Notes from the Trail by Alexandra Kerry

Author:Alexandra Kerry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rodale
Published: 2000-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

5

THE CONVENTION

Many talked about how appropriate it was that the Democratic nominee was formally accepting the nomination in his hometown. For me, it was simply strange to see Boston transformed into a spectacle. The Fleet Center in Boston was almost unrecognizable. Its apotheosis was underscored by the complex security arrangements. Even though I entered the convention hall in the company of the police, there were tense moments when my identity was questioned and my video cameras checked for hidden weapons. This was the first national political convention since September 11, but it wasn’t until much later that I realized how deeply the grip of fear had come to influence our politics.

The convention was a riot of images. The floor of the Fleet Center shifted constantly. During the afternoon, little-noticed figures spoke at the podium, ignored by the sparse audience of carpenters, electricians, sound engineers, and camera crews preparing for the real show after dark. In the evening, the hall filled up completely. Technicians faded into the background, and delegates and political alternates assumed their places at the center of the auditorium.

Teachers, union activists, and longtime party operatives, the committed who cared deeply about politics and civic engagement, organized with the chaotic enthusiasm of a circus parade. Nearly every person had paid his or her own way to Boston. Even though the nomination had been decided four months earlier in the eyes of the public and the press, these dyed-in-the-wool activists who gathered at the national convention every four years observed their symbolic role in determining the official candidate of the Democratic Party with great seriousness. They knew the campaign could not go forward, the money could not be spent, and the ads could not be cut until they performed the ritual laying on of hands. Like the Iowans who savored the moments after the doors at a caucus site slammed shut, the delegates relished their experience. They had the last word about the nomination.

Supporters came to the Fleet Center dressed for ritual, bedecked in buttons and ribbons and wild colors—some even painted their faces like football fans do— bearing homemade donkey hats and handwritten signs. There was a sense of freedom and celebration in the air, both liberating and overwhelming, as small-town volunteers mixed with Washington professionals. Gone were the orderly moments of the rope line, the discreet interactions with individuals. Now, everything was a tumultuous wash of sight and sound.

My only regret was that I couldn’t be part of the crowd and interact with people as much as I wanted to. By then, I was no longer camouflaged, and many of them recognized me on sight and treated me with either surprisingly intimate enthusiasm or the exaggerated respect and detachment accorded to a member of the prospective First Family. Moving amid them I was simultaneously more vulnerable and more secure—even when released from the bubble, I carried its residual distance with me wherever I went.

I was led onto the ground floor to the sounds of the PA system being tested in the Fleet Center’s massive main room.

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