So There Was A Big Election. So What?

Nov. 11, 2016

The election is over, and I’m happy to report that Washington, D.C., the shining city on a hill, and the government that fuels it seem pretty much the same, no better no worse.

That is both the good news and the bad news — a Trump administration hasn’t had enough time to do any damage. That’ll change.

The folks who put their faith in politicians and their promises probably woke up with a morning-after hangover, moaning, “Lord, what have we done?” The unfortunate answer: “not much,” or “we shall see.”

Having worked in the government for a number of years (decades, really) and seen firsthand how little actually gets done on a daily basis, the “not much” answer is a pretty safe bet. In the federal government, the wheels of progress turn slowly. That’s not to say federal workers don’t work hard, they do. But a lot of that work gets stuck on the gatekeepers’ (political appointees) desks while they flit away the time, dreaming up new ways to put their dubious marks on the voters.

And by the time the gatekeepers and promise makers discover how difficult it is to keep their promises and change the world, their term ends and the process starts all over again.

There’s only one sure thing in this election aftermath: Donald Trump will be one of the most unpopular politicians in recent history. As the Peggy Lee song suggests, we may be left asking, “Is this all there is?” If this is all there is, can there be any hope for the republic?

We think about this as we drive across the 14th Street Bridge, across Pennsylvania Avenue, into the heart of D.C., within a stone’s throw from the White House. We find temporary comfort in the words Philip Roth writes in his memoir, “Patrimony”: “I am an optimistic American, and I don’t believe things are destroyed for good by any presidency.” We hope.

And that’s the message we read in the eyes of the people we meet on this city’s streets. Those eyes seem to say, “We’ve seen this movie before; we know the ending, but it will pass.”

Washington is not a town in which one can easily lose one’s self, and it has as much in common with Traverse City as it does with Syria. For starters, Traverse is a place where you can go and almost everyone knows your name after merely a year has passed. Late-night walks in Traverse following a light snowfall unfold without incident; in Washington, people panic at the first hint of snow. An inch of snow or less closes down this city. Snow is considered a naturally recurring part of Traverse living.

In Washington, however, in the first week of November, the streets are clear, traffic moves — well, sometimes; horns blast, drivers gesture angrily, just as we remember it.

I know these streets so well, I can feel them, taste them, drive them and walk them with my eyes closed day or night. As Toni Morrison wrote in “Beloved,” I “rememory” them. Familiar faces floating by, faint smiles appearing to greet me. Interest quickly fades: I am not a member of the new or the outgoing administration, and there’s nothing I can do for them. Washington is a place where deals are made, friends betrayed. You are only as important as your last official “position.” To “be somebody” in D.C., one must prepare always for the day you’re nobody. And make peace with the certainty of that inevitable fate.

These streets don’t feel nearly as safe as those in Traverse, but there’s still something special about them. I cannot deny it. Maybe it’s a sense of continuity without community; maybe it’s the promise of change that never happens.

Or maybe it’s the strength and the durability of the neoclassical architecture style that capture my imagination as I stroll past the White House. Federal buildings all reflect the styles of Greek revival architecture, which were a major influence during the late 18th and early 19th centuries, when many of the foundational buildings of the United States government were constructed.

That is, unless you recall the fate of the Roman and Greek empires.

Occasionally someone who “used to be somebody,” passes us, their faces suffused with shock, surprise and disappointment. Still coming to grips with their sudden irrelevance and precipitous lost of status. Washington gets a bad rap. Haven’t you heard that if you want a friend in Washington, better scurry on down to the pound and adopt a dog? I’ve heard that the city’s dogs, too, have begun to ask, “What have you done for me lately?”

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in “The Crack-Up” that life is a process of breaking down. He added that the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.

This year, the year of the abominable election, has seen a kind of national breakdown that may last for years. The sheer ugliness of the election feels like a crack-up where we are forced to juggle thoughts of hope and despair, fear and resignation.

Being back in D.C., walking these familiar streets, marveling at the architectural wonders built on the backs of my ancestors, seeing familiar faces and places that are still as intact in reality as they are in my memory, helps to settle nerves rubbed raw from an election season gone wrong. But this city marches on as if nothing either monstrous or magnificent has occurred (secretly we believe we must contend with little of both). This brings some relief; some, but not much.

The feelings that emanates from these buildings this fine November day from these citizens of the Capital City seems to be: So there was a big election.

So what?

The republic will survive this.

Isiah Smith, Jr. is a former newspaper columnist for the Miami Times. He worked as a psychotherapist before attending the University of Miami Law School, where he also received a Master’s Degree in Psychology. In December 2013, he retired from the Department of Energy’s Office of General Counsel, where he served as a Deputy Assistant General Counsel for Administrative Litigation and Information Law. Isiah lives in Traverse City with his wife Marlene.