I believe he's got a first aid kit handy.

I usually try to offer something different. But today, I’m giving in to the temptation to be corny because sometimes predictable is what one needs to be. This is more for myself than you all.

A week or so ago, Pecs, the friend who had invited me to the show during Fashion Week, invited me to an election results gathering his friend was having (the two of them went to an Ivy as well, but for business school). Background on Pecs: we call him that b/c his body is perfect (unless you have issues with height; he’s short). He’s Ghanaian but educated in the UK. Possibly the biggest elitist I know. In his 40s, and still runs track competitively. He used to live in NYC, but moved to Denver for work about a year ago.

I figured the good thing about this gathering was that it was in Harlem(-ish... 116^th st) and that it would be filled with eligible Ivy-League-grad-school-alumni bachelors. The bad thing was that I wouldn’t know anyone but Pecs. I needed a date. And even worse: Med School Mess announced that he having people over after I had already agreed to Pecs’s friend’s party, so most of the Ivy League Crew was out.

I convince Fr(in)ance to go with me. Unfortunately, he’s working later than I, so I have a drink at Vlada while I wait (which gets me surprisingly tipsy). Fr(in)ance insists that we take a cab uptown because she’s French rich allergic to the subway anxious to see the results so far. Our cab driver informs us that Obama has taken PA, a major battleground state. It’s looking good, but I don’t want to get my hopes up too high. We arrive about 10 minutes after the party’s scheduled to start. I'm not worried about being so early because from his email it looks like Pecs is practically hosting the party. It'll be good to catch up before other guests arrive.

Pecs. Isn’t. There. Pecs’s friend who’s hosting the party is a straight white guy with a pregnant Chinese wife. They’re very welcoming to us, the first guests. Unfortunately, I’ve brought Bacardi Big Apple, and he has about 6 ounces of juice in his fridge.

Luckily, Pecs’s friend used to work in finance before getting laid off, so there’s quite a long discussion between him and Fr(in)ance about the market and job opportunities. Pecs called. “I should be there in an hour. Tell D. Kareem not to leave.” Great.

I sip my drink v e r y s l o w l y as there’s no more mixer (and I don’t want to look like a drunken mess in this 40-something-year-old stranger’s house with his pregnant wife). He has a great apartment with a projector. Not a rear-projection big-screen TV, a fucking movie projector. But only the big screen in the other room has cable (I giggle to myself when he mentions that the extra box would be a whopping $25/mo).

It’s funny to see the difference between NBC and Fox News’s numbers.

Obama’s lead is significant. He’s up by over 100 electoral votes, and he only needs 63 more to win. But a lot of states aren’t in. VA, Florida, California, a host of Midwestern states. McCain picks up Texas and some southern states, which puts him comfortably in the hundreds. Obama doesn’t move.

“Look at this Republican women’s club! They’re all blondes!” It’s true; there are maybe 3 brunette women in the place they’re showing on TV.

Finally, around 10:30, Pecs shows up. More importantly, he has mixer.

And then it happens. It’s 11 o’clock, and they can call the west coast states. Obama wins the entire western seaboard, putting him just under 300 electoral votes. I was fixing a drink, and when I looked back at the TV, it said “Obama elected the 44^th US President.”

!

!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The whole night, they’ve been showing people on 125^th st watching the results. Now, it’s pandemonium. Someone opens the door to the terrace, and there’s a chorus of screams, cheers, and horns honking. People are running up and down the block. People are screaming from their windows. We’re screaming from the terrace. And it’s amazing.

McCain gives a great speech. Mostly, it’s great because it’s a defeat speech. But it’s well written, and he delivers it well, quieting boos from less-than-classy upset Republicans. Obama’s speech is riveting. He celebrates the victory, acknowledges those who helped, addresses the challenges ahead, and calls for a unification of the country, saying to those who opposed him something to the effect of “I’ll be your president, too.” He repeats “Yes we can,” and he quotes and even echoes Dr. King. I think about my grandmother marching in the 60s and my mother’s short stint with the Black Panthers, and I tear up thinking about how far we’ve come (even though Obama’s only half black). And it’s amazing.

Pecs is talking about going to a friend’s mansion in PA tonight and dragging me along with him, but he decides to go to Times Square instead. The Ivy League Crew is at Pieces, so Pecs, Fr(in)ance, and I hop in a cab to 44^th and 6^th (because Times Square is a mess). I can’t get to Pieces fast enough.

Just my luck. I need to check my bag, and the coat check guy is taking a shit. I just want to get a drink and hug my friends. Great timing.

SoHo Crush meets me there. We drink and yell and laugh at people doing Karaoke. I sing “Damaged” by Danity Kane because that’s the state of our country right now. And unlike the guy the songwriter's dating, it actually is up to Obama and the other leaders of our country to fix it (fix it fix it). I believe he's got a first aid kit handy. Bottomless Pitt does the dance with me as I sing, and I’m amazed by how much he knows. I even forget a couple of moves as I get caught up in the singing and have to watch him to jump back in.

Some older musician compliments me on my "performance" (ha!), and we talk for maybe 3 minutes. That starts a small fight with SoHo Crush b/c he thinks the guy is a fuck buddy of mine (did I mention SoHo is wasted). We get over it and catch a cab to his place to have crazy drunken monkey sex. And it’s amazing.

[I really wanted to to put a video of the Eyes on the Prize theme song here, but I couldn't find it. "Well the one thing we did right (hey!) was the day we started to fight..." I always loved that little (hey!) in the background.]

In the morning, it’s a toss up between listening to NPR or Hot 97 (a hip hop station in NYC) on the radio in SoHo’s bathroom as I’m getting ready. NPR wins, and I can hardly put in my contacts because I can’t stop crying when I think about my grandfather who owned a building and a business in Jamaica, NY in the 50s but couldn't eat at certain restaurants in his hometown in SC and my aforementioned grandmother and my cousin who’s been in PA for way too long working for the campaign for no pay and my parents who made me watch hours of Eyes on the Prize and read black history books when none of the other kids at my school had to do so on top of our hours homework. All the people who have fought to get us this far. The videos of black people getting fire hosed and attacked by police dogs and Bull Connor saying “Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” Obama’s still only half black, but I can’t stop crying.

And I’m late to our 10:00 meeting at work that’s been rescheduled because it’s usually on Tuesday, but nobody says anything. I really don’t care if I cry at work because very few here people know what it’s like to have this much pride after so much struggle (and I really didn’t do much of the struggle myself).

I go to get breakfast, and the deli is still open. Times Square is still lit up. The trains are still going. People are still blocking my way on the sidewalk, and it’s still going to be pitch black at 5:00pm.

And it’s amazing.