I wrote most of this in Philadelphia, on election night. I have written about Philly before.

More than 300 years ago, a pacifist Quaker named William Penn suffered great persecution in his native England for expressing beliefs that differed from those of the state-imposed religion. Arrested many times, jailed, labeled a heretic, and exiled from English society due to his beliefs, Penn traveled across an ocean to establish a new Quaker settlement in North America, where religious and political outsiders could live free. This settlement was known as the Pennsylvania Colony, and Philadelphia, a name Penn chose for its Greek meaning—City of Brotherly Love—was founded as its progressive center.

Even in a land where many traveled to escape persecution, much existed. Penn’s colony, a grand experiment of enlightened thinking where all were guaranteed free and fair trial by jury, freedom from unjust imprisonment, free elections, and freedom of religion, attracted not only Quakers but immigrants from around the globe, such as Protestants, Mennonites, Amish, Catholics, Lutherans, and Jews. Penn’s ideals also led him to support equal rights for women and acquire lands for his colony through business rather than conquest; paying local Indians fairly for their lands and creating laws that protected the rights of the native population—actions unheard of at the time.

Mr. Penn was an early supporter of colonial unification, as well as the principles of freedom and equality that he championed in the final draft of his colony’s frame of government. Writers of the U.S. Constitution, such as Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson were inspired by Penn, and the atmosphere of liberty created by his ideas and efforts allowed Philadelphia to emerge as an intellectual center of printing presses, newspapers reflecting a multitude of opinions, and ideas and subsequent actions that gave birth to the broad intellectual and social shifts known as the American Revolution, and eventually American Independence. As I sit here in my hotel room on Broad Street, listening to the TV punditocracy detail the ominous shades of crisis that threatens this country, I look out my window toward the top of City Hall, where a statue of William Penn surveys the city, and I wonder what he would think of Barack Obama.

To a great extent, I’ve checked out of this election. I’ve written about my doubt before, as it relates to the ignorance of the American people, but while my Presidential prediction (Obama will lose) is likely to be wrong, I still can’t shake my considerable angst and cynicism about the possibility of not just change, but success. Our national debt is considerable, ignorance is epidemic, greed blinds the masses, critical thinking is replaced with consumption, and our presidency lies in the hands of a fantastic marketing campaign with little experience and a plan short on details. Change? Sober analysis says we’re fucked. However, in spite of my doubts and numb countenance, I feel…grateful.

Of all American cities, to be in this one, at this moment of Republican party repudiation, appeals to my better nature. It’s election night, and the birthplace of American progress feels like a sleeping giant that threatens to wake. Philly is quiet in spite of surrounding noise, as my favorite old cities tend to be, but I am affected by the loud momentum in every Obama button, sticker, and get-out-the-vote door flyer that I pass on the street. The potential energy of change reverberates in every aged brick and narrow alley of Philadelphia, a slumber of densely packed joules accustomed to projecting itself through history, if given the right push. Hope is everywhere, in a way unseen four years ago, or eight, or twelve. I’ve only been here a couple of days, but long enough to sense that when this old giant is ready to open it’s eyes, it won’t be to simply roll over and return to rest, as it did four years ago. The city that speaks the language of great men is rousing, as if its ear has been pricked by familiar voices.

Sitting here, trying to find my heart, I would like to think that perhaps these voices whisper to me as well, encouraging me with a wisdom born of history and struggle for a more perfect union, and vision that can’t be imagined by reliance on solely my own ethic.

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It’s late. I go to a campaign party at the Philadelphia Marriott, but leave after 15 minutes. Back in my room, Charlie Gibson of ABC tells me that Obama has won the presidency. I’m jerking off to porn at the time, moments from orgasm. I’m amused by the potential irony.

I need to be up at 6:00 AM for work the next morning, but I stay up to watch Obama’s victory speech. Shortly after, I walk to the window and look to the street below, where I see two young teenage black males running along the median between the streets, jumping and pumping their fists. I smile and consider their lives, then turn off the lights and pull the covers, but I can’t sleep. 16 floors below, I hear the noise from the street—car horns and screams—growing and rising steadily into the air, impossible to ignore. I put on some clothes and make my way to the street, where the madness is thick and exuberant. Men and women run between stalled traffic and lean from the windows of cars; dance on the hoods of taxis while the drivers smile and hit their horns, not in protest but to join the outburst; and hugs, good cheer, and high-fives are swapped between all ages and races. The wind is imprinted with a name that blows in every direction, and it whistles between my ears like history floss. It allows me to hear the voices of the city more clearly.

I walk away from the Broad Street thoroughfare and meander through the revelry among tight philly streets, avoiding hugs from strangers, and making my way to Woody’s (the most notable gay bar in Philly) where I order a bourbon and watch the tv for more information about Prop 8 and Al Franken. I realize I’m not going to go to bed with an answer, so for tonight I’m calling the rest of the election for the Doubletree Hotel. As I lay in bed, 160 or so pounds of cynicism and doubt, I try to forget what I know, and what I fear. I think of Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, but mostly William Penn and his dream for a better way. Once more, I search for their voices to put me to bed. As my head sinks into the pillow, the noise from the street settling down to the street far below, I allow myself, quietly and with the amount of hope I can manage, to whisper three words aloud into the darkness.

Yes. We. Can.

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