Mark Little - The New America: New Edition

The New America

Also by Mark Little

Turn Left at Greenland
Zulu Time

Mark Little

First published by GemmaMedia in 2010.

GemmaMedia
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Copyright Mark Little 2010

This edition of The New America is published by arrangement with New Island Books Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

14 13 12 11 10 1 2 3 4 5

ISBN: 978-1-934848-89-0

Text on from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, published by Penguin. Reprinted by permission of David Higham Associates Limited.

Text on from American Pastoral by Philip Roth, published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.

Book design by Inka Hagen.
Typeset by TypeIT, Dublin.
Index by John Ryan.

Library of Congress Preassigned Control Number (PCN) applied for

I would like to offer my eternal gratitude to Tara Peterman for being my guiding light during the writing of this book, and apologise to Tommie, Daisy and Sorcha for my absences during the past year.

Once again, I owe a great debt to literary agent Jonathan Williams for his clarity and warmth. All at New Island have done a tremendous job in bringing this book to life, in particular Deirdre Nolan.

I would also like to acknowledge the guidance and support of my colleagues and editors at RT during my travels through the New America, especially Ed Mulhall, Noel Curran and David Nally. Adrian Lynch of Animo Productions and Ruan Magan played a key role in developing some of the central themes of this book. They also taught me that there is a lot more to communicating big ideas than writing them down.

Friends and family have helped shape this book. In particular, I would like to thank Tom Little and Neil Leyden for offering game-changing advice at critical moments.

Mark Little

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but thats no matter tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther... And one fine morning So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

In years to come, we may look back at Barack Obamas victory in 2008 as preordained. That is not how it felt at the time.

Even hard-core believers struggled to process the collision of hope and history on election night. A senior Obama adviser told me that she greeted the president-elect that evening with the words: Does not compute.

The networks called Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, but the unfolding outcome still seemed profoundly unlikely. When the TV screen flashed the news that Obama would be the next president, it felt like a sensational shift in the plot of a Hollywood thriller, not an actual statement of fact.

Obama himself would need to confirm it before they would believe it; before they could take a breath and let out a roar.

This is our moment. This is our time

With those words, spoken by the president-elect in Chicagos Grant Park, the banks of the river finally gave way and a torrent of hope-mongers flooded city streets from LA to DC.

A few minutes after Obama thanked America, and asked God to bless it, CNN carried footage of a small group of flag-waving celebrants outside the northwest gate of the White House. The pictures triggered an uncommon stampede of common purpose. Thousands raced out of bars and dormitories and apartments around Washington to join the impromptu party outside Obamas new home. With sudden, spontaneous clarity, their mutual joy had a blindingly obvious destination.

And yet, even then, in the opening minutes of a new era, as they raced towards the White House, something stirred in the dark corners of the American capital. Perhaps it was just the drumbeat of rain churlish and defiant reminding members of the Obama generation that some things would forever be outside their control.

But they seem determined to ignore the warnings. The plum-faced juvenile drunk on the corner of 16th and K screamed at a couple across the road from him, Yes, we can.

As I passed, I muttered, Yes, you did.

The young man heard me and swivelled his head in a slow, pronounced motion as if sizing up a threat. He stared at me with widening eyes, unsure what to do next.

He repeated the words in a reverent, ponderous whisper. Yes. We. Did.

Then, remembering his initial purpose, he turned back to the couple across the road and bellowed the good news. Yes, we did.

Indeed they did; all of them, all the bright young things now walking, striding, running in an unplanned advance on the White House, a surge of realised dreams set free by Barack Obama just a few minutes earlier.

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible tonight is your answer.

Trickle became flood, swishing about the fringes of Lafayette Square, surging toward Andrew Jackson on a horse, past a temporary wire fence before finally washing up at the gates to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I paused to get my bearings before joining the crowd and as I wiped the film of rain from my hair, a passing young man let out a scream borne of rage and relief: Were taking it back.

At the centre of the crowd, pots and pans were being bashed together. A rolling serenade swept through the crowd in the direction of the darkened living quarters of the White House: Hey, hey, goodbye. Two uniformed Secret Service men stood silently in silhouette on the roof of the building. They didnt need to worry. There was no threat in that crowd, only youth and promise and occasionally the sweet and sour scent of exhaled alcohol.

A shirtless boy with a shiny hairless chest danced inside a semi-circle of elated black women like a victorious warrior claiming his prize. Two women in pyjamas staggered by arm-in-arm with rictus grins on their faces. Another walked by in a tight red cocktail dress on unfeasibly high heels, grasping at imaginary supports in the damp, livid air.

Even in that shallow stream of juvenile abandon, you could feel an undercurrent of maturity. Burning in the eyes of those old enough to remember past nightmares was the incandescent promise of that fabled American dream. Heads turned to listen to the proud, resolute baritone of an elderly black lady.

Im a 66-year-old woman, she announced, coloured, negro, black, African American.

As a small group gathered around, she placed her closed fist on her chest.

But in here, I am an American, and I am living to see something I never thought I would live to see.

The lady was speaking for her generation, those forged by the unfulfilled struggles of an unforgiving era, and for people of colour, who were about to see a black man occupy the White House, a mansion which slaves helped build. She was speaking for all Americans of her age and background, for whom Obamas election was a beautiful but bewildering event. They loved their country but never believed it had the potential to change quite this much.

Some will tell you the result of this election was never in doubt, but they are wrong. As I followed the campaign, I could sense that appetite for change, but I also heard the fear of change, a yearning for security. Right to the end, there was a real possibility that American voters would recoil from the leap of faith required to elect a black man called Barack Hussein Obama.