DNC '08 Note to the DNCC: Awe-Inspiring Conclusion, But Next Time, Hire an Event Planner

At 1:45 p.m. on Thursday, I left a Democratic Youth Council event at the Colorado Convention Center that I was live blogging on Twitter early to head toward Invesco Field to watch Barack Obama accept the Democratic Party nomination for President. Events at Invesco were scheduled to begin at 3:00 p.m.; Obama was scheduled to speak at 8:00 p.m. I knew there would be a security line. And I knew it would be long.

I'd been to an Obama event many months earlier, at a stadium in my own home town,  where I had waited hours to see him speak on a chill winter night, in line with 20,000 other people. I'd seen the lines

But, I thought, Thursday's line would probably go smoothly. After all, Obama's speech in St. Louis had been planned at the last minute; it had been staffed by a small group of local volunteers, and it was first-come, first-serve. This event, on the other hand, had been carefully orchestrated for weeks by the DNCC, the city of Denver, the DNCC, and the Obama campaign; all of the attendees had tickets, and the campaign knew the size of the audience ahead of time. I'd already gone through the formidable security barrier around the Pepsi Center earlier in the week, and despite a long walk through the buffer, that experience had been much less time-consuming than I had expected.

I'd been told by the Youth Council folks who had supplied my Community Credential (the ticket to get inside Invesco) earlier that afternoon that they expected the line at Invesco would probably take about two hours to get through. So. leaving the Community Center before 2 p.m., I expected to be a little late and miss some of the pre-show entertainment.

But that was all right with me. At the Youth Council event I'd just been to, Howard Dean had been speaking to a group of Young Democrats about passing the torch to a new generation, and I'd really wanted to hear what he had to say. I was aware that many other Community Credential holders hadn't even been given an opportunity to pick up their credentials until 2 or 3 p.m., so I figured the DNC staff were expecting a steady stream of comers until 5 p.m. or so.

Since the MOMocrats were only granted four press credentials to the Invesco event, and ten of us were attending, I didn't have a press credential, so I couldn't ride the shuttle buses from the Colorado Convention Center to Invesco; I was going to have to arrange my own transportation. Given that the Secret Service had erected a security barrier with a wide buffer around the stadium, there was no way to get close to Invesco by car. The only options were to walk from the Convention Center, or take public transportation. Local radio stations in Denver were advising Community Credential holders to ride Denver's light rail transportation system straight into Invesco. So I headed for the train.

Taking the train directly from the Convention Center would have forced me to go in the opposite direction and then switch train lines in order to get to Invesco. Expecting a heavy crowd on the trains, I thought that it might take quite a long time to switch lines. So I got a ride by car to the nearest light rail station that would allow me to go straight to Invesco.

When I got there at 2 p.m., the platform was packed full with people. Not just people with Community Credentials, but also some delegates and press. Apparently many of the shuttles that people with delegate and press credentials were supposed to be able to ride had been too full to let anyone on, so some with shuttle priveleges had decided to try taking the train.

The first train that came by on its way to Invesco didn't stop. People were packed right to the doors. No one could board.

The second train that came by on its way to Invesco couldn't stop, either.

When a third Invesco-bound train passed the crowd on the platform by, I began to consider another plan. The station I had come to I was just about to call my husband to ask me to come and drive me as close to the security perimeter as he could possibly get and drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way.

The train looked about as full as I had ever seen a train. It was standing room only, packed to the doors. And yet, somehow, the passengers managed to make room so that the crowd on the platform could climb on. I squeezed in, glad I had only brought my purse and a small camera bag. There was nothing to hold on to when the train started, but it didn't really matter. There was no room to fall down.

Despite the crowding, the mood on the train was jovial. As far as I could tell, all of the passengers were on their way to the speech, and there was a palpable sense of excitement. No one was shoving or grumbling. Everyone was cooperating, trying to make room. Most of the riders were smiling.

