My inaugurations

I ATTENDED my first inauguration as a 1-year-old, in my mother's arms. She was an ardent admirer of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, and, as she explained years later, she wanted me to be in his physical presence once before he died. In January 1945, he was sworn in for his fourth term. Already ill (he would die three months later), he seized on the war as a reason to mute the inaugural festivities. He took the oath on the South Portico of the White House, and the south lawn was open to the public. My mother braved the cold to bring me and my brother Joe to see the president. Mom saved a newspaper photo of the crowd taken from above, and told me, "You're in there."

From an early age, I took pride in having been present for FDR's last inauguration, understanding it as my initiation into love of this country.

In January 1953, Joe and I were set loose to take the bus into Washington by ourselves, a first foray that made the grand city - and the nation for which it stands - feel like my own. We took up a choice spot on Pennsylvania Avenue to watch President Dwight D. Eisenhower's parade. The mounted cowboys particularly impressed, and so did the crack Army honor guard marching behind the horses - how they strode through the dropped manure without flinching. "I Like IKE" buttons were ubiquitous, but as sons of loyal Democrats, we sported buttons that said, "I Like Everybody!" Even so, I was impressed with Eisenhower when he waved at me, knowing both that he was a great war hero - and that we were still in a terrible war.

As a freshman at Georgetown in 1961, I wore my ROTC uniform to John F. Kennedy's inauguration. I recall that the regulation topcoat was too thin for the cold that day. As a Young Democrat, I had stuffed envelopes for Kennedy, our Georgetown neighbor, and was, like so many, wholly identified with him. Still, I was unprepared to hear his speech that day as addressed solely to me, with its peroration - ". . .here on earth, God's work must truly be our own" - a summons to what would prove to be a lifelong vocation of political and religious commitment together. Kennedy's inauguration marked a before-and-after moment of my life - a threshold I rejoiced to cross.

And then there was Richard Nixon. In January of 1973, I stood on Pennsylvania Avenue as an anti-war protester, and when the president's limo rolled within earshot, I held up my sign, shook my fist, and cursed him for his grotesque betrayal of peace.

The memory shames me now. Even then, I understood that, just as my mystical bond with America had been sealed on prior inauguration days, so on that one the bond broke. After that, I made a point never to be in Washington on Jan. 20 again.

Obligations will keep me away from the capital tomorrow, but, once more like so many, my mind and heart will be with Barack Obama all day. That his election has upended so many world assumptions about the United States seems right to me because it has transformed my own imagination about the possible future. I believe in his promise of change because I have already experienced its effect - to the depths of my soul.

Not that Obama makes me an optimist - one who looks at the evidence and concludes about the future that things are getting better. Indeed, the evidence - from the economy to Gaza - suggests the opposite. But Obama has defined himself by hope, not optimism, and that is different. Hope sees the evidence, and something more. The catastrophes that define the public agenda, and the new president's challenges, can themselves be taken as opportunities. Obama's gifts are impressive, but his greatest asset as he stands before the American people tomorrow is what we are offering to him - a readiness to believe again in the greatness of our nation.

Note to readers: Crossing this threshold moment, I am taking a three-month leave from writing this column to work on a book. I will be back May 4. Peace.

James Carroll's column appears regularly in the Globe.