IT’S EARLY Friday morning, March 21. Long before presidential
candidate Barack Obama appears on stage, the jammed Memorial Coliseum
where he’s slated to speak is totally electric—buzzing on a high
stronger than all the coffee in Portland could possibly provide. And
thank god for it. I’ve had about two hours of sleep but the energy
around me makes it easy to stay awake.
Mistakenly supposing Obama’s entering the arena, the audience shifts
in unison often. They crane their necks and perch on their tiptoes,
hoping for a glimpse. It’s like they’re looking for some mythical
creature like Elvis or Sasquatch. But he’s not here yet.
Finally, he enters with New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson.
Enthusiasm rockets toward complete insanity.
Obama’s face appears honest and full of humility. And though he’s
witnessed this scene many times, there appears to be a touch of genuine
awe.
Richardson begins. He is in fine form and his endorsement rings
true. Because of the foreign policy experience he gained in the Clinton
administration—and his resistance of Hillary and Bill’s calls for
loyalty—his words hold more water than most. He seems to be the
odds-on favorite for secretary of state.
Richardson quickly steps aside, giving Obama the lectern. But before
the candidate is allowed to say a word the audience erupts with two
solid minutes of orgasmic applause.
Then, strangely enough, Obama doesn’t exactly come roaring out of
the gates. His opening words are stilted—less inspiring than I
had hoped. Could this be, I wondered? Could we be unfortunate enough to
catch the most impressive and inspiring politician in a generation on a
slow day? (Indeed, Barack is notorious for less than stellar
performances when fatigued.)
After a few moments Obama grabs a wireless mic and beings walking
the stage. He starts to find his rhythm. He’s working himself—and
us—into it. Maybe five minutes in he hits full stride. This is
indeed the man—the aura—we hoped he would be.
Things become more emotional and electric. Those looking for Elvis
are now seeking Jesus. They strain to make eye contact, as if their
very well-being depends on it. They hope to be saved.
So many singular burdens are thrust upon the stage. The decorated
Vietnam vet. The woman standing while no one else did, stretching out
her “Proud Teacher” T-shirt. The one with tears streaming down her
cheeks. And the mother who cried out, “Bring my son home!” amid talk of
the war.
They were all there, and many more—such weight in hopes and
dreams for one man to shoulder. It’s almost crushing.
It doesn’t seem to faze him, or if it does, he hides it well. He’s
preaching, really. It’s clear in rhythm and tone. He resonates like a
deep brass bell.
The content is the usual stump—health care, better schools,
withdrawal from Iraq, and of course, some Bush bashing for good
measure. Still, there are moments where all the air rushes out of my
body. I choke up. It’s as if the words reach into your chest, crushing
the trachea. They squeeze until you take to heart and to head the
actuality of what’s being said. You go there, you understand, and then
the grip is released. This happens many times. I no longer feel
tired.
“I’ve gone on too long,” he says.
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” the crowd moans, not wanting to let him go.
Never.
Again Obama ramps up, and ends it on a high note. Then boom! It’s
over. Obama and Richardson are shaking hands on the rope line. “Signed,
Sealed, Delivered” is cranking out over the PA.
It’s hard to say how long the excitement lasts. And maybe it still
is.