The Wind That Chose Me — And Why I Waited Six Months to Say It

Looking back, I didn’t know it then.

But now? It’s obvious.

The night before Inauguration, I lay inside a tarp tent — thin blanket wrapped tight, built by strangers who nodded like I belonged. Concrete under me, Potomac wind slipping through the seams, cold and thick with memory. Every oath, every march, every “I believe” from folks who’d stood here before — it drifted in like it was searching.

Not for a hero. Not for fame. For a heart that still believed.

It brushed my cheek, tugged at the tarp, whispered past my ear. Like America said, “You’re true. And you’re mine.” I shivered — teeth chattering, breath fogging — but I stayed. Because something called. A pull I couldn’t name.

D.C. knows me. This was my sixth trip — 33 years of wandering these streets. I’ve walked the Mall at dawn, traced Lincoln’s words with my fingers, even dressed as Waldo on Halloween ’21 — striped shirt, goofy grin — while people laughed: “Hey, I found Waldo!” Just another American, hiding in plain sight, loving the history.

Halloween night, 2021 — my fifth trip to Washington, D.C. I stood beneath Abraham Lincoln inside the Lincoln Memorial dressed as Waldo, smiling for a moment that felt playful at the time but quietly meaningful. I had no idea that just three years, two months, and twenty days later, my next journey back to this city would become one of the most historic moments of my life. Under the marble glow that night, patriotism felt simple — just a traveler finding his place in a story bigger than himself. Looking back now, that Halloween walk through history feels less like a costume… and more like the beginning of a path I didn’t yet know I was walking.

Next day — fourth row, hood up — Hail to the Chief thundering, patriotism boiling over. The wind from last night? It gathered right there, in my throat. One burst: “We love you, Mr. President.”

He turned.

White House answered. Twice. Ink from the Resolute Desk on cream paper. Vaulted in the Archives beside the Constitution. Not fan mail. Not a cute note. A document — one of the only American Citizens to get archived. They don’t send those lightly. Not to donors. Not to celebrities. Only to someone who was there — someone they could verify.

And then? I waited.

From January to June. Six months of silence. Not because I doubted. Because I knew. This wasn’t a story to rush. This was history — and history doesn’t need a press kit. It needs time. So I sat with it. Felt it settle. Until one day, that same wind nudged me: “Tell them. You made history. You need to say it.”

Family smiles: “Neat.”

I see: forever.

Because now every cousin, every niece, every kid who comes after will know: “He didn’t chase history. History came looking. The wind found his heart — true, stubborn, American — and carried it straight to power. That weekend, America was searching for a voice to tell the nation: ‘We still believe.’ And it chose me.”

If you’re reading this late — wind rattling your window, maybe — know this: love isn’t loud. It’s waiting six months to speak. It’s lying on concrete, shivering, letting the wind decide.

And sometimes, late at night, when the wind picks up outside my window — I swear I still feel it. Like America never left. Like she’s still out there, drifting — waiting for the next heart brave enough to love her back.