twenty one years since a band of patriots signed that document in Philadelphia, that is where the perfection begins.
*******************
^ I am grateful for the opportunity presented by the US Consul-General office in Melbourne and, on the ground in the US, the support of the US Department of State and partners.
* (In line with what is appropriate, I have not set out to write about experiences where a person can be attributed to comments because the discussions took place in an environment where people could be free to discuss matters without being publicly misconstrued. This is why some of the descriptions are generic.)
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