When my son Sam and I go on our annual baseball trips, we like to explore the area. The games are usually in the evening. During the day we go for walks. We especially like to explore the neighborhoods. Sam is an urban planner from Boston who sees urban things in a unique way. Even if he wasn’t my son, I would love to travel with him.
This year’s trip went to Detroit, with a repeated detour to Wrigley Field in Chicago.
“Do you know what starts the day after we leave Chicago?” I asked.
“NO.”
“The Democratic Convention,” I said. “How long can you stay after Sunday?”
“I have to work on Monday.”
That was a no-go for Sam, but not for me, so I booked my flight back for Tuesday. On Monday, the first day, I would be “at” the DNC.
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“Can you come in?” he asked. Absolutely not. My efforts on behalf of the Democratic Party have been sincere but sporadic. The last Democratic meeting in my town in early July ended with a complete rejection of my demand that Joe Biden resign.
Being right does not always mean gaining status, and I had no status.
No status, no access.
“I don’t care. I just want to hang out and enjoy the atmosphere.”
Like Tim Walz, I was a public school teacher for decades and, like the vice presidential candidate, I also had a state championship. But I didn’t deserve to go in because I hadn’t worked hard enough for the party, so I was OK hanging out on the outside.
Sam left Sunday night after an incredible weekend of baseball and walking around the neighborhoods of Detroit and Chicago. We’ve been going on baseball trips and walking around the neighborhoods since he was 10. You talk to your son about different things when he’s 32 than when he’s 10, but it’s just as special. Probably more so.
I stayed in Chicago, hoping that lots of people like me would flock to the DNC. I thought it would be fun to listen to the speeches at a bar near the convention where blues are welcome, and high-five the other guests while drinking local lager.
Then Monday came, and I put on jeans, boots, and a worn-out Democratic t-shirt. My plan was to get off a few stops early and walk. I wanted to see if the crowds and tension would increase as I got closer to the convention, but on the ride I made friends with a couple of college kids, a gay couple wearing Harris t-shirts, and a college counselor. They were all excited, just like me. So I missed the early stop because we were chatting and taking selfies. No problem. It was fun.
When I arrived, I was greeted by a “Free Palestine” demonstration. I joined in without participating. It was loud but peaceful and the only demonstration I saw. There were police everywhere, but thankfully there were no confrontations. The police gathered together, sat on a low fence or walked around like me. I heard no police conversations about politics or violence, just snippets of overtime sheets.
I got as close to the convention as I could. The line to get in snaked around several blocks. No surprise. But it didn’t look like a Democratic convention. It looked like a fancy wedding procession. No T-shirts here. Tight suits, pumps and pearls, lots of bracelets and lanyards and a definite aura of “I earned this. I’m special.” Hey, they worked for up to four years and they earned this, so why not enjoy it?
But these were Democrats, and it felt more like Swarthmore than State U. Pinot Grigio, not Budweiser. Not that the cause was wrong. The cause is right. But the mood outside was not good.
Is this why MAGA hates us?
When Biden insisted on staying in the race in early summer, many of his loyal party members quietly nodded in agreement.
Did they not want to risk their status and their invitation to the next congress in 2028?
More questions than answers, so I went. There was no one there except those who wanted to join the long line. The bars were empty. The protesters had gone home. Everyone else was on their way to the main event.
Just players, no cheerleaders.
Time to go.
The train station was right there, but I preferred to walk to another station much further away.
Sam wasn’t with me, but it was still light and there was another neighborhood to explore.
Paul Taylor was a teacher and coach at Frontier Regional School and West Springfield High School for 35 years. He lives in West Springfield.
