Inside the Hotel: “You Don’t Belong Here”
It was also becoming clear, perhaps before the opening gavel fell, that our delegation never felt anywhere near on an even footing with the Clinton campaign at the convention. In the eyes of many who might still have seen this as a contested convention, we were struggling to even establish ourselves as second-class citizens. Every morning, we filed into the grand ballroom at the Marriott, where we were to pick up our daily credentials and attend the $50 per person breakfast program. The cavernous room was outfitted with dozens of circular tables adorned with Clinton photo centerpieces and Pelosi rainbow wristbands. Clinton and Sanders delegates were to mingle with each other and the lineup of power brokers in attendance. On the first morning, our team replaced the Clinton decorations on our table with Sanders stickers and bobbleheads. In theory, it was a wonderful opportunity to interact, but it actually became as segregated as a diner in Macon, Ga., in the ’50s. Delegates gathered with their own kind, and although I didn’t really take note, I’m sure there were Sanders delegates who did not partake of the buffet, having stopped at McDonald’s beforehand for a much more affordable meal. We were treated to speeches from a parade of political luminaries and a few wannabes giving rah-rah talks about unity. At one breakfast, Sen. Barbara Boxer came to promote and sell her new book, “The Art of Tough.” Suffice to say, our crew, some of whom could barely afford to eat, was not buying, literally or figuratively. The first day at breakfast, well before the 4:30 p.m. convention-opening gavel, organizers decided to wave a red cape before a crowd of snorting bulls with their tone-deaf decision to feature California Secretary of State Alex Padilla, who had just presided over one of the seemingly most shenanigans-filled California Democratic primaries in recent memory. There were voter roll issues, and the ballots took weeks and weeks to count. A huge apparent win for Clinton later resulted in a much narrower victory after the Sanders campaign got involved to make sure that every vote was counted. It didn’t help that The Associated Press declared Clinton the winner the night before the primary, suppressing the vote. For Sanders stalwarts, this just emphasized the notion that the fix was in. Hearing Padilla exhort and scold us into unity on Day 1 was almost too much for many in the delegation to bear. So the bulls rudely broke out of their holding pens: “Count our votes, count our votes,” they cried over and over again. Clinton’s delegates, dressed to the nines and mingling, were shocked speechless. Who were these crude, T-shirted riffraff, and didn’t they realize who won? This was not supposed to happen. From what I saw and heard, many Sanders delegates—myself, on occasion—had some problems on a personal level with hard-core Clintonites at the convention center and around town, and this helped foster a completely unnecessary “us versus them” mentality. Of course it was not all one-sided—the booing on the first day was rude and counterproductive, in my view, and perhaps set everything in motion—but tales were told of people being scolded, flipped off and shunned by hard-core Clintonites on a daily basis. That said, there were, of course, many positive interactions with Clinton supporters as well. All in all, though, the atmosphere was fraught with tension. Yes, we had determined to stick together for strength, but most of us were friendly, willing, available and even eager to talk to those Clintonites. I proudly wore my Sanders button and credentials, but I made a point of smiling and saying hello to everyone I encountered in elevators and lobbies. These smiles were sometimes met with outright hostility, including sneers from a well-dressed, uptight, middle-aged couple—Clinton delegates in full pantsuit and tie regalia—sitting on a couch in the lobby next to where I and a Sanders buddy were talking to a well-known journalist (who, like everyone else, was lecturing us on getting with the program). The Clinton busybodies couldn’t help eavesdropping on our conversation and felt compelled to come over, tap me on the shoulder, sneer and say, “Nice not talking to you.” I froze. This type of treatment was not what I was used to. What happened to inclusion and unity? I looked and dressed like a Clinton delegate. Sanders delegates, many younger and most certainly less affluent, did not, and they were treated far worse than I. Stories were told of being heckled and shunned, and in a few cases having food and water thrown in their faces. Almost everyone felt the need to chastise us for not jumping wholeheartedly on the Clinton train (“Don’t you know the stakes?”), without even knowing whom we planned to vote for in the general (again, Clinton for me). I’ve got to say that many, though not all, Sanders delegates arrived not quite “Ready for Hillary” and left full of resentment and even less ready. A word about what Sanders delegates did on their off time. They met daily to recap the previous day’s events, vent feelings and frustrations and talk about plans for the day to come. No fancy, intimate luncheons or cocktail parties awaited them, although there were two lovely, huge parties (free food and drink!) and concerts to which all the delegates were invited. However, there was something about the Lady Gaga concert’s timing (midafternoon, right before the convention on the last day) that aroused suspicion in our group that it was part of a plot to keep us away or make us late to the convention hall on the night of Clinton’s acceptance speech. Most, if not all, skipped it, opting to get to the convention hall early. Sanders delegates also spent time reaching out privately to Clinton delegates and power brokers to find ways to work together on the issues we supposedly agreed on but didn’t make the platform, including, most importantly, stopping both the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) and fracking. Unity petitions were developed and circulated. My cellphone pinged constantly throughout the day, with notices and commentary from our leaders and fellow delegates providing instructions, calls to action or just plain information (“Take the subway, not the shuttles because they’re faster”). After breakfast each day, one of the omnipresent “pings” was a reminder to meet upstairs in an empty room for our daily meeting (on the second day, we were escorted out of there by hotel security and forced to relocate). These meetings had an impromptu, Occupy-like feel, yet they were run with military precision. Leaders debriefed, and then people who wanted to speak put their name in a queue and were allotted a strictly enforced 30 seconds to talk. And talk they did. As the week progressed, and our delegation was getting media attention and things were getting rougher, people emotionally and often tearfully spoke of both their extreme fatigue and stress and their love for their fellow delegates (“This has been the best week of my life”). They had to appear strong to the outside world, but inside, many were crumbling while struggling to gather strength and love from each other. Delegates also offered suggestions on strategy and distributed materials such as T-shirts, markers, buttons and signs. I often felt a high degree of cognitive dissonance, because, while the leaders were reporting cries of solidarity and support from other states’ delegations, their networks back at home—and even activists like Michael Moore (!), my Clinton delegate friends up in the skyboxes and the disapproving mainstream media—were wagging their fingers. Once the press got wind of the meetings, they tried to get in, and when they couldn’t, microphones and cameras were shoved in our faces as we exited. Your support matters…

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#activism#bernie sanders#delegates#democratic national convention#dissent#dnc#hillary clinton#national#politics#progressivism#protest#tpp#trans-pacific partnership#usa