January 25–February 1, 2001

cover story

Inaugural Bawl, part 2

Men in black: (From left) Brian Hobbs of Tulsa, Matt Pyeatte of Houston and Jason Reese of Dallas celebrate Dubbya’s inauguration Texas-style.

The theme for President Bush’s inaugural weekend was "Celebrating America’s Spirit Together." Easier said than done.

by Gwen Shaffer

photographs by Lexie Giarraputo

part 1 | part 2

For weeks leading up to inauguration weekend, Washington Police Chief Charles Ramsey warned that his officers and the Secret Service would enforce the strictest security measures ever employed for such an occasion.

He wasn’t exaggerating.

At Union Station, storage lockers are "out of service." An attendant explains to two young women that the Secret Service closed the lockers "in case people like you have bombs."

He does, however, offer to check their bags for the remainder of the day. One of the women hands the attendant a plastic shopping bag in lieu of actual luggage. "Is this okay?" she asks.

"It’s great," he replies with a sly smile. "Makes it easier for us to go through." It is difficult to discern if he is serious or teasing.

Closer to the National Mall, visible signs of tightened security are everywhere.

The main branch of Washington’s public library is closed for the day.

The National Guard is using the building as a makeshift base, and the stacks swarm with camouflage-clad men and women, ready to be called into action.

Soggy demonstrators and Bush supporters make their way toward the parade route. They are ushered into snaking lines that lead to central checkpoints. At the front of the queue, police search bags and flip open cameras. Every person must pass through a metal detector.

Metal barricades ensure that crossing most intersections will be impossible. As spectators jockey for a better view of the parade route, they can be overheard grumbling about being unable to leave the immediate area without subjecting themselves to another lengthy security line.

These police tactics make it impossible for thousands of spectators to get anywhere near the festivities.

Nevertheless, even South Street on a warm Saturday night doesn’t compare to the crowds jamming the sidewalk along Pennsylvania Avenue.

Protesters carry signs declaring, "Clarence Thomas: The only black vote that counted" and "Bush + Dick = Fucked." They chant "Hail to the Thief" and "Racist, sexist, anti-gay. Bush and Cheney, go away."

By contrast, Bush supporters pin official inauguration buttons to their lapels and hold up patriotic signs. One group carries a banner asking, sarcastically, "Where’s Jesse?"

The clash of political ideologies leads to frequent verbal wrangling.

A pack of demonstrators wearing cardboard deer heads (like the masks donned by protesters at the RNC) prances through the crowd, chanting anti-Bush songs.

A penny-loafered man passing by warns, "Better be careful, hunting season is upon us."

Pro-choice activists congregate a few blocks away. Shannon Clasen storms over to a teenage boy hoisting a "NOW" banner. With her blonde bob and lavender turtleneck, she embodies a Republican stereotype. A nametag still clings to Clasen’s sweater; she’s apparently on her way from an "official" inaugural function.

"Why are you holding a NOW sign?" she demands to know. "You’re a man. You don’t represent me or my values."

Taken by surprise, the kid meets her glare with silence.

"All NOW is about is the murder of little babies," Clasen continues, lecturing him on the immorality of abortion.

"NOW stands for a lot more than that," the teen finally manages to say.

"Well, that’s all you ever make noise about — that, and the workplace. You’ve ruined the workplace. You can’t even talk at work, anymore!"

To this, the kid finally strikes out. "Well, now you don’t have to sleep your way to the top as much."

Feeling she is the clear winner of this battle, Clasen shakes her head in disgust and saunters off.

 

To quote the official media guide for Bush’s inaugural weekend, "Americans love a parade."

	Bush-whacking: A protester makes her subtle point while waiting in line to go through security.

The inaugural parade is "a salute to our strength of diversity as well as a salute from the armed services to their new commander in chief," the pamphlet says. "A glorious procession, its route from the Capitol to the White House, passes by marble buildings and granite memorials that provide a visual backdrop depicting part of our nation’s great history."

