I received my coveted ticket for a close-up standing-room position at President Obama's inauguration as recognition of my work on one of his policy committees during the campaign. This meant I had to attend by myself, as we received one ticket each. I planned to find other people I knew once I arrived inside.

Like thousands of others, I stood for hours in the bitter cold in what has since become known as the Purple Tunnel of Doom, and did not make it inside the gates. Many others have recounted the utter absence of staffing or policing of the enormous crowd in the dark traffic tunnel, the complete lack of information, and the fact that those in charge simply gave up on letting valid ticket holders in because too many people without tickets crowded the entrance. Others have also described the preternatural friendliness of the crowd, despite the growing dread of the unthinkable as the minutes ticked by.

Having finally emerged into the sunlight, I stood at 1st and C streets at 11:20am, ten minutes before liftoff. I watched the crowd swirling in confusion, disappointed people quickly making their decisions. Find a hotel lobby with a tv? Go home on the metro and miss everything? Wander aimlessly? My choice was to stand still on a small rise of dirt that gave me a hazy view of the Capitol dome behind a fence, and hope I would hear at least some part of the program. Meanwhile, I commiserated with the various people who temporarily chose to stand near me.

Suddenly a young man arrived in a long, puffy white parka with a hood and flaps that covered his mouth in a frightening manner. He was agitated, and when prompted told a story about arriving at the Capitol with a buddy, at 2am, via the night train from New York, being moved from place to place by police, hiding in a port-a-potty at one point, losing track of his friend, and being blocked getting in anywhere despite his purple ticket. I sympathized, offered my hand.

"I'm Marti." "Cliff."
"How'd you get your purple ticket?"
"I was a delegate and a field organizer, local, regional, and state level. In Texas."
"Tough job."
"Yeah."

I calmed him by suggested we remember why we were there, and to try for a moment to see if we could hear any of the proceedings. I meant via the distant speakers, but he took my suggestion a different way. He extracted his ipod and began tuning the radio. NPR wasn't audible, but he found c-span. I asked if he would share an ear bud, and he said yes. The proceedings had just begun. I offered him a hand warmer (the currency of the day), which he enthusiastically accepted.

We noticed the crowd by the fence had cleared out, and so goose-stepped over to it, Cliff's hand lightly on my back, so that neither of our ear buds would dislodge. At the fence were three people in their early 60's, two women and a man wearing a fedora, all African-Americans, and all looking bottomlessly sad at missing the historic moment. I started reporting to them the proceedings; Rick Warren is speaking, now Biden is being sworn in. The three acknowledged the information but still looked disheartened. When Obama was about to take the oath, the gentleman in the fedora asked:

"Is he using the Lincoln bible?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who Lincoln's Secretary of State was?"
"Yes ... it was Seward." (Whew! Professors like me don't like not knowing answers to questions. Fortunately, like all true Obama-maniacs, I am currently reading 'Team of Rivals' and so knew the answer.)
"Seward ran against Lincoln for president. Obama picked Clinton! He's doing everything just like Lincoln did!"

My attention was drawn away as I heard Obama taking the oath. Our broadcast was 15 seconds behind the real events; the cannon fire of the 21-gun salute begin while I listened to Justice Roberts botching the word order.

Obama's speech was about to begin. I was going to experience it at the real time and place after all. But what about those others by the fence? I asked "Should I repeat his speech?" No one answered, but I started anyhow. I had heard Obama speak in person four times at fundraisers, and had listened to and read several more of his speeches, so the language and the cadence, if less musical, were familiar. The words moved quickly, but I repeated them nearly perfectly, those from my mouth overlapping with those in my ear. Slowly the people at the fence turned towards me. Slowly others moved closer. Mainly African-American, but also a young Asian woman, dressed all in white, sitting in a wheelchair, and her attendant. Picture if you will a blondish, 40ish white female professor, connected by a white earbud to a parka-clad youth holding up a digital video recorder, stamping in the cold, channelling history to a semi-circle of people.

I spoke of blood on the snow at Valley Forge, and of nations reaching out for unclenched fists. I spoke of the return of science to its rightful place, and when I spoke of the miracle of America, making it possible for a man like me to be in a position like this, I teared up and had to cover my mouth.

As an academic and a teacher, I am practiced in giving speeches, short and long, to audiences large and small, but I have never seen faces looking at me the way those of my semi-circle of listeners did. I was the people's hope, the people's adoration, they were relying on me, I was going to fix the world.

And when they hugged me after it was over, complimented me on my skills of oration, and told me with smiles that they too had been part of the inauguration, I felt the utter absence of barriers. I felt that this new president will change America.