Jan. 6, 2021, brought forth a whirlwind of emotional reactions. Among those remaining are fear and sadness. And, of course, cynicism as politics provides daily fuel. A recent experience — at least momentarily — caused the fear and the sadness to go.
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In Washington, for a beloved aunt’s 90th birthday, we made pilgrimage to the Lincoln Memorial at dusk. The late May weather was ideal and the area out front a mob scene of middle school students on chaperoned trips from across the country. Up the steps we went.
Once inside this American temple, most visitors stood in the center and directly before the 16th president’s impressive statue. After admiring it, we went to the left and read to ourselves, in the carved marble wall, the Gettysburg Address with perhaps a dozen other people near. We lingered a bit and went to the opposite side to bear witness to Lincoln’s Second Inaugural.
As we approached the first of its three panels, there were few people and so it was relatively quiet. There was one young male, perhaps 13 or 14 years old, dressed semi-formally: dress pants and a white button-down shirt just ahead of us. He appeared not to be with a school group.
Getting nearer from behind, we began to hear his voice. It was not much louder than a speaking level. He read each word aloud in a consistent tone and only occasionally added inflection for emphasis. His reading pace was deliberate. And he was oblivious to his surroundings, except for the American prayer before him.
We stood several feet behind, but always close enough to hear Lincoln’s words — not as reader using the voice inside our own heads, but instead in this child’s voice. When he finished a panel, he adjusted himself 15 feet to his right to the next. We followed.
When he concluded with, “let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations,” there was no dramatic flurry or flourish. He simply turned, never made eye contact, and departed. It was all so beautiful.
We were struck hopeful which, these concerning days, I suppose substitutes for happiness. And what of the ongoing and near overwhelming sense of fear and sadness accompanying so many Americans? Entirely gone, if only for a short time. One in my group located him outside and gave thanks. This telling is my thanksgiving.
Samuel Z. Kaplan is a Toledo attorney.
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