I have seen the future we can enjoy if we work for it

Seeing ghosts at the Democratic National Convention

July 2016 has left many of us in America scared, scarred, and disoriented. So I did not know what to expect when a wormhole opened up in Philadelphia last night, enveloped the Democratic National Convention, and transported us into our mid-21st century future. I’m happy to let you know, through the morning haze, what I remember that future looks like:

• The Latino Cabinet Secretary, in a back staircase after midnight, waist-bent to shake the hand of a shy, white boy, whose father beams in pride beside him
• A crowd of generous, supportive people of all ages, forged by common purpose and joy into a community of fast friends, who look like the diverse country they live in
• The surge of applause, not for the TV stars on a crowded stage of celebrity, but for the Broadway singer with the once-in-a-generation talent
• The embrace of solidarity between an African-American President and the white woman half a generation older, who he recognized as a tenacious former rival now called to secure and build on his legacy
• The police officer standing on point in the shuttle bus, as steely-eyed and wide-smiled on the return trip at 2am as she had been when we first saw her heading out to the convention when her “12-ish hour” shift began
• The young protesters expressing their passion and anger loudly, looking almost eager for the verbal recriminations that followed but showing not a hint of fear of physical harm
• My friends Dave Wilkinson and Michael Smith: committed, ebullient, brilliant, and passionate to serve — exactly what we expect in our White House public servants
• The look of hope and joy and pride and love on the face of my beautiful wife, whose parents fought to elect the first black mayor of Newark, NJ and whose father, when we invited him on Christmas morning almost eight years ago to join us at the Presidential inauguration, but only if he was willing to wake before dawn so we could catch the commuter train in from Maryland, said without pause: “I don’t care if I have to start walking today; I will be there.”

And when we did catch that train on that frigid January morning we walked into another wormhole. But that one did not transport us to the future as much as it brought the past into our present. The ghosts of our past came to Washington that morning. We felt the presence of the freedom fighters and dog-defiers and immigrant strivers whose struggle secured that moment. We honored them with songs they knew. They shared our sense of arrival. And they were surprised and relieved and exultant that this had come to pass.

Yesterday in Philadelphia we saw instead the ghosts of our future, the way the “children and grandchildren” so often mentioned on stage, could live together in the “majority minority” country they will inherit.

They too exulted in what they saw.

But they could not afford the luxury of relief. Because when the wormhole around Philadelphia collapses tonight, and we all go back to living in America in July 2016, that future will be anything but secured.

From what I’ve seen, it’s worth fighting for.

Mrs B-L and I undeterred by the selfie stick ban, stand above the Convention Floor. (Thanks Amalgamated Bank for the invitation to join you all there.)