People.
That’s what national political conventions are.
Lots and lots of people. Throngs of people. Huge crowds of people. Crushes of people.
Some in funny hats, some wearing peculiar buttons, some making outlandish suggestions, some making speeches, some sleeping through the speeches, but most of them just sitting, or walking or (most of all) standing around, looking like . . . well, looking like ordinary folks.
Ordinary American folks. These are not gatherings of Frenchmen, Egyptians or Thais. These are gatherings of Americans. To be sure, at every convention there are a few people who look as though they might be from somewhere else. At the recent Democratic bash there was one fellow who seemed to be a Sikh. On the other hand, he also seemed to be a delegate, which means he’s an American.
But none of this is unusual. We are, after all, not a nation state. Not that a convention is a cross section of America. It is a cross-section of political America. There’s at least one more way in which the conventions are not representative of the country at large: The people who go to them are richer than the people who don’t. This includes the delegates, the alternates, the hangers-on (many of them are allowed to hang on because they give big bucks) and, yes, even the reporters.
Again, there is a partisan difference here. The Republicans are even richer than the Democrats. This year, many Republicans went to San Diego by yacht, which they parked in a marina near the convention hall. But truth to tell, the average Democratic delegate is not a waitress, cop or factory worker, either. There are far more lawyers, financiers, corporate executives, upper-crust retirees and movie moguls.
And what do these people do? Well, a lot of them host parties. Some of the most important (and most enjoyable) events of the convention occur away from the convention halls-in restaurants, hotel meeting rooms, museums, libraries-anyplace with a room to rent. There the booze flows like water, canaps are consumed copiously, gossip is exchanged gleefully and flirtation flourishes.
Some of this is paid for by political organizations, some of it by public interest groups, but most of it by corporations and wealthy individuals, which means that you help pay for it, too, because all these expenses are tax-deductible. See how American an institution this is!
Still, most of the action does take place at the convention hall, on the podium where the big shots speak, on the floor where the privileged ticket-holders relax and in the corridors, which always seem fuller than anyplace else. Perhaps this is because that’s where the concessions are. Something there is about a convention that inspires perpetual hunger. Maybe because you never know when you’ll have a chance to eat again.
Or move again. On Monday and Tuesday, it is possible to move around the convention floor. You can wander over to your favorite senator for an autograph. Or spot the movie stars.
On Wednesday, it is impossible to move very much unless you get behind a large and unabashed (OK, rude) person. The best way to find such a person is to look for a television camera. The guy carrying it (sometimes a female) is not a shy, retiring type.
By Thursday, just before the acceptance speeches, you had better like the spot where you’re sitting. Or standing. That’s where you’ll be. No, you probably can’t even leave. You are crushed by the crush, like a sardine in a can.
Was it always this way? Probably not. Years ago, there were fewer delegates. Pictures of those early conventions show men (they were all men then) with at least a little room to walk around. They were sweating men; this was before air conditioning. Now we have cool (well, reasonably cool) sardines. Progress.
There is no doubt, though, that the crowding has gotten worse over the last decade. This year, the Republicans went to the long, narrow hall in San Diego, where only the folks sitting right in front of the podium could really see it, and where the ceiling was too low for a good balloon drop. So the GOP image wizards decided to supplement the balloon drop with a balloon rise.
No, it didn’t work very well. Which raises the question: Is a balloon drop necessary? Leading to the equally obvious question: Are conventions necessary? Yes and yes.
With candidates chosen in the primaries, recent conventions have been devoid of politics. So inconsequential were this year’s gatherings, that TV news executives said they might not cover the proceedings in the year 2000.
But no one can assume that this inconsequentiality is a permanent condition. Any year now, the primaries could end without a clear winner. All it takes is three strong candidates, or a change in party rules. Without conventions, there would be chaos and confusion.
Besides, to no small extent, the conventions are the parties. In this decentralized, non-ideological country, the parties really come together as national institutions only at their conventions. Yes, some substitute mechanism might be devised. But somehow, even in the age of e-mail, people have to get together. That’s what a convention is.
And that’s why you need the balloon drops. Because a national political convention is not just an official proceeding, though it is that, nor is it just a reunion of old friends, though it is that, too. But it is more. It is a ritual.
Societies need rituals. Secular societies (which, for better or worse, or both, is what this one is) need secular rituals, and democratic societies need political rituals.
That’s why both parties did the roll calls. Not that there was any doubt about the outcome. Not, really, that there were any opposition votes, if you don’t count the handful of Republican Pat Buchanan die-hards. So it would have been easy, natural and sensible for the chairman of the first state called (“Alabaaaamaaaah) simply to move that the delegates nominate Bob Dole (Bill Clinton) by acclamation. That would have taken 30 seconds, instead of an hour and a half.
But no. Both parties decided to go through the whole thing: not just the votes but the interminable, ridiculous mini-speeches in which either a governor or state chairman reminded the world (or the small portion of it that stayed awake) that his or her state had the best ball clubs, the brightest flowers and the deepest woods of any state across the length and breadth of this great land of ours.
Silly, wasn’t it? But also kind of nice. Because it was part of the ritual, as are the buttons and the waving placards and the silly hats. As are the candidates and their wives standing at the podium at the end waving to the world; as are the other party bigwigs who come up to join them, all grasping hands (even the ones who don’t like each other very much) and smiling and waving. Because all of this is what people expect to happen, simply because it always has happened, and because there is something comforting, even (especially?) in these fast-changing times, about the expected.
Like balloon drops. Or rises.
Even when they don’t work very well.
