Election day. I could think of no other time in my life when so much seemed at stake, nationally, globally.  I flew to Washington to film Pat and Sandy’s performance of new songs they’d written about Kamala Harris and our hopes for the future.  In the morning  I asked them to practice the harmonies for Sandy’s song while I scrunched down, hiding behind the backseat of our rented SUV, monitoring the feed from a GoPro on the dashboard.

Sandy sang:

This is our chance. 

We’re going to take it. 

Democracy is when we make it. 

We’ll forge the way forward.

The lovely harmony of their voices came in on:

Never going back, Keep moving forward.

 We won’t go back,

We won’t go back,

We won’t go back.

Sandy wrote the chorus quoting the refrain from Keep on Moving Forward, Pat’s anthem for which our film is named.

After practice in the car Sandy said, “I feel good. Today is the day. I hope she’s going to win and then she will be the one in charge. I’m feeling hopeful.”

Pat said,  “I’m bracing myself.”

In the early evening we unloaded my gear and their instruments at Busboys and Poets, a bookstore/restaurant/venue that’s welcomed Pat and Sandy’s performances in the past.

The place was packed, not with people who had come to hear Emma’s Revolution but to watch election returns on big screens.

It was impossible to hear the songs above noise of the anxious crowd.  I wanted to climb on a table yell “shut up!,” but of course I didn’t.  Pat said it reminded her of trying to play in bars back in her twenties. They did just two songs. It was a complete bust.

I dropped off the assistant I’d hired for the evening and then drove to the home of a friend of Pat and Sandy’s where we were staying. There Jo Rasi hosted a very different sort of gathering of friends.  There was a small TV in the corner of the room and people were not glued to it.

It was still early and the election returns were ambiguous.  I did some short interviews with Jo’s friends, standing in front of the refrigerator in the kitchen.  I asked “How are you feeling tonight?”  and “If Trump wins how do we live?”  Fearing that things were not going to go well I needed to record comforting words of wisdom from the group of social activists, community leaders, and musicians that are friends to Jo, Pat and Sandy.  Words could be a talisman, a protection.  Everyone obliged eloquently but I was not comforted.

As I was wrapping up the last interview I heard a distinctive voice singing in the living room.   Ysaye Barnwell is a female bass. For twenty four years she was part of the acclaimed African American accapella group, Sweet Honey and the Rock. Ysaye sang “Oh lord, give us power!,” over and over, coaxing everyone in the room to join in.

 

This was not hard to do as there were many singers and musicians among us.  Pat and Sandy, who arrived somewhat later than I did, brought to the room their incredible harmonies.  “Oh Lord, Give Us Power.”  The collective singing built like a slow wave, washing over us. It went on for a long time, soothing us, believers and non-believers alike.

 

As the evening wore on and the maps of states on the TV turned mostly red with small enclaves of Democratic blue.   There was a deep sadness in people’s faces and yet the TV in the corner seemed to recede as the music continued.  Pat and Sandy sang their songs We Won’t Go Back and Dear Ms. President. We all joined in on the choruses.  Lilo Gonzalez from El Salvador sang some songs he’d learned from Pete Seeger and also songs from the democracy movements of Central and South America.  After each song there was a moment and quiet and someone would start a new one.  Again and again.  None of us wanted the singing and the feeling that we had together in that room, to end.

At one AM I said I was going to bed.  I said I would go upstairs to my bedroom and be lulled to sleep by the sound of everyone singing.  Then Lilo improvised a version of Good Night Irene which became Good Night Tom.   It brought tears – tears for what our world is about to become and also tears of gratitude for the community that we shared in the face of this stark realization.

I woke up to brilliant sunshine coming through the window.  I took a walk in the Jo’s leafy, quiet neighborhood.  Everyone I passed greeted me gently and I greeted them back.  I called my wife, Sharon, in California.  She said she had no words.  Nor did I.  After a long silence we said “I love you,” and hung up.

Pat, Sandy, and Jo were standing around a plate of pastries drinking tea. I told them that although I didn’t really feel like it, maybe I should set up my camera and we should talk… but talk about what, exactly?  Sandy said this was good idea.

I set the camera and a light.  Pat and Sandy put on their personal lavalier mics and  I turned of Jo’s noisy refrigerator. I tried to think of questions to ask but none came.  So I just hit “record” and said:  “I have no questions.”  The three of us sat there in silence for a long time.  Then Pat and Sandy started speaking.

I knew, at that moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be.