On the Barack Obama Rally
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It is a unique privilege of free societies to disdain the political rally. And why not? A rally does not represent the pulse of public opinion; it does not encourage dialogue or even an argument. Rather, it serves as a forum for those who wish to reaffirm their own beliefs and entrench themselves further in their longstanding positions. In a nation as divided as
For oppressed societies, where injustice is prevalent, the rally has the opposite effect: there is nothing more powerful than a million people making the simple demand of, say, freedom. The odd successful rally in modern-day America—and by successful, I mean a rally that gathers attention to a cause, and affects change or provokes thought—invariably is a reaction to the presence of oppression or injustice, like the “Jena 6” rally.
During the summer, I was encouraged to attend a rally for Barack Obama in
It was freezing cold that day, as if nature had added brushstrokes to the scene to accentuate the absurdity of our endeavor. We all stood around beneath the steps of the college’s old concert hall, and tried to imagine ourselves as the reincarnations of activists protesting at that very spot against Vietnam. This was a real war after all! Lives (though not ours) were at stake! A man stood at the top of the steps and began yelling into the microphone to get the rally going. The first few missives were greeted with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm mixed with outrage—I can’t remember exactly what was said, probably something about weapons of mass destruction (or a lack thereof), which for a crowd like ours was akin to a rock band starting out with, “Anyone here from ____?” The shouting eventually turned into a list of lefty grievances, each of which received a diminishing amount of applause, and an increasing amount of stamping feet, as the cold worked its way into our coats. I began holding my applause when I didn’t quite agree with what was being said, or didn’t like how some point was phrased, or basically thought about anything critically—how ridiculous I was! As if the empty space left by my non-clapping would be felt by anyone else in the audience! So I began clapping at everything to overcome this brief flash of self-importance—but I felt like an idiot, as if some older version of myself was looking at me and laughing. What was I to do? I was caught in a trap. For this is the particularly loathsome fact about attending rallies: the individual, with all his nuances of thought and opinion, is reduced to a catchphrase, an outspoken demand, a dreary chant. You must embrace stupidity.
The man on the steps pulled out a guitar to start some sing-along, and I left. On the way home, I imagined the group of students huddled beneath the concert hall steps, their voices rising in song, their desires and disappointments disappearing into the frigid air of a small college town that barely registered on the map. No one was listening. It could be touching, that image, it could be poignant—except for the fact that everyone at the rally was fully aware that no one was listening. It is not that they even wanted to be heard; they only wanted to speak, to dispel their demands and frustrations into the world, to fill up the air with their noise. In that sense, I’m sure many of the students did not think of the rally as an exercise in futility, but as a satisfying success.
So when I was urged to attend the Barack Obama rally, I was hesitant, but prepared. I did not expect to enter some arena of political thoughtfulness or seriousness. I held no illusion that the presence of my person would add weight to Obama’s movement. I knew very well that at that moment, another person, my evil twin perhaps, was quite possibly whooping and clapping at a Mitt Romney rally, negating my efforts. And I had already thrown my hat into Obama’s ring, and so didn’t expect to be swayed in any particular way. On the contrary, one of the reasons I decided to go was because I convinced myself that it would be “fun.” It would be kind of like a party. And who knows? Maybe Obama would deliver one of those electrifying speeches he became famous for, speeches that seem to dwindle in number as the campaign grinds toward election day.
