IT’S 8 AM on Saturday morning, April 5, and we’re headed
toward Hillsboro. That’s right—8 am, Saturday, Hillsboro.
I can’t believe it. My mind is overrun with thoughts and apprehensions
about how this ill-conceived Hillary Clinton rally might stack up
against Barack Obama’s rock-star blow-through at the Memorial Coliseum
last month.
But as we pull into the massive Liberty High School, site of
Clinton’s rally, I’m surprised.
A massive line twists for a quarter mile or more; hundreds and
hundreds of people, most of whom are white, suburban, and middle aged,
are waiting to get in. There are a few younger folk, though—and
the fact that anyone under 30 dragged their ass out of bed for politics
on a Saturday morning must mean something. The 3,000-person-capacity
gymnasium will top out. Many will be turned away.
Inside, buzz is building. Two young, snotty status-climbers appear
on the stage. They have an incredible plan: Turn the rally into a phone
bank.
It’s astounding. People are into it. Sheets with strangers’ names
and numbers—and barcodes—are handed out, complete with a
“persuasion script.” Overly enthusiastic callers are having their
pitches both accepted and rejected. I want to vomit.
Clinton is running late, and the crowd is foaming at the mouth,
ready to blow. Suddenly, here she comes in a brown pantsuit, along with
Representative Darlene Hooley and Governor Ted Kulongoski. The gym
bursts loud with love, and cameras pop like firecrackers. Clinton is
doing her patented “Clap Clap, Point Point” routine. Hooley opens and
totally outshines the bland Kulongoski.
Clinton’s crew isn’t as large as Obama’s, but its hardcore members
are fierce—and in this hot-shit race, they want to revel in it.
It’s their day at the rock show.
After another strong standing ovation—and an Obama joke about
bowling—things quickly turn dark. Clinton begins firing off shots
of thick buzz kill, mentioning troops without body armor, the
assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, and
Vietnam all within the first two or three minutes. She plods forward
like a flat-footed, small-town boxer who’s fighting for a judge’s
decision, even though today should be fun.
Clinton’s life of battles leaves her with a view of the future that
is paved by struggle. Certainly it is her campaign narrative that the
country needs a fighter—but at times her speech seems overly
bleak.
Her supporters are into it, though. At one point the applause goes
long. It was a signal: “We’re not giving up this fight no matter
what.”
To Clinton’s credit, she knows every wonky angle on the issues, but
she can’t seem to maintain momentum. “I know it’s Saturday and you’ve
got things to do,” she tells the crowd at the end of her hour-long
speech, giving people an out. “But if you want to stick around I’m
going to answer some questions.”
A slow drip of people begin heading toward the exits. Most of the
questions—health care, environment, economy—were covered
earlier in Clinton’s stump, but it doesn’t keep her from giving long,
winding answers. Though the room remains mostly full, the stream of
people trickling out grows.
Perhaps noticing, Clinton abruptly wraps it up. Hundreds crowd down
to the rope line for autographs and handshakes and baby kisses. But
more leave the gym, leaving me to wonder if Clinton needs to be
reminded of the old show-biz maxim: Always leave them wanting more.