Inauguration Day

---

Eradde.

I think the coolest thing I learned at my first Luganda class last night was the greeting “Eradde?” It is a shortened version of “Ennyanja eradde?” It means “is the lake peaceful?” If all is well, the response is “eradde.” It is peaceful.

For the Baganda people, the presence of Lake Victoria was an enormous factor in their economic, diplomatic and spiritual lives. At 68,000 square kilometers, it is the second-largest lake in the world by surface area (and yet its deepest point is less than 300 feet, compared to 900 feet in the 6-mile stretch between Bainbridge Island and Seattle). For you sailors and kayakers out there, you know what this means…chop. The fetch (the distance the wind travels across open water) is enormous, and with strong monsoon winds the lake can easily get whipped into a white-capped frenzy. When much of your community’s livelihood is dependent on people fishing out on the lake in tiny dugout canoes, I imagine you would spend a lot of time thinking about the condition of the water.

This word, eradde, has been sticking in my mind today as I prepare for the inauguration because that is how I feel. I feel calm. I feel like the lake is at peace. In the weeks since the election I have felt excited…giddy even. But now I feel eradde.

I feel like I’ve been in The Lord of the Flies for the last eight years, and an adult has finally showed up to take control. I feel like the chain of events set in motion with the 2000 election (which is just like the plane crash in the book) caused us not only to begin the process of division and polarized destruction, but has also created some deep emotional trauma in our nation.

Years ago, when Devin and I were living in Juneau, I had a terrifying experience hitchhiking home from work in the back of a pickup truck with a friend. The driver was completely out of control and came close to several head-on collisions. I even considered jumping out of the truck once when it slowed down to turn a corner. She finally stopped, and my friend and I walked about three miles home because we couldn’t bear the thought of getting in another car. I held it together for the walk home, but as soon as I stepped through the door of our apartment and saw Devin I burst into tears. It was a combination of the trauma of the experience and the relief of feeling the safety of home.

I feel like I just walked into the apartment. I’ve been holding it together and I’m not sure how much longer I could have done it. I think if McCain had won I might have snapped. Maybe what we need right now in the U.S. is a big group cry. We’ve come through a traumatic eight years with a madman at the wheel. We’ve narrowly survived a series of head-on collisions (although lets not forget the many people who have not survived and have fallen victim to this administration’s policies and preemption). We have clung to our friends, held on tight to the sides of the truck and hoped to make it through.

And we have made it through. I, for one, am a bit shaken, but glad to be alive and feeling good about moving forward on our own national collective two feet.

---