Fear and Loathing in Denver

On the ride from our Lakewood hotel into the teeming heart of downtown Denver, I'm looking out the window as we roll past homeless folks lined up outside the community service center. I see a thirty-something blonde woman wearing jeans and a white tank-top standing on the side of the road holding a cardboard sign welcoming DNC attendees and asking for spare change.

As we approach the convention area, we ditch the car on a sidestreet and do the final stretch by bus. Nezua and I are loaded up with gadgetry as we stand swaying in the aisle hanging onto the brushed steel bars overhead. A well-groomed middle-aged white woman is loudly holding forth on why Hillary Clinton is the most qualified candidate. Noticing Nez's video camera with its jutting microphone, she sizes us up and inquires, "Are you guys bloggers?"

"Yup," Nez answers, "we're officially credentialed to cover the convention."

"You and fifteen thousand other people," she says with a laugh. There's a distinctly dark streak running through her laugh, a sneering condescension that hangs in the air after the sound has stopped.

"I guess you're not impressed," Nez replies with a self-deprecating smile, a slight shrug in his voice.

"I've been to five conventions," she says, "it's hard to impress me."

"What's there to be impressed by?" I interject. The brief exchange fades away as the bus rumbles along.

The back row of the bus is occupied entirely by black folks. A mother is talking to her young daughter about Obama. "On Thursday he's gonna give a speech just like Martin Luther King did twenty five years ago," she explains. "What do you think about that?" The daughter remains doe-eyed and says nothing.

As we approach a stop, the entire back row of riders rise to their feet. I ask, "Is this our stop for the convention?"

"No, you wanna get off at California," a young woman answers kindly. Another adds with a smile, "It's gonna take you like thirty minutes just to get there with all the traffic."

"Sorry about that," I smile back.

"What was that about?" the Clinton-supporter asks once the riders have disembarked and the bus is moving again.

"They're annoyed at all the inconvenience the convention is causing in their town," I explain.

"What about all the money we're spending in their stores?" she once again sneer-laughs. Then back to silence.

~ ~ ~

Nezua and I spend most of Tuesday walking around in the pounding heat, soaking up whatever snippets of activity we stumble upon and ducking into random bars for fortification. Nez runs around holding his camera at various deliberate angles, shooting all manner of strangeness. The spirit of Hunter S. Thompson is clearly with us, splashing surrealism onto our path in the form of jarringly outlandish encounters with the kinds of characters you just can't make up, not to mention the seemingly endless supply of scowling riot cops moving around the city in angular packs with batons hanging down to their ankles.

Of course it's not all Fear And Loathing. There's a "festival of democracy" happening in Civic Center Park, down the street from the police station, safely out of range from the giddy mobs of conventioneers. There's a Spanish-language hip hop band on stage, bouncing the crowd with smooth beat streams textured with electric guitars and reed pipes. There are anti-war placcards and calls for impeachment and environmental literature and children's books for sale. There are people sitting on lawns and napping in the shade.

There's a large installation by an Iranian artist, consisting of numerous colorful photographic portraits printed on big translucent sheets of breeze-blown cloth, assembled in the shape of a small mosque. You walk through the structure, winding your way among the smiling faces fluttering in the summer sun. Outside the installation, Nez films a clip with three Iranian American women talking about the piece; the undercurrent of dread at the prospect of war hangs in the air just behind those translucent sheets; but for now the up-front mood is pure elation and relief at the simple and elegant representation of Iranian people.

