An Hour After Jan. 6
Two years later & still processing the weird calm that followed the storm.
I walked down to the Capitol late in the day on Jan. 6 — just after the police, vastly reinforced, started to regain control. But having seen what I’d seen on TV and Twitter, it was still nerve-rattling. Police had found two pipe bombs nearby and the dense scrum of rioters—a knot of militant extremists, white supremacists, alt-right racists, and far-right conspiracy theorists—were undeniably dangerous. Gunshots had been fired and the mob had beaten Capitol police with flagpoles, two-by-fours, bear spray, stun guns, and hockey sticks. I vowed to keep my distance.
But as a white guy, I cynically knew I could blend right into the crowd. I even wore an American flag covid mask — purchased the day Biden’s victory was announced, when DC erupted in celebrations. Walking downtown on Jan. 6 with that flag on my face, I really blended in. Men in hunting jackets and MAGA hats nodded hello. Vendors tried to sell me Trump gear. A wide-eyed woman warned me off a side street: “Watch out,” she said. “Antifa went that way!”
Around then Trump released his twisted video, telling the mob to “go home” but also “we love you, you’re very special” and “this was a fraudulent election.” On Pennsylvania Avenue many were already heeding his call, retreating from the Capitol in a loyal trickle. Near the National Archives I saw about fifty Trump supporters surround a few counter-protestors with Black Lives Matter signs, screaming “USA! USA! USA!” It was hard to watch. I thought of all the other marches down this same street — suffragettes, civil rights activists, and anti-war protestors, but also the Klan. Nearby, a Black vendor sold Trump beanies.
In the distance, I saw the horde: thousands of Trump supporters, still clinging to the Capitol. I passed the reflecting pool and walked to a vacant spot on the lawn, strewn with pieces of fence where the perimeter was breached. The mob, neutralized, now lingered around the building — stretched across the terrace, sitting on the stairs, and packing the grandstands of Biden’s inaugural stage-to-be. Having watched clip after clip of their chaos and violence just hours before, the group’s sudden stillness was unsettling. Like a spent machine gun, silent yet menacing.
But then I looked around. People gathered in small circles on the lawn, chatting and laughing. Elderly folks sat in camping chairs, warming their hands in their pockets. Couples took selfies framed by the Capitol dome. A pair of women in high heels and fur-lined coats posed for glamor shots. Several middle-aged men wore costumes: a full-body American flag onesie, a Santa outfit, a guy dressed like Ulysses S. Grant. Nearby, food trucks sold hot dogs and funnel cakes. The trash cans overflowed with Starbucks cups and styrofoam containers. Loud evangelical Christians preached.
The riot was over. This was a party.
Of course, the line between the two was dreadfully thin. So many in that crowd were angry racists who had just taken part in the attack; violence was still unfolding inside the Capitol at that very moment. Two years later, we know the full carnage they wrought. We know its human toll, its hateful roots, and how close it pushed American democracy to the edge. Eighteen rioters have been charged with sedition, nearly 700 have been charged for other crimes, and prosecutors expect to ultimately charge as many as 2,000.
And yet so many others in that crowd were less radical by comparison. I didn’t see the worst of Jan. 6, but I saw its thick residue: the far larger group, likely several thousand, who attended that day but didn’t riot. By nature, mobs are monolithic; but the crowd I saw seemed varied and complex. All angry, all troubled, all rapt by the same terrible fantasies, but upset for slightly different reasons and to very different degrees. This group — mirrored by the tens of millions more Americans who weren’t in DC but sympathized with the rioters — arguably poses a more challenging threat than the Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, and other fanatics who actually ravaged the Capitol. There’s simply no institution, no policy, no known remedy. How do you fight a bonfire that’s fueled across millions of minds? Even if you could, what’s to stop Trump or the next pyromaniac from lighting another match?
We’ll be grappling with these challenges for years, if not decades. But I’m glad I walked to the Capital on Jan. 6, if only to glimpse some fresh fragments of the American crisis with my own eyes. Ultimately, the banality of that late-afternoon scene calmed some of my fears while planting new ones that continue to haunt.
I realized, for one thing, that a majority of MAGA diehards are just spectators. Complicit and enabling, yes — ginned up on lies and conspiracy theories and often spouting ugly, racist, xenophobic, and other harmful ideas. But Trump raised their spirits, and for them, this is community. The majority are probably a lot like me and you: human beings shaped by fate or circumstance and burdened with flaws, which themselves are at least partially byproducts of larger systems, inequalities, and forces beyond their control — including a president calling them patriots and urging them to fight like hell. Such nuance is extremely cold comfort; but for me, it’s at least a seed of hope compared to the alternatives.
It would be another two hours before police finally cleared the Capitol grounds, but I headed home after a few minutes. At the edge of the lawn, I passed people gathered around a massive white statue: the Peace Monument, it turns out. Erected after the Civil War, it’s topped by two classical figures: Grief and History, the former crying on the latter’s shoulder. Earlier that day, Trump supporters had scaled its pedestal with bullhorns and flags. Now, next to a damp bloodstain on the pavement, a group of middle-aged women—suburban Trump supporters, by all appearances—debated how to get home. One of them called my attention.
“Is the train station that way?” she asked, pointing vaguely in the wrong direction. She had a red facemask that said TRUMP.
“Union Station?” I asked, and she nodded.
When my initial guidance didn’t register, I pulled out my phone. She stepped over and leaned in. I zoomed the map, held it up, and showed her the way: north from the Peace Monument, across Constitution Avenue, then right to Union Station. As always, DC landmarks spoke volumes.
She smiled and stepped back to her friends, who also smiled. For a moment, I wondered if they, too, were here in disguise. But then they turned and started walking, and we went our separate ways.
