I was selected as a precinct delegate for the Democratic convention, which I attended today. I sat through several fairly boring speeches, respectable final pleas from candidates whose future would be decided that day by little slips of paper stuffed into large, blue metal boxes with slots that were distinctly reminiscent of anything but the 21st century.
There was a lot of shuffling and semi-ordered herding by the convention organizers, punctuated by the occasional ejaculation of partisan chants. One man stood up as a short speech was being delivered and angrily shouted “black lives matter!” over and over while waving his fist in a theatrical, almost comical way. He was eventually quieted down by the staff, and his ham-fisted attempt to titillate the crowd never came close to achieving orgasm—really, it was a flaccid act of circus ring masturbation. Although the crowd was palpably angry that he was holding up the show, there was an undercurrent of irritation at the patronizing notion that, to a roomful of Democratic delegates and the black man speaking at the podium, this was somehow news.
What was particularly surprising to me were the number of Bernie and Hillary supporters who showed up with signs, waving them about and rabidly chanting as if the state election hadn’t yet been decided. In fact, my assumption had been that this would be a relatively orderly affair. Perhaps a graduation ceremony recognizing the votes of each district and affirming a larger Democratic solidarity in the wake of the caucus. It was over; chanting in each others’ faces seemed, at best, bad sportsmanship.
Standing in line as I waited for my delegate badge, the Bernie supporters were, and I’m terribly sorry to say it, the most vitriolic and ignorant. Many of them were quite open that they believed that Hillary Clinton would ruin the country, which is patently untrue. She would make a perfectly fine president and deep down every reasonable Democrat knows it. At the very least she would be able to do nothing, and at best she would do good things for the middle class and poor as she did when she was First Lady. Either way, a government controlled fully by Republicans would be at best disastrous based on their fractured party and obscene social goals.However, the Bernie supporters proved themselves over and over to be wholly close-minded, and worse, willfully ignorant.
This realization hurt the most because I really believe in the man and had assumed everyone else had good reasons for doing so as well. However, this kind of thing was the bread upon which the rest of the convention’s sandwich would be layered. The vast majority of party voters seemed to be less interested in maintaining serious opinions in favor of shoring up the leaking dykes of their partisan wishes with sandbags filled with hot air.
However, the experience was even more strange for me as a life-long Democrat and liberal. I was excited beforehand to be elected to attend the convention and cast a vote on behalf of my fellow citizens. Well, neighbors, anyway. I dressed up, put on a suit coat, and went downtown to the convention center like a proud citizen of Athens casting my first stone into the jar. I was ushered past a long line of alternates and placed in the first class lounge of the delegates near the hotdog stand. Clearly I was a nube. It looked like a political version of a 20-year-long first grade teacher's closet of gaudy Christmas sweaters. It didn't help that that’s when the first snag hit.
I was supposed to be representing both a presidential candidate at the convention, and a Denver District Attorney as an undeclared delegate. I had done my research, made my choice, and was informed that my precinct chairpersons had done the math wrong and I was no longer undeclared. They forgot to divide by three, and the percentages were such that I never should have been attending the assembly as undeclared in the first place. My choice was as follows: attend to my civic duty and vote for the candidate actually awarded the delegate whom I was not in favor of, or steel myself to the convictions and expectations I walked into the building with and bow out.
I elected not to vote. Democracy cannot be a bait-and-switch, and if the party doesn’t see fit to mention the error to the precinct I’m certainly not going to upend an apple cart of expectations.
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When I left seven hours later, went in the house, poured myself a drink, and then another, and then another just to be sure I’d done my due alcoholic diligence on behalf of the non-drinkers of the party. I wanted a shower, but was too disillusioned to do anything but concentrate on the nature of the gin equally dividing the glass. Half empty or soon to be completely empty. What I had hoped would be a day of elevated opinions and discourse amongst people who had a deeper understanding of issues than your average voter quickly exposed itself as a roomful of madness.
I am a Bernard Sander supporter, and I will no longer use the nickname Bernie. I don’t want to be associated with that particular “Bernie” faction of his party, and it has absolutely nothing to do with his politics. Their aggressive chanting in the face of the defeated Hillary supporters carried with it an odor of smugness that turned the stomach, and it was a microcosm of the entire event. The major democratic players in Denver were present, all of whom speechified at great length about supporting the party platform and Democratic candidates as if it were foregone—probably a safe assumption—that those willing to be more deeply involved were willing to sacrifice their critical thinking skills on the alter of Big Brother and his Democratic Party goals. It was not a convention for the thinking man. It was bootcamp for soldiers trained to follow orders.
It was a convention of escalating frenzied mindlessness.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to say I the platform itself was mindless, and in fact I agree with almost all of it. It was the rallying of the troops to support it because they were amongst the activist legions of Democrats, and not the ideological soundness of the positions. Robyn asked me when she got home what I would have preferred. Through a 60–odd–proof haze, my response came quite lucidly; educate, strengthen, and ennoble the platform, rather than ask for the automaton-like lever yanking of the party’s One Arm Bandit.
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There’s more to tell, but the summary is that I won’t be participating in that way again. As we broke into individual rooms for each district, it was clear that we were there to cast a few relatively meaningless votes and then listen to more rhetoric about how to win rather than why we should win. Nothing motivates me less, and it became abundantly clear that elevation in the party meant feudal service and strategizing rather than council. I refused the parade of stickers offered to me on a variety of issues as it seemed crass, and the American flag caps and pink capes worn by those who were up for election as delegates to attending the state convention were the dress of a persons with a mental disability shouting on the 16th Street Mall. These were the Majors and Colonels leading the troops, not the convincing and introspective.
I left.
And I will not be returning. I am happy to participate in the process that is my charge for the next two years of organizing transportation for disabled Democrats to caucuses so their voices can be heard regardless of their preference, and working to encourage greater participation in the process. No further. I will not be party, literally or figuratively, to the encouraging of mindlessness for the greater purpose, predominantly because I couldn’t live with myself knowing I was manipulating honest people by encouraging thoughtlessness rather than thoughtfulness.
I support the principles of Bernard Sanders, and I will continue to defend and trumpet them as I see morally, socially, and intellectually fit as social policy. I had hoped that a political base could be consolidated on those criteria. I was wrong.