On how it feels to be living in Washington DC today, on the eve of the biggest election of all our lives
I spent the weekend walking through DC, then visiting Pennslyvania, the fought over state that could decide the election. This is what I've observed.
The black squirrels who scamper along the power lines around our house have eaten some of the pumpkins I’d put on the porch. We picked the pumpkins on a farm in Virginia a few weeks ago, after spending the weekend on the edge of the Shenandoah National Park. We’d eaten cinnamon buns from an Amish market and delighted at the vivid brilliance of the orange leaves that were starting to fall. As we drove backto Washington DC across the south western expanses of Virginia, Dash tried counting the Trump Vance signs outside every house we passed, but eventually lost count. There were too many to keep up.
I was thinking of this as I lay in bed at 5am this morning; the cicadas, still so loud in the trees outside my bedroom just a few days ago, seem to be quiet now, and instead I’m hearing the scream of sirens in a further part of the city. I try to quieten my pounding heart, telling myself that waking to sirens isn’t abnormal, in a capital city, but I’m sure they’ve been louder, and more insistent, in the last few days, now that we’re a day away from the most important election of our lives. I’m feeling American life at the moment, and at the weekend walked through the political heart of DC, then yesterday drove out to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, the state capital of one of the most fiercely fought over regions of the entire country, where voting patterns could swing the result of the entire election. I don’t claim to understand the complexities of policy, but I write about the way life feels, so wanted to record how it feels to be living in this part of America, hours before the election.
When I watch the news, which I’m doing a lot at the moment, or scrolling social media, which I do even more, scanning early poll results, I’m always surprised that, when I see images of the Capitol, something I can’t control inside me registers a feeling of home. I don’t claim to know the city well, but I’ve lived here for a year and a half, and have walked around big parts it, with the kids and on my own. In Oxfordshire, where I lived until last summer, I used to look up to the ancient horizon line of the Ridgeway when I wanted to feel home. Weirdly, I feel it now when I see the DC Capitol building. I’m as surprised by this as anyone.
I remember seeing the Capitol building, so distant, so unknown, in 2016, while watching the news from Oxfordshire when Trump was elected. I remember standing in front of my cooker as the children, who were babies and toddlers then, built train track all over the floor and flung lidless felt-tip pens around the kitchen, as it became clear Hilary Clinton had been defeated. I remember Evangeline asking me why I was crying, and trying to explain what it would have meant for a woman to be elected leader of America. I could not explain to her, a 4-year-old at that time, why the election of a sexual predator and misogynist felt so very deeply disturbing.
Eight years later, and home is now Washington DC, a solidly Democrat city, with about 75-80% of the population voting that way, and about 6% Republican. In our neighbourhood, white picket fences enclose houses with wrap around verandahs where American flags often hang alongside colourful pride flags. It’s safe enough for the children to walk Pablo alone to the local park, or to walk a few blocks to meet me after school at our local bookstore, where I often go to write in the cafe. Crime is low, although I’ve got in trouble for failing to rake up the leaves which fall in big crunchy piles at this time of year since I don’t share some of my neighbour’s dedication to leaf blowers. I feel safe here, and mostly ignore the news stories of a shooting two metro stops away, or gun-point held car jackings in the further reaches of the city. For now.