(Could the Ghost bring us all together on an air-conditioned bus tour of Washington, DC?)
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By the time I walked to the Air and Space Museum to greet the air-conditioned van, I was already sweating buckets. Climbing inside, I realized I was one of only two people on this tour. Or maybe one if you don’t count a man whom I soon came to think of as The Ghost of George Washington.
I had come to D.C. to give a talk on Betsy Ross to a Descendants of Quakers group. During the talk, I had explained that Betsy Ross renounced her Quaker pacifism to become a revolutionary. If you doubt this, I must tell you: it’s a fact. The story of her making the first flag? A story. But more on that some other day. And who am I? Well, nobody. But I am constantly fangirling Betsy Ross and writing about Quakers, so there’s that.
After my early morning meeting, a 92-degree mid-April day loomed ahead of me. What to do? I signed up last-minute for a tour of Washington’s Mount Vernon and a nighttime tour of DC’s monuments on an air-conditioned van.
While I had resigned myself to quiet sweating on a group tour, I soon felt it would be awkward to be silent. Our recently-immigrated Chinese tour guide began an awkward question-and-answer session about Mt. Vernon. Before I knew it, I was offering non-answers to the guide’s questions, while trading life histories with the Ghost. In other words, I was now involved in a joint venture. When the tour guide wasn’t talking, I was trying to suss the Ghost out. Blue or red? I figured it out when I mentioned Thomas Jefferson to him. We both were kinda fans. But then Sally Hemings? We lapsed into silence. And then I reminded the Ghost: she was only 14. Blue. Check, check.
The Ghost
I had initially pegged the Ghost as European because he was carrying a batiked sling bag. He was tall (like the 6’2” George Washington) and had sandy longish hair, which I could imagine powdered or pulled back into a queue. It turned out he (like me) had grown up in upstate New York, but had recently returned from Indonesia, where he’d been living for several years. In other words, he’d been “out of the country.” It seemed a perfect answer from a ghost who’d been out of touch for 250-plus years.
Like GW, the Ghost was a man of many interests and much knowledge. He had been working on an agricultural project in Indonesia (surveying?), but had turned his interest to renovating houses and other buildings.
It’s a plantation!
We arrived at Mt. Vernon, and I was relieved to be ushered into an air-conditioned exhibit space to watch a movie about Mt. Vernon. But as I took a look at the map and reflected on what the tour guide had told us, I realized we would soon be navigating a 500-acre site (8,000 acres in Washington’s time). In other words, we were visiting Washington’s plantation. There would be tons of walking, both to GW’s mansion and then out to sites along the Potomac. I looked at the athletic Ghost and wondered if I should wimp out, but impressed by his muscular legs, and identifying as an inveterate walker myself, I decided to just go along with things.
Mt. Vernon
It’s only been in recent years that I’ve been aware of the number of people GW enslaved: 317 at Mt. Vernon. It’s an astounding number. I didn’t have much feeling for GW growing up and I’d already developed a very mixed opinion of him after seeing his comfy tent at Valley Forge. Tromping across his fine rugs and observing a feast set out on a table, I was aware there was a time when foot soldiers in the American Revolution were reduced to walking barefoot in the snow, trying to survive on starvation-level rations. Did I even like this guy? Even without the slavery? Still, there is the fact that he was commandeering a group of soldiers who, for the older among us, might be described as “F Troop.” Without him, I’d be British.
Who was there? MAGA, for one…
People might be able to guess at my politics, looking at my LLBean activewear, National Parks t-shirt, lined face, and untinted hair, I look like I’m from Vermont (which is indeed where I was born). I’m not a fan of our current president. That said, I often find myself with weird, nuanced “opinions” that don’t really fit anything I see online or on Fox vs. MSNOW. It’s easy when I’m in NYC to forget that over half the U.S. population supported our president in the last election. It’s a bit easier to remember that support in purple rural Massachusetts, where Trump flags fly over my neighbors’ homes. But somehow, this trip, I’d forgotten that everyone would bring their politics to DC, including the MAGA hat wearers.
Go get your people!
