Conventional Wisdom - Part 2

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Conventional Wisdom part two

In which our delegate is assaulted by bodies, butts and balloons, invokes Minister Farrakhan, outflanks the Secret Service, diverts the vice president, parses the President's speech and finds a gentler, kinder Chicago.

Harriet McBryde Johnson Photo by Susan K. Dunn

August 27: Christopher Reeve's speech has left us with a problem. By putting him up on the podium the way they did last night, the DNC has fed--and fed upon--the harmful disability stereotypes I'm here, in part, to fight. When I arrive for the disability caucus and find the gang from Chicago outside the door passing out flyers, I'm overjoyed. The flyer, by Mike Ervin and Anna Stonum, deals pointedly with Reeve.

Local TV news shows up. They shoot video of the group and then zoom in on my red delegate badge, proof of my authenticity as a genuine Democrat from the Deep South. Up here, I guess, I'm exotic. They set up lights. Mike and I agree to talk.

There's a lot of noise and I can barely hear what Mike's saying. Is he really calling Reeve a whiner? No, not exactly, but close. I think Mike might be going a bit too far, but a wave of gratitude washes over me. He's a champion who's fighting not Reeve but the people who put him on that platform.

Now I'm up, the nice cop with the Southern accent.

"Christopher Reeve is going through a tremendous transformation. It's impossible for most people to imagine, but it happens thousands of times every year. It doesn't make him a disability spokesman. He's still learning. He wants to be cured, but for us it's more important to live our lives, just the way we are. He doesn't speak for us."

I recruit a couple of people from the disability caucus to put an edited version of Mike and Anna's flyer on the convention floor. We can't find a cheap copy deal in the middle of Chicago so we print only 200 copies. But they get around.

In the afternoon, at the United Center, we make sure we're in our seats before Justin Dart speaks. Dart is a lifelong Republican who held high office under Reagan and Bush. His defection from Bob Dole seems like big news to me.

But not to the DNC. They've scheduled Dart for early afternoon. America's prime-time image of disability will remain Christopher Reeve.

It's exciting to see Dart--an authentic disability rights leader--roll out on that huge podium, but there are no DNC cheerleaders to organize a "spontaneous demonstration." "JUSTIN!" I yell. "JUSTIN!" It's the only yellable thing I can come up with. I don't have much cheerleading experience.

Too gallant to let a lady yell alone, some rowdy gentlemen from South Carolina roar along. Then the rest of the delegation takes it up. They're also yelling across the aisle in Ohio and behind us in Washington.

Dart's talk--concise, cogent, almost oracular--is over before the crowd's enthusiasm has worn off. He rolls off the stage like the hero he is.

A delegate who's sending daily reports to our local paper leans over with his notepad. "Who is he?" Thus it comes to pass that the Charleston daily newspaper covers Justin Dart.

Escape
August 28: Tonight Vice President Gore is to speak. When we come into the hall, our DNC cheerleader meets us with a warning.

"It's going to get hairy. They've issued about 5,000 extra floor passes. They want the aisles packed for TV when Gore speaks."

I can't believe it. The hall was already packed to the point of misery. Now, 5,000 more? As the hall fills, the stream of walking people and swinging cameras stops. Blocked. I am trapped behind a solid wall of butts. Right in front of my face. Big ones, little ones. Men and women. The butts of America. I look up at the ceiling. I try not to panic.

Then a big body slams into me. A heavy object, maybe a TV camera, swings just over my head. The space right above me must look like a hole in the bottleneck; the guy walked right into me. A moment later, it happens again. I yell at our DNC staffer.

"Y'all need to get this aisle moving," I shriek. "It's dangerous. Call security."

"I can't. I told you it would be hairy. They want it packed."

Beth is standing up, trying to block people with her body, but still they slam through. Most of the blows fall on my chair, but the constant assault is too much. I'm too small, too frail, I think. I'll get killed.

"Let's leave," I yell.

I don't stop to think how we'll get through. I'm only vaguely aware that my steel components can inflict some pain; if I hit them, they'll get out my way. Desperation propels me forward.

I don't know how, but I make it through the aisle into the more open space right below the platform. Our DNC cheerleader catches my eyes through the crowd. "Thank you," he mouths, making little clapping signs with his hands.

Thank you? I'm fleeing for my personal safety, and they think I've done them a favor!

In that second, desperation turns to rage. I'm a Democrat. I'm a delegate from South Carolina. I belong on the floor. Those 5,000 people with new floor passes don't. They can't run me off.

