As the inauguration nears, the Capitol has become a fortress. The fences surrounding it, writes NPR's Michel Martin, "are the hallmarks of a country at war, and most tragically, at war with itself."

Transcript

MICHEL MARTIN, HOST:

Finally today, I was thinking about the inauguration this week. I've been a journalist a long time, which means I've been to more inaugurations than I can count. And I'm talking about the gamut. I'm talking county council to president. I'm talking boxed Pepperidge Farm cookie and coffee urn affairs, where you mix and mingle with the newly-elected official's mom, to the not-quite-front-row tickets within arm's length of famous people events complete with fancy-party-later invitations.

What I think about most, though, apart from being hungry and cold - because it's always cold around here in January, and I'm always hungry - is the crowds. They're usually so happy - happy to be there, happy to be part of history, happy for the country, happy to have a story to tell their kids, or future kids, even. Often, the people I've met at these things honestly didn't seem to care that much about who had won the election. They just appreciated the occasion. I think I've met more social studies and history teachers at inaugurations than I have anywhere else. And forget that classroom decorum - they do as much whooping and hollering as anybody else when the camera lights are on when it's time for that classic crowd shot.

And, yes, 12 years ago was different. At President Obama's first inauguration, there was an electricity and emotion which is hard to describe but which I feel confident in saying that most people there felt. Everywhere you looked, people were laughing and crying and hugging and praying. Giddy is the word that comes to mind.

Security was tight then, too. Let's not forget, Obama was assigned Secret Service protection earlier than any previous major candidate. And yet, it was a remarkable day - a day where all different kinds of people from all walks of life celebrated together. And, yes, four years ago, it was different still. I wasn't out on the lawn or Mall that day, as I have been most years. I had a different assignment. But colleagues - especially colleagues of color, it has to be said - caught a very different vibe, one that was far less about the moment and far more about the man at the center of it all.

Can I just tell you? This week is also going to be different in yet another way - in a way that seems necessary and yet still feels wrong. Many streets are already blocked off by tall fencing or police cars. The Capitol right now is a fortress, a place that must, seemingly of necessity, seal itself off from its own citizens - at least some of them. How many of them? Who really knows? How long is this going to last? Who knows? I just know that these fences, these barricades, are the hallmarks of a country at war and, most tragically, at war with itself.

One time a few years ago, I complained to one of my colleagues, one of the swells who got to sit up in the booth, offering his insights - clean, safe, warm and dry and with snacks, don't you know? - while I was out there freezing my you-know-what off. And I asked him, how come I'm always outside on the mall while you get to be inside? He said, and I quote, "oh, that's easy. That's because you still like people."

Well, I still like people - for the most part, anyway. But I'm going to be inside this year helping to guide you through the day with my NPR colleagues. I'm looking forward to it, and I hope you'll join us. But I have to admit it - I will miss being outside. I will miss the crowds. But most of all, I will miss that feeling, however illusory it was, that at least for a moment, at least for a few hours, that we were all in it together. Maybe next time.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WHAT'S GOING ON")

FRED HAMMOND: (Singing) You know we've got to find a way to bring some loving here today, here today, yeah. Father, father, we don't need to escalate. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.