But then, the driver's voice crackled over the intercom: The train had been ordered to halt at the next stop, Auraria Station. It would not be allowed to stop at Invesco. There were too many people getting off at Invesco Station, the driver said. Everyone was to get off of the train. The elderly and people with disabilities were told to wait at the platform for instructions; everyone else would have to walk the rest of the way.

(This despite the fact that everyone on the train had already paid for a train ticket.)

Still, the crowd kept their spirits up. After all, it wasn't really that far to walk from Auraria Station to Invesco; the stadium was in sight. We would have to cross a highway overpass, but it had been closed to vehicular traffic. People started to walk toward the overpass, but then a small group of police raised their batons and yelled at us to stop. Too many people crossing the overpass, the police said. We would have to wait near the platform.

So, we waited. And waited. For several minutes.

MOMocrat Shelia called me to ask where I was. "We're walking on this overpass," she told me. "Where are you? Can you find us?"

"I can't go anywhere," I said. "I just got kicked off a train and now I'm being told to stand near the platform by the police."

"Well, can't you just go around . . ."

"No, you really don't understand. I am in a crowd of people being detained by the cops. Real cops. With batons and guns and stuff. I can't go anywhere until they say we are allowed to move."

Finally the cops waved us forward. They were shouting something about Colfax Avenue, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. Most of the people we headed to the overpass ahead of me. Since it seemed the MOMocrats I was trying to meet up with were on the same overpass, I decided to follow the crowd.

As I fell into a stream of walkers moving across the overpass, I began to feel a lot less unlucky for getting kicked off the train. Okay, so I was out a ticket fare and my trip was now taking longer than it would have if I had just walked across downtown Denver in the first place. But if I'd ridden straight to Invesco Station, I would have missed this amazing human spectacle. It seemed there were thousands of people ahead of me and behind me, all headed toward the same destination. All united by a common cause. Everyone was smiling at everyone else. Everyone seemed so happy. And yet, there was also a sense of purpose and determination. People greeted one another, talking, laughing, but they walked briskly, not dawdling. Looking ahead.

After all, we were going to see a movement many of us in the crowd ourselves had helped create achieve a major milestone. Not only that, but we were also going to see a thing that had never happened before: an African-American man accepting the presidential nomination from a major U.S. political party. I could not help but feel a sense that with every step across that bridge, each member of this crowd was making history. By the time I caught up with my fellow MOMocrats who were also crossing the bridge, I was positively happy I'd been kicked off the train.

Yeah, so, that happy feeling didn't exactly last all the way to the stadium door.

We kept walking, and walking, and walking in an endless line of walkers. There didn't seem to be anyone around-- no DNC staff, no volunteers, no cops, no Secret Service, to tell us where to go, but the crowd kept moving in a single direction, so we kept following the crowd. Finally the line slowed. We went past the stadium. We followed the line through a few parking lots, where some enterprising vendors had set up impromptu booths selling t-shirts, pins, and water. I imagine the water was selling well. It was hot.

Then the line went into an alley. There were no steps down to the alley. People were having to jump down from a low wall.

Hmm, I thought. This is weird. Why would the DNC set up a line in such a way that people had to jump down into an alley? How were the elderly people, people with health issues, pregnant women and children I had seen in the line supposed to get down there?

Well, they seemed to be taking the long way around the wall, or getting help from other members of the crowd. Okay.

The line was so long it doubled back on itself in the alley. There was still no one directing. Just the vendors, who clearly weren't official. At least the alley was shaded by buildings and weeds.

We kept walking. And walking. The line seemed endless. There were no signs or markers telling us where to go. People seemed to just be organizing themselves, relying on faith in their neighbors ahead of them to get them where they needed to go. The crowd was still in good spirits, though. At one point, someone sent a message down the line. "Who dropped their ticket?" "Who dropped their ticket?" The question moved urgently through the crowd. The woman who had lost her credential realized it. The person who had found the ticket returned it to her. The woman who had lost her ticket cried. The crowd around us cheered.

And kept walking. And walking. Up over a steep, grassy hill. (Again-- how would those with trouble walking manage? A woman told us a tale of a woman in a wheelchair being carried down the hill by other walkers.)

