Last night I attended my first State of the Union Address. I was invited by a buddy from college—an ultra-conservative freshman member of Congress—who was kind enough to let me tag along to the speech, despite the fact that we disagree on almost every major political issue (and most minor ones, too). I jumped at the chance to ditch my evening routine for a night—I'm a physician at New York-Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan—and booked my Amtrak ticket to Washington, D.C., before the congressman's director of operations could confirm that I'd passed the requisite background check.
I spent the train ride to D.C. reading an article in this week's New Yorker about a seemingly incompetent abortion practitioner, someone who graduated from Columbia-Presbyterian Medical School (where I did my residency training), wondering if the gruesome details might give further ammunition to the pro-life crowd. By coincidence, as I was reading the article, the House was voting on the "No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act" and the bill was the first thing my friend and I spoke about when I reached his office. (It passed.) As with most political issues, neither one of us remotely considered changing our opinion.
After dinner at a private club on Capitol Hill surrounded by members of Congress, we walked through a series of heavily guarded underground tunnels to the chamber of the House of Representatives. My escort, like most of the elected officials I saw, was wearing a security pin, which meant that he could bypass the innumerable metal detectors that I was asked to walk through. There weren't many people meandering through the tunnels, and the ones who were seemed to be very young (20-something staffers carrying several Blackberrys) or very old. There were no kids in sight. As we walked, I frequently found myself trying to place a face, trying to recall whose jowls just passed me, whose vaguely familiar face I had once seen on Meet the Press. Nearing the chamber, I developed pin envy and daydreamed of starring in a State of the Union action film, perhaps one where a terrorist obtains a security pin and waltzes into the chamber. If only there was a heroic doctor to intervene.
At the end of the underground maze, we reached an elevator. As my friend motioned to push a button, a security guard shook his head and said, "Sorry, V.I.P."
I pointed at my friend and whispered, "We're V.I.P!"
The guard was unimpressed. "That's the president's elevator."
We soon found the stairs and parted ways. I went up to the third floor and handed my ticket (Gallery 1, Row D, Seat 19) to a guard and was informed that I'd have to check my phone with security. I did not like this. I wanted to take pictures. I wanted to tweet. I wanted to text my mom, "I'm here!"
The guard flipped over my ticket and pointed. "Rules are rules." On the back of the ticket were, indeed, five rules:
- Nothing may be taken into the Galleries other than articles of clothing and handbags.
- Guests must remain seated, and refrain from reading, writing, eating, drinking, applauding, smoking, or picture taking.
- Front railing must be kept clear of all objects and guests must not lean on railings.
- Appropriate hats may be worn by gentlemen for religious purposes only.
- Any disturbance or infraction of these rules is justification for expulsion from the Galleries.
I took a long look at my phone, my baby, and saw that my last Google search had been "attending the state of the union." That’s how I'd learned that joining me in the peanut gallery would be Willie Robertson of Duck Dynasty (guest of Louisiana Representative Vance McAllister); Fort Lee, N.J., Mayor Mark Sokolich; Penn State football coach James Franklin, Boston Marathon-bombing survivors, openly gay NBA player Jason Collins, and Sean Hannity, who was now standing just a few feet away from me in the security line. That man is apparently serious when he says he wants out of Manhattan.
I handed over my phone and prepared to take my seat.
Walking into the chamber is an unusual experience. The room is about the size of a Broadway theater, but with much better lighting. The space is cramped—there are only four rows in the gallery—and you have as much personal space as you do flying coach. Everyone spends the 8-o'clock hour people-watching (it took very little time to find the Duck Dynasty beard) and there's a lot of awkward chatter in the gallery, mostly as guests introduce themselves and sort out each other's politics. Do I like the people next to me or loathe them?
To my right was a D.C. lawyer who was active in local politics; to my left was a Vietnam veteran named Rita who was wearing a large medal around her neck that read, "Arizona Veterans Hall of Fame." As we waited for President Obama to arrive, Rita and I struck up a conversation. She was a war hero who had been invited by her congressman. She was also a nurse, and our conversation eventually moved to medicine, and just as I asked her what she thought of Obamacare, the crowd burst into cheers. The first lady had arrived. Not long after that, her husband entered. And then the fun began.