Capitol Outlook

Insurrectionists smashed through this window. My 7-year-old grandson helped me find a better view.

Grandson Clayton looking out the window that was shattered six months earlier by insurrectionists.

Six months after insurrectionists stormed the U.S. Capitol, our 13-year-old grandson stood in front of a bank of windows that the mob had shattered to force its way into the building.

Clayton was aware of what had happened that day, but for a few minutes was blissfully unaware of what had happened to those windows. Instead, Clayton stood in their grandfather’s office and took in the view of the Washington Monument silhouetted against the setting sun

I watched my grandson standing there, their backpack lopsided on their shoulders, and thought about how dangerous that spot had been on January 6, 2021. When any of the children are around, I tend to carry my Lumix camera and capture hundreds of images. Not this time. I pulled out my phone and snapped a single photo. I didn’t want to remember this moment, but I didn’t want to forget it. I acknowledge the lack of logic. The mind, dueling with the heart, is always a lost cause.

The office windows are high off the ground, but they were accessible that day because of scaffolding that had been built for the impending presidential inauguration. The office was empty when the mob broke through the windows. They trashed the room and then flooded the hallway in their violent attempt to overthrow our government.   

I remained silent as Sherrod explained to Clayton what had happened in that spot where they stood.  

“Where I’m standing?” Clayton said, pointing to the window.

“Yes,” Sherrod said. “Right where you’re standing.”

“But you weren’t here.”

“No, I was in the Senate chamber.”

Their discussion was matter of fact, which is my husband’s way whenever he discusses that day. The windows have been replaced and reinforced. The scaffolding is long gone. Joe Biden is now president of the United States. So many were worse off than our family, we say whenever someone asks about it. I’ve stopped reminding Sherrod of the 40 minutes when our children and I had no idea if he was safe. I’ve save all those texts.

What Sherrod didn’t mention to Clayton were the photographs of the damage and destruction he saw as he made his way through the Capitol that night. He sent me some of those photos, including a few of his demolished office. He never mentions them. I’ve never deleted them from my phone.

The same windows, hours after the January 6 insurrection. Photo by Sherrod Brown.

For more than two years, whenever I stood in front of that window, I could not look at the Washington Monument, that powerful symbol of our democracy, without thinking of the mob who tried to bring it all down. That changed this past June, when our 7-year-old grandson, Milo, walked into his grandfather’s office for the first time and rushed to the window, calling out to his father.

“Daddy, look,” he said softly, pulling his father close as he pointed to the Washington Monument in the distance. “That’s where Martin Luther King gave his speech.”

Sherrod and I looked quizzically at each other. King delivered his famous 1963 speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Milo continued to stare out the window, his face now beaming. “It was right there,” he said, pointing again. “I saw it in a book at school.”

Of course, he did, I soon realized. So many photos of King that day were captured at an angle, allowing full view of the Washington Monument.

This was a family moment like no other. Milo’s father came to our country as a child from El Salvador. The sight of our beloved Alejandro and Milo huddled together in front of that window, looking out in wonder, forced me to recalibrate my own view. My grandson could look out and hear the call of freedom. When had I stopped listening?

A few days later, I picked up Jonathan Eig’s extraordinary new biography, King: A Life. I had bought it on the day of its release in May and consumed it, but I returned to a particular passage after Milo had pointed out that window. My grandson knew something I had forgotten. I owed it to him to catch up.

There is an unforgettable scene in Eig’s book that involves a view out another window. It was Monday morning on December 5, 1955, the first day of the planned Montgomery bus boycott. King and his fellow activists had worked hard to spread the word that, for the boycott to work, no Black man, woman, or child in Montgomery could step onto a bus. No one knew if the plan would work.

As Eig writes, King was too anxious to sleep. He and his wife, Coretta Scott King, were dressed by 5:30 a.m. Eig describes what happened a half-hour later:

Martin was in the kitchen getting a cup of coffee when Coretta spotted the first bus of the day rumbling down Jackson Street.

“Martin, Martin, come quickly!” she called.

King put down his coffee and hustled to the living room window.

The yellow bus, usually filled with Black domestic workers, was completely empty.

Fifteen minutes later, another bus passed. Empty. The next bus, fifteen minutes later, had two passengers, both white.

Two months after reading this, I’m still thinking about that moment in time: A young Black couple named Martin and Coretta, standing in front a window at dawn, daring to see hope.

Next time I see Milo, I’m going to sit with him and tell him that story. I want him to know more about this man who has captured his heart. I want to see my grandson’s face when I describe Martin Luther King looking out that window and hearing the call of freedom.