Everything To Celebrate

On the day of the inauguration Ben's new cabinet met for the first time. It was two in the afternoon and we'd spent the morning at an awesome ceremony - complete with honor guards, apostles and choirs.

Sitting around the long conference table were four distinct groups. First, there was the remnant of the old guard; those who had served with distinction during the previous administration. They were alone in being familiar with everything, except perhaps with the new mayor himself.

Second, there was a group of newly recruited experts. They had resumes listing elite universities that would have rejected me. And those were't the schools from which they'd graduated, those were the schools where they'd taught.

They were bright hyper-achievers, but most lacked familiarly with both the County, and with Ben.

Third, there was a much smaller group - the group to which I belonged. This group was so small that calling it a "group" is misleading. A better term would be "duet," since it included only Joel Freston and me.

We had been a part of Ben's campaign, and all we were familiar with was Ben himself. We were expert in absolutely nothing else. In fact, just a few hours earlier we learned that "County" wasn't spelled with a "K."

Finally, there was the group that included Nichole Dunn, our deputy mayor, Justin Miller, our associate deputy mayor, and Ben himself. They sat at the head of the table as if on the side of Mount Rushmore. At that singular moment in them resided all authority and all initiative.

When Ben spoke there was the advanced attention hard to find outside the company of air traffic controllers.

His comments were affable, reassuring and full of enthusiasm. But during their entirety most of the room didn't take a breath. It occurred to me Ben's audience was composed mostly of survivors and strangers. They hoped for the best, maybe even expected the best, but they couldn't be absolutely sure of anything.

Eventually Ben's welcome came to an end, and then there was nothing. Not a word. Only silence.

I couldn't stand it.

Something in me wouldn't allow this moment to deny who Ben was, and how fortunate we all were. So the glorified receptionist at the far end of the table spoke up.

"I think I speak for everyone here," I said, "I feel like a kid at Disneyland. We have everything to look forward to, and we're so very fortunate to be here. Thanks for including us Ben. We'll do everything we can to make you the very best mayor in the U.S.A."

The remark about Disneyland was puerile, maybe even fatuous, but it was intentional. I wanted this group of august people to know that even the least among them had nothing to fear, and everything to celebrate.

Ben is the mayor, yes, and that's good news. But the even better news is not "what" he is... it's "who" he is. And if some guy at the end of the table can rattle on about Disneyland fearlessly, then exactly what form of candor is not allowed? What kind of authentic response is off the table?

I don't know if I made my point, and in the end I probably succeeded only in looking ridiculous. Yet I know, inevitably, Ben will make my point far more convincingly than I ever could.