Exactly five months ago, I was in Waverly Iowa "observing" the caucuses, the first electoral event of this primary campaign ( "observing"= I was drinking heavily and waking up too early). I was a vehement Dennis Kucinich supporter, finding no other candidate with whom I could find ideological compatibility. Senator Clinton seemed dry, institutional, familiar, and far too moderate. John Edwards was my mom's candidate, and also too moderate. Biden, Dodd, et. al were too senatorial and lacked apparent leadership capabilities. Senator Obama was too nouveau, not presidential.
Republicans were obvs not considered.

I still have the Kucinich "Strength Through Peace" bumper sticker on my car. This is somewhere in between "I'd rather be smashing imperialism" (pretty fucking cool) and "Attack Iraq? NO!" (too dated) in bumper sticker coolness.On January 2, five months and one day ago, this little programish-psuedo-scholarly-group I was a part of went to attend several events of candidates in the area (I am the first person listed here--note that I never did the derp blogging project).

Our first event was Bill Clinton (he may have held office previously, I will check wikipedia*). He was speaking at something called the Cattle Congress in some random town that, in fact, had many cows, though this was not a distinguishing characteristic. Our luggage got lost by the airline and all I had was my corduroy jacket, purple tie, shirt, and jeans (note: I had showered, but had not changed underwear or even socks). Here I am, pictured as such, with Bill's second secretary of Transportation Rodney Slater, who had excellent posture, now works for a lobbying firm, and invited us to visit him. Yes. We will visit your massive lobbying firm, vaguely familiar bureaucrat.

So there we were. Derp. I have since gotten a hair cut.

Bill was good, convincing. He had well-timed diction with a good blend of charming familiarity and stern assessments of his wife's policy achievements. For about twenty minutes, during the speech, I thought I almost could vote for this woman, who was married to this enchanting white haired southerner with whom I associated numerous fond childhood memories such as Kenan and Kel, budget surpluses, and meeting him once. His vitiating charisma soon wore off. Trying to get a handshake, a group of us yelled "we're from New Hampshire," which gets you blow jobs in Iowa in election years. He said "oh great," gave us brief but firm handshakes, and progressed behind a curtain where Eric Jackman and Robin Marra tried to sneak in and got kicked out by secret service. Slops.

Later that night we went to see Barack Obama.

It was about 3 degrees Fahrenheit. He going to speak in a gym at Waterloo East High School in Waterloo Iowa. I was mildly enthused, but more eager to get drunk/put on clean clothes. The round of events was more to satiate the appetites of political "junkies" who were eager to touch the candidates and get written proof of their having met them. I live in New Hampshire; seeing politicians is like an LA resident seeing Richard Dreyfuss at Best Buy.

Again. I wanted clean boxers and ale.

We got there plenty early and filed into the gym past the standard line of volunteers soliciting names and contact information to make sure we got out and caucused tomorrow. I wandered around the gym, which was already filling up with my book about space astronauts. I found a good spot near the candidate's entrance, because who doesn't want to see Richard Dreyfuss at Best Buy?

This story is taking too long and not all that exciting.

Michelle Obama came out and gave a great introduction for her husband, Barry who hauled ass past me to the stage, waving and grabbing random hands. I reached out to Michelle as she came to wait, a few feet from me: "that was inspiring," I said. It actually was, which was weird.

I don't even remember what Barack (Obama) said, but I could not handle it. For one thing, having been to a million of these things before, it was the most diverse crowd I had seen anywhere, and it was Iowa. An old lady next to me asked me to let her squeeze in. Two levels of bleachers were filled on either side. Black people asian people teenagers, the sorts of people who got automatic front seats at the Clinton event (for real) were everywhere.

It is difficult to articulate what it feels like to undergo an intrinsically motivating political experience; I had not had one before. I energetically supported Dean in 2004, but never really felt impressed. There was a lingering, unspoken inadequacy about him that I think a lot of us felt.


Maybe it was the heat, some aides had to open the gym doors near where I stood, seeping boreal atmosphere into the raucous swelter.

Maybe I had not had enough sleep. We arrived in Iowa about 4 the morning the night before, and I was roomed with serious snorer. Whatever.


I was struck. I do not know how to explain sans cliche, and I will not try here, even though it is not helpful to you, the one or two readers. Fuck it. By the end of his speech, I knew that I was going to vote for Barack Obama, and I also had a good feeling he was going to win Iowa the next day, and more than that if security was tight enough.

I did not attempt to explain this to the Gravel supporter who had accompanied me to the rope line (really a metal fencish thing but nobody can come up with a name for it so they call it a rope--it has not been a rope since James Garfield ran for office). You cannot explain anything to a Gravel supporter, but they can explain a lot to you, like the Pentagon Papers and stuff.

Obama was going to leave the same way he came, and I was going to tell him how I felt, damn it. My heart palpitated as he neared, shaking hands briskly and sharing few words with the crowd. I was literally the last member of the audience he would pass before exiting. I rehearsed our exchange in my head, and probably fucked it up, but Barack Obama walked near me and I extended my hand, speaking rapidly and loudly. Maybe I shouted:

"I'm from New Hampshire and I came here thinking [I held on to his hand and leaned in, letting him know this was important--growing up in NH attenuates one's ability to get a politician's attention]
I was going to vote for Kucinich but I think I'm going to vote for you next week."
"Thank you"

At this point we were in mid hand shake, and I was about to let go and move on and get pizza.

And then he hugged me. Barack Obama pulled me in for a hug, one hand still grasping mine, the other around my back. I obliged, and he let go, and while walking away, looked at me:
"That means a lot to me, it really does."

Reading that back, I cannot explain why that moment is of such personal importance, but I desperately, intuitively wanted this man to be president. I have since read more, examined his record, his positions, vetted the pastor bullshit, and feel roughly the same way, though I am a little bit exasperated.


Anticlimax:

I am not a political "junkie," though I do love heroin. I do not worship the pubic hair of presidential candidates. I have seen plenty of speeches, town halls, meet and greets. I have shaken hands, talked one on one and even hugged. I am not easily duped by such things, I think.

I hope he wins, is president, and is not shot. Is the RFK analogy too played out? Is he just as pragmatic and plotting as anyone else? Is he BLACK? I don't know.

It is now June 3rd. The Iowa Caucuses, which Barack Obama won, were on January 3rd. The caucus I attended had so many Obama supporters they had trouble finding a good way to count them. Today, he appears to have won the nomination for president, the first person of color to do so.

It is kind of a big deal.

*he was governor of US state Arkansas 1979 – 1981, 1983 – 1992.