Furthermore, there was the figure of Obama himself. I felt compelled to hear him speak in the flesh. Like many
We arrived at
Eventually it became clear that we were part of some massive line that was waiting to pass through a security checkpoint. There were three metal detectors for all of us, and the crowd grew restless. A man in front of us began to chant, “Let us in! Let us in!” and a chorus grew. As it died down, the man yelled, “If it was Hillary, we’d be in by now!” Which drew laughs and some “oooohs.” Music emanated from the center. Some performer was rapping, “Uh, uh, O-bama, O-bama. Uh. Yeah. O-bama, O-bama.” (Would it be too much to hope that someone from the Obama campaign is reading this right now? And thinking to themselves that perhaps the campaign rapper doesn’t confer the coolness onto Obama that he had hoped?) Rally organizers tossed water bottles into the crowd. It seemed as if the gathering was dominated by students from nearby NYU, who all treated the rally, naturally, as the social event of the summer. All you could hear were cell phone conversations. “Hey, where are you guys. We’re at the tree. Come to the tree. Which tree? The big tree next to the statue. Ok, ok, we’re coming to you, we’re coming to you, just stay put.” – “Oh my god, no way. You just shook hands with Barack Obama?! You’re kidding me, right, you’re kidding me. Hey guys, hey guys, Brad just shook hands with Barack Obama!!” Etc.
(It has to be said that the composition of the crowd, beside the students, was incredibly diverse, with every race and socioeconomic strata represented. I suppose it is what you would expect from an Obama rally held in
Suddenly, the metal detectors were hauled away, and the entire crowd poured toward the center in a mad rush. I couldn’t tell whether this move was planned or not, but it certainly had the effect of injecting a thrill into the entire proceedings.
We were now reasonably close to the stage. Despite the fact that I had only been to one rally in my life, and that I was participating for the first time in a rally in support of a presidential candidate, I could not shake the feeling that something about this entire event was intimately familiar. And when the various conversations occurring in the crowd suddenly flickered out, and everyone turned their eyes to the stage, and a noise full of anticipation and purpose rose up, finally bursting into a torrent of screams and applause as Obama strode out on to the platform, I realized exactly where I was: a rock concert. This impression could have been fueled by the fact that we were surrounded by kids in tight jeans and funny haircuts. But as anyone who follows this kind of thing knows, Obama has a star power indigenous to himself. I simply cannot imagine an expression of similar adulation for a Mitt Romney or a Hillary Clinton, no matter how much their supporters believe in them. Even writing that sentence feels false; do people really believe in those candidates? Compared to how fervent Obama’s supporters are, it doesn’t seem possible. I imagine that a typical Hillary crowd is full of people who read Paul Krugman religiously and collectively grumble their approval when she makes a point to their liking. But being a celebrity has its own drawbacks, namely that it draws supporters who are more attracted to the aura of celebrity itself than the candidate’s stance. Supporters of other candidates surely do not have to put up with the 18-year-old ditz who attends the Barack Obama rally merely so she can call all her friends to tell them she is at the Barack Obama rally. It makes his candidacy a little less viable, as if he is more of a pop phenomenon than a serious politician. Which to my mind is a regrettable effect of his magnetism.
So there he was, the so-called chose one, a speck on a raised platform. The bright stage lamp at the back of the platform bathed him in white light and obscured his face, so all I could make out was his familiar lanky figure. Before Obama even uttered a word, a thousand digital cameras rose into the air. Before the supporters could even experience the experience itself, they were recording it into their digital archives. It seemed to me ironic, almost tragic, that these supporters would place in between themselves and their idol, the very medium that separated them from him to begin with. It was as if they had to see him on their little screens for it to be real.
And then began the really laborious part. Obama spoke. Mind you, I like the sound of that deep, mellifluous voice. I chuckled at his reminiscence of getting drunk in the surrounding environs. I agree with many of his arguments. The only problem is that I had heard or read them all before, countless times.
I was sweaty and hot, and my back began to hurt. I wanted to avoid the crowds when the rally was over. So we left early. I parted ways with my companion and exited the park, heading for the subway. For blocks, I could hear Obama’s voice and the cheers from the audience. From that distance, it sounded pleasant and warm, and I felt a twinge of regret at having left early. I had, after all, attended the rally to experience for myself what politics was, to see if there was a point where my own life and politics intersected. Was I too cynical? Too jaded? What was that sound I was walking away from? I thought to myself that perhaps it was the beating heart of democracy. Or perhaps it was on its simplest level, a reminder of something outside myself. But as the cheers and Obama’s voice faded, and the familiar sounds of
—RS