And we wound up in a blacktop parking lot, with no shade, in full sun. And the line stopped moving.

The parking lot was filled with hundreds upon hundreds of people, waiting in line. The line snaked labrynthine through the lot. Newcomers had to keep asking directions. Is this the end of the line? Is this the end of the line? There were no markers. No one was directing. We could see the stadium, and the line zigging and zagging over parking lots and sidewalks and grass, back and forth across fences. There was, again, no one directing it. No caution tape. No cones. No signs.

There were no bathrooms. There was no water. There was no shade. There was no medic tent. There were no police. There were small children, babies, elderly people and pregnant people in the line. Many of them, I imagined, had probably only recently come to Denver and were still adjusting to the altitude. It was easily 90 degrees on that lot, in the sun, and the air was dry as a bone.

It was not a good situation.

My fellow MOMocrats and I started emailing and Twittering that we were stuck with a huge crowd in a parking lot in the heat with no water, no medics and no cops. We tried to call the other MOMcrats who had already gotten into the stadium with press passes, but cell reception was horrible; I imagine the system was overloaded. Others in the crowd near us called the local police, the DNC, their friends and family, the local news. The line moved slowly, slowly through the lot. We crept forward for an hour. The children in the crowd looked flushed. For the first time, I began to realize that there was a possibility we might not get into the stadium at all.

Then, suddenly, a group of police on bicycles arrived, bearing water. Their uniforms indicated they were from the suburb of Aurora, and upon seeing that someone had finally arrived to pass out water and take charge the crowd started cheering and chanting, "Aurora Police Rock!" (Don't ever tell me again that liberals don't appreciate the police.)

The cops started merging some lines and putting up caution tape and directing people. After several minutes it became clear that they were trying to clear the parking lot altogether and shut it off so no one else would get stuck there.

After that, the line moved more quickly, especially once we came to an area where there were proper barriers erected, and volunteers telling people where to go. But the line was still very, very long.

(Now, some readers who have seen Sarah's post sent from the line describing the confusion and long waits faced by many community credential holders have tried to claim the disorganization at this event as some sort of proof that Barack Obama is too inexperienced to lead the country. I find it amusing that anyone would think the presidential candidate at a convention would be the one in charge of organizing the line to his acceptance speech. The logistics for this event were planned by the DNC, the city of Denver, and the Secret Service. I am sure some Obama campaign staff members must have played a role in advising these groups, but the Secret Service was ultimately in charge of event security.

Incidentally, do you happen to know who is currently ultimately in charge of the Secret Service?

I'll give you a hint. It's certainly not Barack Obama or the DNCC.

The Secret Service is run by the U.S. Treasury Department. The U.S. Treasury Department is run by the Secretary of the Treasury. The Secretary of the Treasury is a member of the Presidential Cabinet.

I'm not sayin'. I'm just sayin': Maybe the DNCC should have prepared a bit better for the possibility of several of the Secret Service's scanners mysteriously ceasing to work, hmm?)

Having started on my journey to Invesco at 1:45, I arrived at the entrance to my section at 6:46. Five hours later.

But just in time to see Al Gore speak.

As Gore arrived on stage, the crowd let out a deafening roar. The entire stadium trembled as people clapped, stomped and waved flags.

My fellow MOMocrats climbed up the vibrating stairs, past other audience members in the aisle, all of whom made way with a smile. We were perched so high in the steeply sloped stadium, and my legs were still shaky from the long walk in the heat, and I felt an irrational fear I would fall. A man in the seat at the beginning of our row beamed as he stood to let us through, and reached out to hold my camera bag for me as I made my way to my seat. I was worried that people would be angry that Shelia, one of the few MOMocrats who had been able to get into the stadium in a timely fashion, had saved out seats for us. But the strangers around us just smiled and smiled their welcome, as if they had been eagerly waiting for us to arrive. 

From my view in the top third of the stadium, the scale of the spectacle before me struck me as awesome, in the original sense of the word. I had never seen so many American flags in one place before. When everyone waved them at once, the stadium seemed like a living thing, colored red, white and blue.

