Regular (d)NoT readers will not find it surprising that I carry a copy of the Constitution with me most days. It started as kind of an accident when they gave us free copies as part of WestLaw training and I just never took it out of my bag. But then I sort of liked it there, easy, quotable access to the tenets that I hold so dear. Some people carry a bible, some people pack heat. I keep a hip flask of refreshing and tangy freedom. 

Having opened that fresh new can of dorkdom, you can understand why on my weekend trip to DC the only thing I really needed to see was the National Archives. I had gone years ago to DC and seen all the big stops- White House, Jefferson, Vietnam War, Smithsonian, etc. Having spent the summer in the monument capital of Europe- Lisbon-I was pleasantly reminded that we Yanks also know how to bring the limestone awesomeness. Seeing the magnitude of Lincoln mirrored in the reflecting pool, watching the light dance off the water at the World War II memorial, was pure Americana magic. You can keep the City of Lights, I’ll take the Shining City on a Hill any day. Absolutely DC faces more than its fair share of problems; highest crime rates in the US, a huge disparity between the haves and have-nots, a city budget that is turned into a yearly congressional pinata. And yet- the majesty of our capitol city is an appearance we should strive to make into substance. Its dichotomy is a reminder of the gap between where we are, and where we hope to be, and in that sense, is the most American of cities. 

It was this sort of patriotic spirit that carried me on my pilgrimage to the National Archives. I despise lines, and there was a doozy, but I was determined. I waited patiently in the indian summer heat, listening to the conversations of families all around me. I was the only single person in line, as far as I could tell. It occurred to me then that most people see visiting the Constitution, Declaration of Independence, and Bill of Rights as a check mark on a rather long travel list. A woman behind me was mapping out her day, trying to figure out if the Holocaust museum should go before or after lunch. After waffling a bit she and her companion decided to go before lunch, I guess because nothing whips up the appetite quite like a gruesome genocide of untold proportions. 

Carried along on a sea of cargo shorts and catch-phrase t-shirts, past the requisite x-ray scan and cavity search, I arrived in the holy of holies. If you’ve never been to the National Archives, the three main documents are in a rotunda. In front of the rotunda are some steps and a black iron gate, watched by a series of private security guards. Once you reach this gate, you are instructed to sort of gather en masse, waiting for the rotunda to clear of fellow patriots before you get to look at the goods. Looking every bit like a grade school field trip, we stood rapt, listening to these instructions:

1. There is no line system to look at the documents. Go see them in any order. If you line up you are wasting your time. 

2. We are closing in 15 minutes, so the longer you spend looking at the documents, the less time you have in the gift shop. 

These both seemed to alarm the mob. Sure enough, like lemmings off a cliff, as soon as we were released into the rotunda everyone crammed into a makeshift line. For whatever reason, it was essential that they see the Declaration, then the Constitution, then the Bill of Rights, in chronological succession. Unfortunately any hope they had of reaching the gift shop was dashed by this pathological line-making. It was so very pro-establishment, I hoped that the Declaration, once finally witnessed by them, would make them run amok in the Rotunda, reading snippets from the Constitution, then the Bill of Rights, skipping like toddlers from one document to the next, exercising their freedom from the tyranny of both George and the British tendency to queue for things. Alas, this did not occur.

I chose to head for the big C itself, confident that it would all still make sense in a non-linear fashion. Crammed up against a red-stater and his pubescent, somewhat musty offspring, craning my neck to make out the long-since faded ink, there it was.  Just a piece of parchment, faded and frayed. Humble, and humbling. I did not stop to read all the words. I did not look for a hidden comma. I left the sweaty crush of democracy in action, and moved onto the Bill of Rights. 

They don’t tell you this, but the original Bill of Rights has 12 articles, and they are out of order. It does not look like the big 10 we have all come to know and love. The first incarnation was slightly different, because the first two articles were not finally ratified by the states. So, drop those off, change some of the wording, and bob’s-your-uncle, a Bill of Rights was born. But it is a bit jarring to see when you aren’t expecting it. It was an astonishing surprise, as though you looked across the bed at your lover and realized for the first time that their eyes were green, not brown as you had believed. Something you thought you knew so well can still surprise and delight you. 

And if you think it odd that I equated the Constitution to a lover, just look at the Washington Monument. What do you think they were so excited about?