Looking around today, it is obvious that the authors of this guide omitted a few other details about celebrating America’s spirit together. Like the snipers positioned on the rooftops of the U.S. Treasury building and others along Pennsylvania Avenue.

The parade is scheduled to begin at 2 p.m., but is held up. By 3 p.m., a crowd gathered at 10th and Pennsylvania wonders aloud why the procession has yet to file by. Strangers begin to make small talk, and a 30ish woman asks a guy next to her if he came to the parade because he is "pro-Bush."

"Yes, I’m pro-democracy," he says.

Another woman standing nearby has covered her 10-gallon hat in clear plastic to protect it from the rain. She smiles at the exchange.

Three friends from Philadelphia — Ed Carlson, Lauren Perez and Brandon McBride — are among the throng waiting for something to happen.

Carlson says he wanted to check out the scene in Washington because he enjoys "dissent." Still, he doesn’t plan on actively participating.

"I really just came to observe," Carlson says.

Moments later, dozens of cops on motorcycles, wearing black leather jackets, escort police Chief Ramsey down the street. Many protesters resent the man responsible for what they consider to be an unconstitutional level of security.

"Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame," they chant until Ramsey is out of sight.

And now, the big moment. A radio announcer broadcasting from the parade excitedly speaks into his mike. "Here come President Bush and Mrs. Bush."

Before the announcer can elaborate, a chorus of "boos" blankets the air. An older couple claps gloved hands in approval. The wife, who appears to be in her 70s, insists that the number of Bush supporters attending the inaugural activities "far outweighs" the throng of protesters.

"This is utter nonsense," she says, referring to the activists who surround her. "It’s really too bad it couldn’t be on a positive note. I wish Bush good luck and God bless him."

Then the seemingly endless procession of marching bands, patriotic floats and choirs gets underway. The majorettes in their short skirts shiver as they twirl.

Bob Madigan, a reporter for Washington’s all-news radio station WTOP, is serving as the official announcer for the parade. Because of the foul weather, he sits cocooned in a heated plastic tent at the corner of 10th and Pennsylvania Avenue.

He is lucky to be there. Other announcer stands along the parade route have been shut down, Madigan says, "because the police feared for their safety."

"We had protesters around here but we made them laugh," he says. "We showed them that they have a right to be here."

Earlier in the day, Madigan teased protesters by asking them to enunciate their chants more clearly.

"As far as I’m concerned, this is not a political event," he says. "It signifies the peaceful transfer of power from one president to another."

Two hours after the Bushes pass by, the Star of Minnesota Marching Band tramps down the street, blaring a musical selection called "Wings." The band is the final act in a procession that included 80 military and civilian marching units (representing nearly all 50 states), 15 floats and 21 horse squadrons.

 

The crowd disperses, seeking refuge from the bone-chilling rain. Some find their way inside an ESPN Zone restaurant at 12th and E Streets, NW. There are, it seems, more televisions tuned to basketball and football games in the bar than marching bands in the inaugural parade.

Waitress Janise Buckmon says that while it is a busy afternoon for the bar, the number of patrons is typical for a Saturday. What is different, however, is the type of people she’s been waiting on, Buckmon says.

"For one thing, people are not here to watch sports," she says.

Almost everyone eating at Buckmon’s tables is from out of town, she observes, adding that they tend to be "a bit uppity."

The waitress is more than willing to put up with them. "They tip good, though," she says.

A weather forecast predicting up to five inches of snow to fall overnight convinces thousands of demonstrators and Republicans to leave Washington immediately following the parade.

At 5:30 p.m., Union Station is swarming with travelers. But one, in particular, stands out. Alice Copeland Brown is dressed like a pilgrim.

