Searching for My Very Own Cross of Gold

BOSTON, Monday, July 26—Forgive me if I missed the modern-day equivalent of William Jennings Bryan’s “Cross of Gold” speech. But, on more than a few occasions between Miss New Mexico’s dreadful rendering of the Star Spangled Banner at the start of the Democratic National Convention’s first afternoon session and the beginning of nationwide broadcast coverage at 10 p.m., I wasn’t exactly paying overly careful attention.

Sure, I desperately tried to maintain my focus from the seat I had furtively acquired directly behind the Puerto Rican delegation below the Fox News booth. After all, my partner in crime, Lauren A. E. Schuker ’06, also a Crimson editor, and I had to slip into several zones within the FleetCenter in which our security clearance was not quite good enough, and if we abandoned our prime viewing position, we might not be so fortunate the next time around.

But what, exactly, were we supposed to be watching? The archaic yet riveting parliamentary procedures governing opening the floor for debate? Was anyone actually going to oppose such a motion? Would that have even mattered, or would the presiding officer have just pretended not to hear?

Much to my chagrin, a unanimous second rang out from the one in eight delegates who had stumbled into the arena by that point, with no objections halting Chairman Terry McAuliffe’s order of events. Moments later, several members of the rules committee bounded on stage, advancing steadily on the mahogany podium more distant from where I had just been sitting, ready for their moment in the spotlight—if appearing on C-SPAN to enthusiastically announce the unanimous endorsement of the convention’s rules even qualifies.

I of course was on my way back up the stairs, into the dreaded concourse where my coveted press pass might be revoked at any moment, the din of the first of a host of semi-anonymous Kerry apologists trickling through the doorways back into the hall.

Miraculously, we slipped back down the stairs to the first floor with relatively little hassle from security.

There, far from the neutered speeches with the Kerry campaign stamp of approval, the real fun began. After aimlessly hustling through the main concourse, Schuker and I stopped to join a large crowd gathered to watch a delegate field a series of questions from an average-looking reporter and his television crew.

Turns out that the interviewer was Stephen Colbert, correspondent for “The Daily Show” on Comedy Central. Cornering his subject on the mechanics of changing a tire—a point of no relevance to the campaign whatsoever—Colbert held a posse of credentialed media and delegates spellbound, eagerly awaiting his next unscripted quip.

Suddenly, an epiphany. Why sit through hours of poorly delivered propaganda when the real fun was to be had safely outside the reach of the DNC’s censors?

Tracking down Biff Henderson of “The Late Show With David Letterman” transcended all other aims, finding Ben Affleck an irrational calling. After all, you couldn’t quite be sure what they might say—especially when asked, “What is John Kerry’s sexiest quality?”

Some responded graciously—Colbert carefully crafted an elaborate and witty response worthy of his role on “The Daily Show.” Others responded incredulously. “You’re The Harvard Crimson?” Al Franken ’73 asked, looking for a quick escape.

But then there were those who just didn’t know quite what to do. Entering the FleetCenter after a brief respite in the New York Times’ media center, Schuker and I ran straight into perhaps our most well-known target: the Rev. Jesse Jackson.

With Schuker hot on his heels, Jackson picked up his pace. But unable to shake the feisty reporter after the question had been repeated a third time, he simply muttered, “I don’t know. I don’t know that man,” before half-shoving her into a police officer.

Somehow the thought of returning to watch the convention’s evening slate of speakers didn’t seem nearly as interesting in the immediate aftermath.

Planting myself in the nosebleed section alongside a Democratic News Service staffer, I again naively held out hope that “The Cross of Gold” was not far off. While Schuker schmoozed a blogger in front of us, the staffer bemoaned the lack of network coverage—just an hour a night with nothing on Tuesday.

Ten minutes later we were back in the concourse, again on the prowl for easily flustered politicians. Making our way down to the floor, who should we run into but one University President Lawrence H. Summers, chatting up Sen. Chuck Schumer ’71, D-N.Y., in an aisle.

If only they had broadcast on television Summers’ reaction to my asking him the question about Kerry’s sexiest trait. Maybe then the conventions could wrangle more than an hour a night of coverage from NBC, since his reaction— highlighted by a look of horror when informed that James Carville’s answer had been Kerry’s wife—deserved a several-minute montage in itself.

Or maybe the Republican and Democratic conventions could come to grips with the fact that, well, no one wants to watch four straight nights of rehashed campaign slogans. Or an event of any sort with a foregone conclusion. Or several elderly women from Mississippi dancing to a modified version of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.”

Several older delegates I spoke to conceded that they were enjoying themselves but that the convention didn’t mean anything, at least not the way it did when no one knew who the nominee would be on the first day, let alone March. So why bother?

To advance a platform? Even after his speech Thursday night, Kerry was relying on vague generalities and has yet to set forth a concrete exit strategy for Iraq or handling the war against terror.

To rally support for the party’s cause? That’s the stuff of commercials, not nationally broadcast four-day indoctrination campaigns.

To hear Bill Clinton speak?

Well, maybe. But next time, don’t send me.

—Staff writer Timothy J. McGinn can be reached at mcginn@fas.harvard.edu.