We were eating a delectable palate of Mexican food from one of the many lunch trucks on Constitution Avenue. Perched on the wall facing the National Museum of African American History and Culture, which, unfortunately we could not get into due to long lines, when a loud, rushing motorcade passed by.

Sirens blared, black cars surged with urgency and purpose; and though I only caught sight of the final few cars, our youngest son said it was the president’s motorcade, because there were two limos.

There I stood, caught in an intersection of conflict.

First – the motorcade of the president of our democracy just passed by, from which I experienced a lifted sense of esteem.

And then – the motorcade of the current president of our democracy just passed by – from which I simply experienced a smoldering sense of being steamed.