I zoom down the service corridors and through an open door into an office. I yell at some guy in the room, "We need some security on the floor. It's dangerous. Someone needs to get the aisle moving."

He smiles calmly. He pulls up a chair and leans over until he's at my eye level. "OK, tell me about the problem."

The bastard's been to sensitivity training. I can tell by the way he's acting. I tell him about the problem.

He uses active listening techniques. He validates my concerns. But then he says no. They want the aisles packed.

I won't be placated. "I'm a delegate. I'm going back out there, and I want some security."

"If you go back out there, we can't guarantee anything. We can't protect you."

With his soothing ways, he's entered my physical perimeter. This doesn't calm me down, but it does empower me to waggle a skinny finger in his face. I am a woman possessed. "Look. If you people can't protect me, I'll just have to call Minister Farrakhan and get some Fruit of Islam on this floor."

I can't believe what I'm saying. I mean, I'm no pal of Louis Farrakhan. It's absurd, but it strikes a raw nerve. The man has jumped up and is on the cell phone.

As I've been haranguing, Beth has been wandering around the office. On the floor she has found a piece of paper with a big access symbol on it. In the corner, an old sign with a plain white back. On a table, scissors, glue and markers. She's working on a sign: RUDE DEMOCRATS BLOCKING MY VIEW.

"Why not 'banging into me'?" I ask.

"People wouldn't get it. They'll get this."

The man sees what we have in mind. He's talking about party unity, the need to project a good image. ...

Re-Engagement
I roll into the corridor. Over the loudspeaker, Gore is describing his sister's death. It's a small human story, scripted and packaged, so we'll know the scripted, packaged candidate has a soul.

I let the words roll past and wait for cues that the speech is about to end. When Gore goes off, there will be movement in the aisle and I will try to zip back to my place. Beth is holding the sign; accompanying the drone of Gore's speech is a buzz of people telling me I shouldn't go out there, and if I do I shouldn't take the sign.

"It's up to y'all," I say. "I don't ask for a clear view, just security. If you provide safety, no problem."

A troop of walkie-talkie guys lining the corridor are on the move. Secret Service. They speak to the sensitivity guy, not me. "We need to clear this area so the Vice President can come through."

I speak to the Secret Service, politely. "I'm not leaving. I've been run off the floor and I'll be damned if I'll be run out of this hall too."

To the Secret Service, letting the Vice President come our way is no longer an option. A signal is given and the whole unit is redeployed. Gore is rerouted to the corridor on the other side of the arena.

We go back on the floor. Within moments, I'm getting slammed again. Beth stands up on her seat and hoists the sign high in the air. It shows up on the TV feed. Instantly, there is security on the aisle. The standers are required to move on; camera crews have a clear path and room to swing their gear. Relief rolls over me like a wave. I can breathe again.

About Your Butt ...
August 29: The last day of the convention. I wake up trying to decide whether to go back on the floor for the nomination and the President's speech or surrender my credentials. The South Carolina delegation meets first thing in the morning. As the meeting is ending, I ask Mayor Bob for the microphone.

"I wanted to explain about that sign, RUDE DEMOCRATS BLOCKING MY VIEW. I want y'all to know it wasn't really about rudeness. I can tolerate rudeness. It was about safety. The DNC deliberately created a crush in the aisle, and it was dangerous. I asked them for help, but they refused. So I figured I'd use the power I had--to make them look bad on TV. Well, it was amazing. The sign went up and right away the problem was solved. There comes a time when you have to stand your ground."

They applaud. I'm surprised. The cynic in me says it's a reflex; they'll cheer at anything after this four-day pep rally. But the applause does me good. I know what I'm going to do. "I'm going back on the floor tonight. I need your help. Please, don't be part of the problem. Give me some space. And please! Keep your butt out of my face!"

The South Carolina press is there. They crowd around me and ask for details.

"Will you take your sign tonight?"

"Sure."

"Will you hold it up?"

"Only if I'm crushed again. It's up to the DNC."

The stories they write will run in papers all over my state. And every one of them will quote me as saying, "Keep your butt out of my face."

The President Speaks
I dread going back on the floor. I want security. I call disability services. "This mailbox is full and will not accept messages." I dial every number anyone has ever given me. I ask for a protective barricade. There will be no barricade. I try to explain how the aisle could be reconfigured. They hang up on me.

At the United Center, our floor manager greets me with a big smile. I soon see why. They've put up a barricade.