At some point it occurs to us that we're tired, thirsty, and famished; so we leave the park and soon find ourselves perched at a German bar ordering beer and sausage from a tall lanky bartender with long sandy hair pulled back in a sloppy sort of pony-tail. His smile looks friendly enough at first but then I start feeling like there's something unright going on just behind it. The owner of the bar is a quirky older woman with dyed hair and a strong German accent; as in every place we stop, she asks us if we're in town for the convention; we say Yes, sipping syrupy beer and chomping on sliced sausage with bright yellow mustard and caramelized onions. There are a few other ragtag customers who occasionally walk up to the bartender and make various detailed requests for napkins and an extra toothpick and such, which annoys him enormously, to the point that he storms off into the Latino-staffed kitchen and loudly asks, "Do you guys have like a really intimidating-looking knife?" He returns to the bar and slams a cheap-looking chef's knife with a plastic handle onto the countertop. Then he turns to the bar-owner and chirps, "Let's get drunk!" Their eyes light up as he breaks out glasses and pours from a bottle of schnapps. The woman giggles, "Wine is fine but liquor's quicker!"

And that's about enough of that joint. We leave our beer mugs two-thirds full and bail to hop on a bus back to the hotel.

~ ~ ~

On the bus, a working-class white mother with a pre-teen son announces her philosophical orientation this way: "What's up with all these riot cops? Do they really need those huge clubs? My husband is a real police officer, he works undercover with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He doesn't have to act tough. He never talks about his work."

Nez and I smile.

"So where are you guys from?" she asks.

"New York."

"What do you think of Denver?"

"So far so good. Seems like a nice town."

"It's okay. I mean, there are ghettoish parts of town too. Where are you guys staying?"

"Lakewood."

"Oh see that's a nice area. But if you go a little further down the road, it gets ghettoish. It's all Mexicans and Asians."

Nezua and I look at one another.

"Oh," she stammers, "that sounds horrible! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I just mean, like, there was a gang fight and a shooting just the other day."

"I understand," I offer.

A moment later: "So, are you guys Obama supporters?"

"Not really supporters," Nez says, "we're just documenting things."

"We were at the convention today," she says with a sudden surge of pride; then, patting her son on the head, "He met a Congressman who was at the I Have A Dream speech during the civil rights movement."

"Nice," I say, turning to the boy, "did you like meeting him?"

"Yes," he beams. His eyes are bright and clear and they don't waver at all as he meets my gaze. I like the kid.

Suddenly from the back row of the bus: "If Obama wins, he won't make it to next year." It's a twenty-something white dude wearing a basketball jersey, a big chain around his neck, oversized shorts, high-top sneakers, and a baseball cap tipped to one side.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"If Obama wins the election, he won't even make it to his first term. People are gonna be pissed."

"So you think somebody's gonna kill him?"

"Yeah man."

"You're that sure about it? What's the spread on that? Are you willing to lay down money on that bet?"

I see his eyes faltering, glancing around.

"You willing to put money on what you said?" I ask again.

"Yeah," he firms up. "I mean, I'm not saying I want anything to happen. But there are a lot of people out there who are gonna go crazy if Obama wins. It's gonna be war in the streets."

"It's already war in the streets," I say, "and it's not because of Obama."

He thinks it over for a minute, then changes the subject. "You guys like hip hop?"

"Sure."

"I was at a show last week. They flew in Talib Kweli and Mos Def from Switzerland."

"Sweet."

Another pause. Then: "If Obama wins, I just hope that black people don't start thinking they're superior."

~ ~ ~

The credentialing system surrounding the DNC is a labyrinth of moats and draw bridges and palace guards. On our first day in Denver, Liza and her Kenneth Cole Productions crew are consumed by the stress of securing, obtaining, distributing, and enacting various convention passes. It doesn't help that her cell phone has completely crashed out.

On day two, I get my hands on a pass to the Big Tent, which is blogger headquarters. It takes a few hours to make it happen, but finally Maegan, Nezua, and I overcome all the fuzzy directions and vague instructions and claw our way past the security staff, shove our way past the Google lounge and up the diggit staircase and down the YouTube corridor...into a hectic room full of rude people with laptops. As a software guy, it occurs to me that I've never seen a room with so many computers and so few Asians. In fact, it seems to me that the blogger pool is considerably less racially diverse than the mainstream media. The overwhelming whiteness of this crowd really can't be exaggerated.

