Only recently, I was a political prisoner, held captive and subjected to a constant stream of indoctrination and propaganda meant to make me a good party member.
Well, OK. That may be a little over the top. I wasn't freezing various appendages off in some Siberian gulag; the truth is I was merely a delegate to the Democratic Convention and Assembly held at the Denver Convention Center on March 8 th.
It all started innocently enough with the idea that I wanted to experience the American political process. The first step was to go to the Democratic caucus.
The word caucus is derived from the Latin word,
caucusae, which means "to stand around among a large sweaty crowd in an elementary school gymnasium with no idea about what's going on." The caucus is run by former middle school teachers who have vast experience herding children and, conveniently, have Robert's Rules of Order tattooed on their forearms.
At the caucus, the gritty work of the political process takes shape. Various candidates and policies are put forth and everybody gets an opportunity to practice their Toastmasters public speaking techniques. Finally, in a desperate attempt to get home before dawn, everyone agrees to just about anything with a chorus of ayes. The few dissenters are quietly smothered with gym mats.
The next morning I realize that I forgot the one rule all GI's learn. Never volunteer. I vaguely remember putting my hand up when they asked for volunteers to be delegates. What the heck, I thought, they probably wouldn't even remember me.
The documents and paperwork start arriving the next week. Apparently, I have not only agreed to be a delegate but also to be a precinct committee person, a position that requires two years of your life with no time off for good behavior. I lie and tell my neighbors that I am the precinct captain because I like the idea of being saluted every time I put out the garbage. I thought I was being more than fair. I never entertained any kind of Don Corleone ring kissing stuff, just a "Good morning, Captain." would be recognition enough.
So that's how I end up at the Denver Convention Center, part of a seemingly endless throng of democrats filling the Wells Fargo Theater. I feel proud to be part of something bigger than myself, a small cog in the great American democratic process.
At 9 AM, with a slap of the gavel, we are off and running. I had no idea there were so many people available to give speeches at that hour. I'm not sure, but I think they snuck some ringers in from out of state. By 10:15, my attention is wandering. From watching political conventions on TV, I had certain expectations and I am disappointed to see so few people wearing those huge silly hats festooned with campaign buttons and no one is dancing wildly in the aisles. But then this is Denver early on a Saturday and Ted Kennedy is nowhere in sight.
By 11 AM, the speeches have achieved the quality of audio white noise. Every speaker voices the same rhetorical questions that elicit a roar of approval from the crowd. I am uncomfortable with people exhibiting groupthink in the form of slogans shouted in an emotional frenzy. Such behavior scares me but it does help keep me awake.
By late afternoon, I am willing to trade democracy for a benevolent dictator if it means a relief from more speeches. I discharge my last duties as a delegate and walk out into the waning sun.
On my way home, I think about what I have just experienced. I conclude that the American political process may be messy and, at times, frustrating and chaotic, but for better or for worse, we the people get to make the decisions and that makes the whole process worthwhile.