It's made of vertical metal bars taller than I am. On the corners, they've tied balloons marked "Person with a disability." There's a similar arrangement behind me, in Washington State, where there's another delegate who uses a chair.

The view through the bars is like looking out from prison, but the barrier affords inches of precious airspace between my face and the wall of Democratic butts. Here in protective custody, I'm safe. It's a mark of how bad things have been that I am really grateful for my cage.

Now I can enjoy the scene. The roll call is a kick. The President's speech is beautifully crafted and delivered. They don't call him Slick Willie for nothing.

The speech contains hundreds of punchy sound bites, but it's not choppy. The taglines are structured in blocks, related by theme, by sound, by structure, by mood. At the end of each block, there's a huge applause line. Just before each applause line, I hear Clinton hold back, bringing the energy down. Then the energy's up again, and-applause. It's a very Southern form of oratory.

I hear that low key and I know another block is reaching its end. The whole hall, probably without knowing why, is waiting for the big applause line. It comes. A quote from Christopher Reeve.

The applause comes, but it's polite, tepid. There's a little muttering. I can't see, but I imagine Clinton biting his lower lip. Why did the line go flat? Three days ago they were maniacs for Reeve. Something's changed.

Did we disabled delegates have an impact? Were we all scowling in our respective states? Did our flyer saying Reeve didn't speak for us bring some reality back on the floor? I don't know.

The Comeback Kid comes back. The speech ends to thundering frenzy. It's time for the balloon drop, a fixture ever since Nixon's boys introduced it in Miami in 1968. I look up where balloons wait in huge nets.

The nets open and the balloons rain down. They hit the bleachers, the raised seating on the floor, the thousands of people standing up, and flow down, down. I realize I'm the lowest point--the drain--for the whole arena. I see the balloon swirl coming at me. I might be screaming, but it's so noisy I can't tell.

Beth hits the floor to snap a single shot of my predicament. Then she's up, with three other people, pulling balloons off me as fast as they can. Still, in just seconds, the balloons are way above my head. I tell myself there's plenty of air. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. But it's a strange sensation to be engulfed and absolutely unable to escape.

When the deluge stops, they dig me out. I sit stunned. Beth is laughing at me and I don't care. She takes a photo and I don't care.

The floor empties of people. The press and big wall of butts and the whole state of Ohio have gone. I look through my bars and see that the Clintons, the Gores and all the dignitaries are still up there grinning.

They don't look a bit frazzled.

A Gentler Chicago
It's over. It's my free day in Chicago, the Friday before Labor Day. Mike and Cris are having their Telethon protest; on Monday, I'll do my own back home. Beth and I meet the protesters at Grant Park, the place where antiwar protesters were beaten up by the Chicago police in 1968.

"Mike, do we have a police permit?"

The question makes Mike laugh.

"Listen, Mike. I don't do civil disobedience, especially not in Chicago. I'm a chickenshit with a law license, OK? If anyone asks us to leave, the ladies from Carolina are leaving." Mike tells us we'll roll down the curbcut into Michigan Avenue, single file. I like the plan. We won't block traffic. Blocking traffic is a crime in any jurisdiction, I'm sure.

As I roll out, I hear Cris. "Hey, why don't we just block traffic?"

We fan out. I'm in the middle of a line of power chairs that bisects the street. Horns are honking. We're moving, but not at speeds customary for motor vehicles in Chicago. A couple of cops arrive. They count us. They talk on the radio. Reinforcements come. Another count, more radioing. With considerable unease, I wait for the order to cease and desist. It never comes. Instead, they set up barricades and direct traffic around us.

Thus protected by the kinder, gentler Chicago police of 1996, I feel the road roll under me and take in this marvelous cityscape. The tall sleek buildings, the broad street, the open air, are so different from the narrow old streets where I live and work. I'm strolling in the middle of the street with my buddies and I feel set free.

I am moved to start what I think is an appropriate chant. "Hey, hey! Ho, ho! Jerry Lewis has got to go!" The others take it up in Midwestern accents, but they change the second line: "Telethons have got to go."

They're right. The issue is bigger than Jerry Lewis. Just as democracy is bigger than Bill or Al or Christopher Reeve or Justin Dart or Mayor Bob. Or me.

After a week of getting pushed around and shoved aside and struggling to be a member of the group, I find myself a part of things at last. I'm one point in a line. It's a lovely, strong, straight line, a line on the move. A line of people who have seized the streets and made them our own.

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