The Merits of Crying in Public

It isn’t what one hopes will happen.

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I’m writing to you from Sacramento, California where I’m attending a training for newly elected city leaders. There are four hundred of us here and a presenter just announced with all seriousness, “I don’t know if I’m the first to say this to you, but you’re the government now.” I begin the applause and it grows slowly louder and firm. Each new clap strengthens the formation, like soldiers figuring out how to march in line. It’s not unreasonable to feel proud of ourselves. And excited. And terrified.

I’m the government now rings the wide-eyed bell inside of me. And the truth is, I felt the ominous feeling nine days ago.

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It’s the evening of Monday January 9, 2023. The deluge of rain that’s been plaguing our region for ten days is on a delightful hiatus. Palo Alto is undertaking its biannual “reorganization” meeting, where I and two other new council members are being sworn-in, those who are stepping down will receive their commendations, and the new council of seven will vote on a Mayor and Vice Mayor to lead us in the coming year. The chambers are packed. Outgoing and incoming council members have family members in the crowd holding up phones to capture the meaning of it all. The public have crowded into the chambers, too. Even some elected officials from other jurisdictions have come to pay their ceremonial respects. Optimism is in the room.

But as I hug and thank and sit and wait, I’m jumpy, watching everything like a hawk.

You see, I learned the hard way as a law student back in the day, that when you’re new in a place that is rife with rules, you feel like an outsider until you understand the procedural stuff. I learned that knowing the procedure helps you feel like you belong even if you don’t really yet. The procedure may not be the literal work you came to do, yet without knowing the procedure you’ll never be able to do the literal work. So I pay attention to such things, and when necessary, I fake it til I make it.

The crowd draws quiet. The swearing-ins begin. I’m second in the lineup, so I wait my turn. I sit with my legs spread in a V, hunched down a bit so my forearms rest on my thighs, the fingers on each hand meet each other like a loose prayer as my new colleague Ed steps up to the plate.

The verbiage that Ed is asked to recite references not just the Charter of the City of Palo Alto, but also the California and U.S. Constitutions, all of which we are tasked with defending “against enemies foreign and domestic.” We can pretend that these are just words in an archaic sentence written in a time before now, yet we’re all pretty clear these days that these words matter. We actually recited this very same oath when we filed our official papers to run for office this past summer, albeit in a small office at City Hall with nobody watching. I observe Ed and feel confident that when it’s my turn I’ve got it.

Soon enough my name is called, and I walk confidently to the designated spot, take my place, and smile at the onlookers. The City Clerk, Lesley Milton, tells me to raise my right hand and repeat after her. She reads the first line:

“I, _________, do solemnly swear…”

Obviously, I’m to insert my name after the first word “I”, but I can’t even get the word “I” out of my mouth. I stand there with my mouth feeling like it’s full of marbles. I shake my head and try again, but again I can’t say a word. I smile. I blink and swallow and blink again as my family, supporters, volunteers, future colleagues, other leaders, journalists, and strangers wait.

At first I don’t know exactly what’s going wrong, where my mind has gone, and why, given that I knew this was coming, given that I said these very words already this summer, I am now unable to speak.

But my mind quickly tells me that it is mulling over the brokenness of our democracy: fake news and conspiracy theories; questioning the legitimacy of the 2020 election; the insurrection; book bans; teachers told not to teach the fullness of American history; queer and trans people under siege; Americans posing with guns on their Christmas Cards; legislators rewriting laws to make it harder for Americans to access the ballot; poll workers intimidated; election-deniers voted in to higher office. Americans calling for another Civil War.

My heart accepts the news: I’m the government now.

Palo Alto, California, is a Blue city in a Blue region in one of the Bluest states. We don’t expect an armed militia to take to our streets or government buildings any time soon. But it’s no small task to try to get a city of 69,000 people to care enough about each others’ plights that we can get it right by various measures and collectively move forward in a satisfying manner.

I take this obligation freely

without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion…

_____

It’s a little embarrassing, a little stereotypical, a little female, perhaps a little soft to cry in public, and I feel all of this as I’m dressed in my masculine vest and suit jacket doing my best Alexander Hamilton. I look around and say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to be emotional.” To my relief, the crowd begins a warm and loud applause, and I feel accepted in my emotion, and their grace buoys me enough to bring me back to me again.

My mind decides to just get the job done by ignoring the meaning of the words for a moment: It’s okay, my body tells me, we already know them by heart.

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Comment below to let us know about a time when you were surprised by your own emotion.

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📽 Someone recorded it all. You can watch it here. A person like me cannot not cry in a moment like this, feeling the weight of it, the ask pleading with me to take it seriously. Maybe if more of us took these seemingly perfunctory things a little more seriously, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in.

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🌲 This little tree emoji is here because “Palo Alto” means “tall tree” in Spanish. I intend to take this oath absolutely seriously. This probably won’t be the last time I get emotional doing the work of the city.

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