Twelves years ago tomorrow I was standing in the bitter cold just off center of the Washington Monument witnessing my first presidential inauguration. I vowed that day that I would return every four years. Somehow I looked it as a new piece of my American identity. And try as I did this year, first finding access issues due to covid and finally due to traitors, thieves, insurrectionists, and terrorists I had to give up on my promise this year. As I thought all day today what to write I thought back to that day when Joe Biden became vice-president and our nation saw the first African American take the presidency. I thought about the people I met as we crowded around each other. I thought about the woman who was probably as old then as my mother is now, having waited her whole life dreaming of that day. She is the one person I failed to draw that I have always regretted. But I was three rows deep behind her and she wasn’t going to miss a moment to make sure I got a decent portrait of her. In a crowd of hundreds of thousands she stood out as one of the few who could have been sitting on stage. Dressed as sophisticated and elegant as the moment called for. I have witnessed first hand the past three transitions and make no mistake they were vastly different each time. As disappointed as I am not to be there tomorrow, the thrill and desire is dulled in not being able to have my fellow Americans around me to witness it together. I will draw tomorrow from home to mark the day and pray that all involved are safe and we turn the page knowing full well there is work to be done.—Dominick