After the 2016 election, a Black coworker told me that I had to “go talk to my people.” So in my own tiny way, I’d been doing just that. While travelling around the country before the last election, I’d ask people who they voted for/were going to vote for and why? I’d try to bring up things we might have in common (inflation?) And people were not…all or nothing. There were plenty of people turned off by Trump, but also turned off by the far left. There were people who’d lost friends in the masking vs. not-masking vs. vaccinating debates. Most often, there were people who were broke, and looking for any signs of hope.
As I stood in line to enter the mansion, I thought: maybe I just need to talk to everyone right now, despite how sweaty I am. So I did…a little bit…and people were okay. So this is what some people can’t comprehend: you can go out into America, and the MAGA people or radical liberals aren’t there ready to shoot you: they say hello, offer you directions, talk about their families, and where they’re from (Florida, Texas, Vermont!) And I’m often reminding myself that many of those same people who voted for Trump also voted for Obama. Being a silver-haired woman of a certain age no doubt helps in these conversations.
I turned to find that the Ghost was doing the same. He was bonding with everyone! His conversational ability was upstate New York nice, but also a product of roaming the world. Did GW have these same abilities?
We made our way through the Mansion at a rapid clip, and there on a shelf I saw it: a life bust of GW…looking exactly like The Ghost! I would have loved to have a photo of the Ghost next to the bust, but you know how photos of ghosts turn out. Besides, he was talking to some people from New Orleans.
I walked out onto GW’s portico. It was so nice and cool out there. I could imagine GW sitting in his rocker…but then I imagined an enslaved person bringing him iced tea (did they have iced tea?) and my warm feelings for him disappeared again.
Married to the Ghost
We walked up and down the plantation. By the time we got to the gardens, the Ghost and I were like an old married couple. Did this type of flower bloom in upstate New York so early? Maybe not. We went back and forth. As we made our way by the cemetery of the enslaved and on to GW’s tombs, I observed the tents of caterpillars and remarked that they should be removed. The Ghost then confessed to both not knowing what they were, and then, in a commanding, male way, insisted that they weren’t harmful. Honestly, there was a conversation to be had beneath the caterpillar debate: what did we think of our Founding Father?
In front of the tombs, a couple of staff members were discussing Betsy Ross! Did she make the flag? Did she design its stars? I felt the need to insert myself into the conversation, and before you know it, I was delivering part of the morning’s lecture. “Who are you?” they asked.
“I’m nobody,” I answered, adding, “but I know about Betsy Ross.” How much I wanted to add, “And this is the Ghost of George Washington.”
Back to the Van
By the time we got to the unusual grain mill, I was praying that we would be back on the air- conditioned van soon, where I might let the conversation lapse and surreptitiously Google tent caterpillars.
I know I would never do well on Survivor, because I can’t skip meals. I had questioned the tour guide up and down ahead of the tour to see if we would have an opportunity to stop for dinner. He was kind enough to drop me off at my favorite Korean rice bowl place, and then pick me up again. But the 45-minute stop didn’t offer me much of a chance to cool down as I shoveled food into my mouth. I sat on a little chair on the sidewalk, waiting for the van to pick me up again. I must confess I missed the Ghost. While I’d been quiet on the ride to dinner, he’d engaged in a spirited discussion with the tour guide, the two of them trading stories about their travels in Asia, and the Ghost’s girlfriend (Martha?)
New passengers on the American Journey
When the van pulled up, I was a bit startled to find a number of newcomers in the van. My private audience with the Ghost was over! The three older ladies who had joined us had southern accents and were talking about their church. And then I felt it––that panic that now comes over me, despite my openness––would I get in a huge MAGA-themed fight with them?
I decided to take it easy and ask them some softball questions, even while aware this moment might be my opportunity to speak to people with a background different from my own.
We stopped in front of the White House and I waited for my moment of reckoning. Instead, I was greeted by non-partisan gripes from everyone: why was the White House behind fences on all sides, and why couldn’t we get any closer? I didn’t really have an answer. The ballroom construction? Security?
Monuments
It was still about 80 degrees out at sunset. We drove on to the WW2 monument, which was dimly lit and had a non-working fountain. Was I remembering it correctly? When was the last time I was there? It might have been in the 1980’s. Why did it look so shabby?
We went on to the Jefferson Memorial and found that…there was no lighting at all along the pathway. It was so dark you couldn’t see! I tried to be helpful and use my phone as a flashlight, but I was honestly starting to worry about one of the ladies who seemed to be having mobility problems.