A very angry pilgrim. A police officer just told Brown, 63, to keep her political signs turned down. Apparently, he doesn’t appreciate the laminated photo of MAD Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman — he does look remarkably like Dubya — hanging from her neck. A poster in Brown’s hand reads, "Elect Gore in 2004."

"To protest the election, I came dressed as Joan Tilly Hurst, my 15th grandmother," says Brown, who is on her way back home to Boston. "She came here for freedom, and I can’t even walk into a train station. They told me my flag is a weapon! Right! I’m a very dangerous software engineer."

Even though the Au Bon Pain bakery in the center of Union Station is closed, every table surrounding it is full.

Elvira Williams, 50, takes a load off at a seat near the concourse. The Christmas trees on her sweatshirt barely peek out from behind a dozen political buttons. "Bushit," "Buck Fush" and "W Stands for What???" pretty much sum up her feelings on the election.

Williams spent three days on a bus, traveling from Boca Raton to Washington, to attend today’s inaugural activities. Just 10 hours after arriving here, it is time to reverse the journey and head back to Florida.

The Sunshine State used to be nice, Williams says, "before the Bushwhackers moved in."

Williams, a public housing tenant who wears gold rings on every finger, contends that Gov. Jeb Bush and his administration have infiltrated public housing with "crack cocaine."

"They are trying to run us out of our homes," she says.

Williams doesn’t think George Bush stole the election in Florida. "I know it."

As a horde of disheveled people load onto trains pulling out of the station, women dressed in taffeta and sequin gowns swirl in, accompanied by dates in tuxedos.

One of the Bush administration’s eight official inaugural balls is being held at Union Station, this one for New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Anyone interested in "celebrating America’s spirit" in formal attire may do so for $125 — and the right political connections with access to tickets.

Two women dressed in puffy, long dresses and accessorized with precious gems guard the door leading into the party. Monica Chopra, a 22-year-old who lives in town, says she is excited to help out with the inaugural activities.

Because of all the sorority formals Chopra attended while she was a student at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, she didn’t even need to buy a new dress for the evening.

Chopra has "a good story" about how she ended up volunteering at the ball, she promises.

"In college, I was a Kappa Alpha Theta," Chopra begins. "And Laura Bush was a Kappa Alpha Theta at SMU [Southern Methodist University]… The alumni group sent out an e-mail requesting help for the weekend."

While Chopra supports the new president, he is not her reason for volunteering.

"This is not about George W. Bush," she stresses. "It’s about Laura Bush. You go, sister!"

 

Waiting for the Metro to arrive, three guys in their early 20s mill around the subway platform. They are immediately noticeable. For one thing, one of the guys applied his cologne with a heavy hand. And, true to the Texas stereotype, they are wearing black 10-gallon hats and cowboy boots with their tuxes.

They almost look cute.

When asked how they managed to swing tickets to an inaugural ball, Matt Pyeatte doesn’t hesitate to answer.

"My grandfather is a congressman from Texas’s 14th District," he beams. "Ron Paul."

Pyeatte and his two buddies are having the time of their lives in Washington, they say. Their seats for Bush’s swearing-in that morning were "amazing," and they are clearly impressed with the city’s reception of Texans. Even the cops in Washington have been "cordial," the guys insist.

Could all this positive attention be connected to what they are wearing on their heads and feet?

"When you dress formally in Houston, you wear boots and a hat," Pyeatte says with exasperation, apparently caused by having to explain Texans’ fashion sensibilities too many times. "It’s normal at country club or yacht club functions."

Outside of Union Station, the sky is dark and the sleet has changed to bona fide snow. Women step out of limousines and taxicabs, daintily jumping over puddles and patches of ice.

Once safe inside, they join an inaugural gala already in full swing. Red, white and blue swags drape down from the majestic columns of the station’s Great Hall. A screen large enough to rival any multiplex theater broadcasts images of the band. Colored spotlights roam the room.

