Law of the American Jungle

First, there was the pre-dawn wake-up call, our alarms clattering noisily, rousing us from our comfortable slumber. Our bodies didn't want to respond at all. Being up this early was completely foreign on this day of the week, and they didn't like it one bit. Somehow, we got ourselves to the bus on time.

Then it was the bus ride to Denver, packed in with crowds of people RTD doesn't usually see on this line, during this day of the week. The decision had been sent down from dispatch, our driver informed us, to run more buses that day. We'd secured seats and were still trying to wake up, and I pitied--though not enough to give up my seat, selfish child that I can be--those who had to stand for the entire hourlong ride.

Then there was the wait in the line, which moved every so often, only to reveal more line. Finally we neared the park. There were metal detectors to pass through, Secret Service and Denver Police officers patting people down, coins and phones to remove from pockets, bags to be searched. A woman beside me groaned, remembering her artificial knee. Making our way through the park, we stopped at what was then the edge of the crowd, a good 60-70 yards from the podium. We grumbled about having a lousy view and prepared for our next wait. It would be another hour and a half before the rally even began, and the crowds were packing in.

Standing on my tiptoes, I could only see if a few hundred people tilted their heads just so. And even then, only a glimpse of the podium, the teleprompter, the speaker. Bitter-cold breeze blowing. Feet stamping. Trying to warm up.

By the end of the day, we were sunburned. Fatigued. Cold. Achy. Claustrophobic.

Faced with an imminent need to empty our bladders.

And yet, the Law of the American Jungle still applied: stay calm, and share your bananas. We weren't necessarily calm; it was a political rally, for goodness' sake, "calm" isn't the point. But we were joyful. We were exuberant. We were smiling and joking and laughing. We were befriending those around us, sharing the latest negative-campaigning gossip, heartily congratulating a woman nearby when she said she was a lifelong Republican who not only had converted but was out helping with voter regiatration, getting people to early voting, helping in any way that she could. A woman forgot her camera, so she gave me her email address so that I could send her our pictures. She and her friends shared their trail mix with us when they broke it out. We all laughed over the $150,000 wardrobe scandal, we shored up our reserves and we discussed tactics to get our friends and loved ones who were Republican or undecided to consider our candidate. It was awesomely Democratic; as far as I can tell, the only thing Republicans do when they rally--in, thankfully, waning numbers--is shout crude, vitriolic psycho-babble like "Drill, baby, drill!" Republican gatherings look like the crowd at the AARP claims office: a bunch of old angry white men. Democratic gatherings have a decidedly more American flavor: people of every shape, size, color, age, sexual orientation, you name it, are there. The rally was actually representative of the American population, rather than representative of Old Johnny's Cronies. Moving on...

When our local politicians took the stage, we cheered them on. When they incited the crowd for responses, we hollered readily. My boyfriend, the designated photographer, snapped dozens of photos, mostly of a sea of people, a podium, a figure speaking, and a huge white building as the backdrop. He snapped pictures of the Secret Service snipers on the roof of the county building, and we all murmured acknowledgment that if the absolute worst were to happen, that's what they were there for.

And then he took the stage, and the crowd roared. Gracious, brilliant, and inspiring, we listened as he outlined his promise for change, his heartfelt gratitude for our presence, and yes, a bit of tearing into his opponent. But mostly, his hopes for our great nation. His plan to wean us from foreign oil without bankrupting the seas and poisoning the environment, to free us from the burdensome toils of the broken healthcare system, to get us out of this horrid downward-spiraling economy. To alleviate the middle class of the fear of foreclosures for a few months, until people can get back on their feet and begin paying their mortgages.

His speech was profoundly eloquent, yet humbled; he was spirited, passionate and driven without sinking to the depths the Republicans have in their attacks on him. He took a few shots at McCain but mostly he talked about what he was going to do, not what his opponent was not going to do. His hopes and dreams for our country, not his opponent's, or how wrong they are, or how evil he is. Which for me, would be difficult (which is, among other reasons, why I won't be making a bid for the White House anytime soon).

He encouraged us, and his enthusiasm was infectious. He spoke with such integrity and honesty that I found myself, 3/4 of the way through his speech, swallowing a big lump in my throat, brushing away tears, out of nowhere. And then at the end, he thanked us all. Imagine that: he thanked us.

Nine days. Nine electoral votes. Please, Colorado, my adopted home, don't let me and the other 100,000+ people gathered in support of Barack Obama today down. Don't give in to terror tactics and fears drummed up by the same crazy people who brought us the last eight years of economic horror, war, corporate buyouts, healthcare crises, and abject terrorist activities carried out in the name of this country. It can be better, and he can make it so.

Elect President Barack Obama.