When Al Gore called for increased use of solar, wind and geothermal energy, the crowd screamed its approval. When he called for a return to "the ageless principles embodied in the United States Constitution," the crowd roared. As the vast around me wildly applauded respect for our environment, an end to bipartisanship, a return to respect of the civil rights so cherished by our nation's founders, I realized: for the first time ever in my life, I am literally surrounded by thousands of people who share my core values.

For a woman who grew up in the Midwest, often surrounded by neighbors who genuinely believed that the Earth is ours for the trashing, that people who suffer misfortune usually must have done something to deserve it, that cultural diversity is threatening, that people with different skin colors will never really be able to get along, that patriotism means doing what a leader tells you to do without question, that you don't have to worry about the government spying on you as long as you haven't done anything wrong, etc., etc., etc.— to be totally surrounded by people who believe the opposite of all of those things? That was an incredibly powerful feeling.

And in that moment I knew without question that Barack Obama had made the right choice, giving his acceptance speech in a stadium. Screw the naysayers who say the event was orchestrated to promote Obama's charisma as a "celebrity." Screw the right-wing pundits who say ominously that this event reminds them of some sort of fascist stunt. This isn't about a cult of personality. The 75,000 of us who showed up in that stadium weren't really there for Barack Obama.

We were there for each other.

We are the 48% of American voters who did not vote for a second George W. Bush term.

We are welcoming into our ranks a growing number of Republicans who believe their party has completely lost its sense of direction and squandered the respect of the faithful.

We are the Americans who believe that the Bill of Rights was written for a reason. Who believe that all people in this nation deserve equal access to opportunity. Who believe it is our sacred responsibility to help our fellow citizens in times of need.

We are the Americans who remember a time when our country was seen as a beacon of freedom by many around the world. We remember a time when our nation was liked and respected by a host of allies. We are the Americans who believe that if we are to share this planet with billions of other human beings in peace, we must always strive to cooperate with other nations.    

And so, when Barack Obama took the stage, we cheered when he announced his plan to deploy "an army of teachers" to make sure every child in this country has access to a world-class education.

We gave an ovation when he called for an end to discrimination by insurance companies against those who are sick.

We applauded his assertion that we can never again allow our government to stand idly by while an American city drowns.

When he demanded that women be offered equal pay for equal work, our shouts of affirmation shook the stands.

We waved our flags in fervent agreement when he called for a return to a policy of trying diplomacy first before sending our nation's soldiers off to war.

Tears ran down the faces of many in the crowd when Barack Obama said, "We are better than these last eight years."

And when he said, "What the naysayers don't understand is that this election has never been about me. It's about you," we agreed.

Barack Obama's speech at Invesco proved one thing to everyone in attendance there. Not that Barack Obama is a celebrity. Not that Barack Obama is a cult leader. Not that Barack Obama is presumptuous or vain. 

Invesco proved that Barack Obama is riding a wave.

And that wave can take back this country. Yes we can.

This post composed in the passenger seat of a car on a rural highway with the help of a Sprint Compass™ 597 by Sierra Wireless. Thanks, Sprint!

Jaelithe also writes at The State of Discontent.

Comments

[rebecca]

"What the naysayers don't understand is that this election has never been about me. It's about you": It was my favorite line of the entire speech. Made me teary.

I'm so appreciative that you took the time to write out such a thoughtful, detailed, honest account of what it was actually like to be there for all of those, like me, who were sitting at home, on our sofas, in our pajamas, watching on television.

[cynematic]

Jaelithe, that was beautifully written. It made me relive the entire experience, from sweaty outdoor confusion to exhilirating, uplifting conclusion. For 84,000 people to peaceably come together like that is magical.

[Donna]

Thanks, Jaelithe, for this beautiful account of both the frustrations and the inspiration of Thursday night's speech.

[Daisy]

Great, great post! I feel like I was there with you. I envy you, too; I wish I could have seen it in person. But I'll admit, it was awesome on TV, too!
My daughter saw Obama in June in a high school gym rally. She came home saying "Barack ROCKS!!" I must agree.