Besides checking out all the fancy dresses and elaborate hairstyles, one wonders how such a pricey event could have the gall to have a cash bar. A band called Escapade rocks the room with a Bonnie Raitt cover, "Something to Talk About." Revelers pack every inch of the dance floor.

Sen. Arlen Specter arrives with his wife, Joan. The crowd swarms around the couple, excited for a good photo op.

When questioned about the highlight of Bush’s inaugural speech, Specter comments on the president’s theme of "unity."

"He said there is a place in the country for synagogues, mosques and churches," the senator notes. "I thought that was very important."

Just after 11 p.m., a hush spreads over the crowd and everyone begins moving toward the stage. Rumor has it that newly anointed Vice President Dick Cheney has arrived. Sure enough, within moments, Lynne Cheney emerges on stage.

"At every campaign stop, my job was to warm up the crowd by telling a story about Dick," she says. "The best part was when it was time to introduce my husband as ‘the next vice president.’ The pleasure tonight is — how do I say it? — BIG TIME. With so much pride and love, I introduce my husband, the vice president, Dick Cheney."

After his fans settle down, Cheney cracks a few jokes.

"Last year, Lynne and I thought that if we got behind a candidate and campaigned hard, maybe he’d win the presidency and we’d get to attend the inaugural," he says amid laughter. "We never knew we’d have such great seats."

After several stories about his 36-year marriage, Cheney finally touches on politics. "People on both sides of the aisle are able to take pride in what we accomplished," he says. "It’s going to be a fantastic eight years…I’ll do my best to give you a government you can be proud of."

The Gene Donati Orchestra strikes up its instruments. Cheney grabs his wife’s hands and they slow dance for the audience.

 

A club called Insomnia is located exactly one mile from Union Station. According to MapQuest, that’s a four-minute drive through downtown Washington.

Psychologically, so to speak, it’s a lot further.

It is Saturday night and Insomnia is hosting a counter-inaugural party, featuring a handful of punk and indie rock bands. The show is a fundraiser for the Justice Action Movement, one of the lead organizers of this weekend’s inaugural demonstrations.

The partygoers here are not arriving in limos, and no ushers escort them to the door — which can be tricky to find, by the way.

That’s because Insomnia is located on the top level of a seedy parking garage in Washington’s Chinatown neighborhood. You enter the club by climbing four flights of concrete steps, through a stairwell decorated with red and blue graffiti.

The space itself still looks like a drab parking garage. But yellow and red murals brighten the walls, and a disco ball spins in the middle of the room. White fabric sculptures — reminiscent of the distinctive architecture of Denver’s airport — stretch across the ceiling, partially concealing concrete beams.

Performing on stage now is Dingleberry Dynasty, a band that’s as much about comedy and performance art as it is about music. As part of the set, the lead singer strips down to a leopard print nightie and later dons a fuzzy dog costume.

Dingleberry Dynasty plays "The Contradiction Song." The first verse goes like this: "I don’t repeat myself, I don’t repeat myself, I don’t repeat myself…"

Nicholas Jenkins is among several dozen people listening to the music. The 31-year-old New Yorker wears heavy black eyeglass frames and a knit cap over his blond hair. Jenkins came down to demonstrate in D.C. with a friend, Brian Keyser, 32. They both believe it is important to vocalize their frustration with the outcome of the presidential election.

"Bush stole the election and doesn’t deserve to be here," asserts Keyser, who is on the stocky side, with straight brown hair tucked behind his ears.

Just as Bush launched into his inaugural address 12 hours earlier, Jenkins fires off a speech about how Clinton was supposed to be "our man" but he still let liberals down by moving toward the political center.

"Our man didn’t do anything for us but we couldn’t criticize him, so we spent eight years in silence," Jenkins says. The words roll off his tongue easily. Clearly, this is not the first time Jenkins has uttered them.

"Now, we have an opportunity to galvanize all those people who kept quiet during the Clinton administration," he says. "We’re back."

part 1 | part 2