Four years ago Sasha and Malia were 7 and 10 when President Obama first took office. At just 4 years old at the time, The Girl promptly asked if Sasha and Malia could come over to play. The Boy was only 2 and really didn’t have an opinion on the matter.
I can’t believe it’s been four years. Now The Girl is 8 and realizes she can’t just invite the first family over for a play date, and The Boy is 6 and has an opinion on everything. Both make me a little sad. In four years, my children have become worldly enough to recognize societal structures and to have opinions about them.
This go round, I cried through most of the inauguration ceremony. I think four years ago I was too dumfounded to cry. Or maybe I did and I just don’t remember. Four years is a long time to remember that level of detail. I do recall, however, I was riveted, and this inauguration was the same.
While I still marvel that we have a 2-term black president, I realize that my children, particularly The Boy, will have no memory of a time when it seemed impossible for a black person to be president. I like that, but it worries me.
The revolution, though rarely televised, always has been and continues to be real, and I want my children to feel the gravitas of the history they are living.
Yet I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that their world will continue to be a place where barriers are broken. I’m hopeful that they will be strong enough to break those barriers themselves. I’m hopeful the barriers will disappear.
While all of these hopes require revolution, now is a time for celebration. It is the inauguration after all.
Here’s to four more years.