Really? President Barack Obama

It is post-election night and the entire ordeal seems surreal.  But I was there.  I stood three hours in line in my old neighborhood back in Detroit, excited to place my vote for a man that I believed could effect change for our nation.  A man who stirred hope within myself and so many other Americans. A man whose demeanor and intelligence has redefined what a black man is and can be.  Yes, I was excited to vote for Barack Obama.  

I'm currently a graduate student in Illinois but I didn't trust an absentee ballot to make it through the mail.  I had witness two previous elections "stolen" and felt that I had to visually witness my ballot being counted.  As such, I headed home on a bus to awake at 6:00am on Tuesday, November 4, 2008 to place my vote.  Everyone...and I do mean everyone knew the significance of this moment.  I wanted to return to my hood and stand with my people.  The people who I grew up with as a child.  The people who shared the joys and the sorrows of my neighborhood.  I voted at my elementary school: St. Suzanne. The school had since closed and was now a charter school.  My parents and I arrived at 6:53am to a line that was stretched around the building. (A great sign) I felt they unseasonably warm 70 degree temperature and knew that God was smiling on this historical day.  I watched my mother's nervous smile and my father's cool, yet, anxious stroll as we took our place in line.  We would stand there, with hundreds of other people, for the next three hours.  I wanted to experience it all.  As a writer, I stood with my book bag and my black leather journal which kept and consoled all of my thoughts.   This is what I will hand to my grandchildren one day.  I was pleased to immediately see childhood friends, whom I'd not seen for years.  After hugs and what up's? we all stood and waited.  

The emotions I felt standing in line to vote in Detroit were similar to what I felt as I stood in Grant Park last night.  I caught a bus back to Chicago and arrived in the "Obamacrazed" city at 9pm.  I quickly dropped off my luggage (great thing I lived downtown) and walked the five blocks to Grant Park.  My friend Radia accompanied me and was so ecstatic, as were the other hundred thousand people lining the streets.  I felt the energy but my emotions were dazed.  As I stood shoulder to should with strangers, who I felt immensely intimate with, I thought to myself: I should be crying.  I should be shouting with everyone, but all I could do was stand there and take it in.  I couldn't move.  Watching the man who has shattered the ceiling speak to us...I almost felt void.  Completely numb.  Unable to detangle the the emotions that bubbled over inside me: happiness, proud, hopeful, anxious, fear, disbelief...it all caused me to go numb.

Today, classmates approach me with tears in their blue/green/grey and brown eyes and ask me: were you there?  How do you feel?  

I believe it hasn't hit me as of yet. In the past, when I've been presented with situations and environments which overwhelm me, I often become outwardly emotionless.  While inwardly my body is a swarming pool fluctuating in temperature and temperament.  It's all so surreal.  I think I'm afraid to actually open my spirit up to what this means for me.  For my community. For the world.  

I wonder if this is how my ancestors felt when they heard that they were free.  Did they believe it?  What exactly did "freedom" mean?  What was next?

What is next?