But the Ghost was having a grand time! He seemed to love talking to the ladies. Southern accents didn’t scare him. He was talking about his ideas for building renovation. And they were peppering him with questions.
We got to the MLK memorial, and one of the church ladies exclaimed, “Oh, new stuff…I don’t want to see this! I want to see the FDR memorial!” which was right next door. Was that racist? Or a matter of opinion? I considered speaking up. But what would I say exactly?
So the Ghost and I went to look at the MLK memorial. I found it beautiful. The Ghost seemed to get a bit emotional. Reading the quotes he said, “they’re all about getting along. I wish more people would read these words.” Then he turned to me, “I’ve been away so long. I thought that everyone in the U.S. hated each other. But everyone has been nice to me today.”
Finishing up the MLK memorial, I thought I’d try to find the FDR memorial as well, despite the fact that my feet hurt and I was still sweating profusely. I wandered in looking for my ladies and found that this monument was shrouded in darkness as well. Feeling uncomfortable, I decided to run back to the van.
Driving in circles to nowhere…
It was nearing 11 o’clock, and we still had two or three things to see! I am usually in bed by 10:30, but I told myself there was no way I was quitting the tour now. There was nowhere to park anywhere near the Lincoln Memorial, due to some late-night re-paving. Our tour guide, who had told the Ghost that he had immigrated a few years back with hopes of being an entrepreneur, seemed frantic and not willing to end the tour early. He started to drive in circles, repeating the “facts” he had memorized about the US in English. We were all on our phones, hoping to help him find parking or an alternate route. Finally, he parked about a 10-minute walk from the Lincoln Memorial, saying we could visit the Vietnam and Korean Memorials on the way back.
The Ghost led our expedition. We now trusted him because he seemed to have a decent sense of direction. Just like GW, he was leading us through the dark.
The Lincoln Memorial also had some lights out. What was going on? Was it Trump? I decided to look for the answer online. Maybe I could bring that up with the ladies! The only thing I came up with was that there was a shortage of electricians, brought on by some of them retiring during the pandemic. It could take up to a year to fix the lighting and fountains.
We stopped at the Vietnam Memorial, and I found myself alone with one of the ladies who became quite somber. She recalled her husband’s high school friend who had been drafted and admitted to the Army despite his being quite tall. I was mystified. What was wrong with being tall? (GW was tall). The woman explained to me quietly and politely that it makes you more likely to be shot because you’re more visible. That was what happened to him almost immediately upon being shipped off. I checked my backpack of privilege, as I’ve been told to, to find that I didn’t have any relatives or acquaintances who fought in Vietnam. I am the product of generations of front-row education.
We walked back to the van. At this point, any thought of changing whatever MAGA vote the ladies might harbor was secondary to my wish to shower, and lie down in direct line of A/C.
I was half praying that the tour would end early, but we still hadn’t visited the Capitol. By now, we were tired, hot, cranky, and longing to get home. We parked at the end of a long driveway, and our group walked silently towards the Capitol. When we got to a security barrier, we stopped, and all collapsed onto a bench together. This was it, I thought, the moment we would be at each other’s throats. Instead, one of the ladies asked in her southern drawl, “What do you think they’re all doing up there? Maybe they’re all just floating around in a big swimming pool?” One by one, we joined in a collective laugh, and I looked around me at the Ghost, the ladies, a recent immigrant, and the city that belongs to all of us.
I’d spent the night before and part of the morning observing the city. There were MAGA hats for sale by people who people of all colors trying to make a buck. There were people from the Heartland not screaming about politics, but saying that they were tired and their feet hurt. Maybe what we all need is a Ghost leading us, or better yet, a real young person. I’d love for the Democrats to find someone who sees the flaws in America but also sort of secretly loves it (like me). I’d like them to find one who is somber in the face of our complicated history, but with the energy to rally the troops when we’re seemingly spinning into nowhere. We need a Commander in Chief who uses their smartphone to guide us in the dark, down a path together, where we all might appreciate something about the other.
At the end of the tour, I realized…maybe I’m already a ghost myself. I’m a relic of the past, talking to people in person instead of online, writing historical essays in solitude, secretly hoping we can hold back the tide of discord and make our way forward. I planned to continue plodding along, after a night of sleep in air-conditioned splendor.
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