Of course, Liza works the room like a grand diva with a million dollar smile, embracing bloggy colleagues like long-lost relatives and making a continuous stream of beaming introductions left and right. There are flat screens hanging here and there, carrying feeds from inside the convention hall; there are lots of cameras and bright lights; there's an interview area and a coffee bar; there are big couches reserved for members of "big blogs"; there are politicians schmoozing their way across the room, shaking hands and slapping shoulders.

Upstairs the noise fades away as we enter the Huffington Post Oasis, a suite of offices converted into a New Agey den of sappy indulgence, where bloggers can book facials and hand massages and manicures. There are plenty of free goodies being offered, books on organic nutrition, pamphlets on Eastern Philosophy, whole grain muffins and energy bars. There are lots of skinny blonde women walking around in yoga outfits; a few are standing on their heads, others are speaking in hushed tones and fawning over babies in ergonomic slings.

The beer garden seems like the right place to hang out. Free local microbrew. Maegan, Nezua, and I stand around a table and stare silently at one another and at our plastic beer cups.

Comments

[Sylvia/M]

Wonderful entry, Kai. I want to hear more!

[Donna]

You've captured it, Kai. All the little daily incidents of racism. More often than not I keep it inside and keep moving, but sometimes it's just too much and I blow. When it happens, it's just one of those little daily incidents that sets it off and they can't understand why I'm making a big deal of this little thing. Not knowing all the other incidents, it's that part, the not knowing that let's white people think that there's hardly any racism. Just a little mistake here and there that we blow all out of proportion, in their view.

[Nightprowlkitty]

Ah, this is what I was waiting for. Reading Twitter, ah, I guess I'm too impatient for long paragraphs and such!

My heart is spinning with everything I've read and watched on the Convention. There's so much potential, a hint of hope, mixed with such mistrust, a surreal combination.

This is great stuff, and well worth waiting for. Hunter would be smiling.

[chicago dyke]

fucking outstanding post, Z. nice job. now over to NZ's place for more...

[Eric Stoller]

Great post Kai. I was immediately hooked. Thanks for writing.

[Carmen D.]

Thanks for this. I don't know what to say.

[van]

I feel like I have been transported to Denver for a minute there-but I am in Philly in a hospital at 2:00am. Very good writing Kai-as usual.

[macon d]

I'll join the chorus, Kai--great post, and thank you for it. For me, you captured especially well several types of everyday racist attitudes. Some of those white folks, though, seem as confused as they do dangerous. Something's happening, but they don't know what it is, do they, Mr. Kai?

[Kevin]

You've brought me back to Denver, bro! Great stuff!

[prof bw]

This is amazing reporting. I know you all are "official bloggers" but it would have been nice if your voice had been the one narrating the events on my tv instead of the same all pundits making obscure references to the King and I (yes they did) and interviewing a woman screaming to anyone who would listen that Obama isn't a US citizen and she has proof if you give her your email. In one post, you've given so much more than that. well done.

[ZC]

Wow. Damn.

Ok, that was my first reaction. Let's see if I can say something a little more intelligent.

Your observations of human nature are sharp, insightful, and telling. You managed to elicit the darndest things from real people in everyday situations *without* a camera or microphone in their face. These stories will stick with me longer than the speeches will.

[Meep]

That was a really good snapshot of how things went. (Better than reading an anthropologist's narrative, I must say.)
The DNC in Denver sounds like some kind of bizarro-world to me, but then it's just about the same in Oregon, so I guess it's not so bizarre after all.

[cripchick]

thank you for posting this. was thinking of you, nez and mamita mala often this week.

[Lauren]

Liza is pretty amazing, isn't she?

[Kai]

Thanks, folks, for all the kind words! I'm glad these glimpses conveyed something about the scene in Denver. I'll probably have another DNC post up sometime this weekend. Right now I'm gonna try to catch a nap at the airport before boarding my red eye back to New York...eyelids heavy...

[A-Woman]

Wow, Kai! Loved the entire post... pretty surreal description at the end there. Looking forward to the next one.

[Sudy]

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Awesome, Kai.