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home . archives . about . links . syndicate . submit . subscribe The Democratic National Convention: An Account Richard Grayson 7.27.04
Everyone on the block keeps saying, “You must be so excited to be going to the Convention.” They forget I’m an agoraphobic who four years ago didn’t leave my bedroom for six months. It’s going to be the first time I’ve really traveled on my own, and it’s so far away. At school early, I met Mark, who’s also sick of people telling him how exciting it must be to be a delegate, especially since he’s only 20. He said nothing really happened at the Brooklyn delegates’ meeting last night except the selection of some woman as borough coordinator of the 53 delegates – a lot more than some stupid states like Wyoming or Delaware. They also said that because of the credentials challenges, the first meeting of the Convention may be Monday afternoon, not Monday evening. Mark is still worried about his schoolwork and getting his papers done; he had his Anthro final today. Prof. Galin said I could take the Modern Drama early tomorrow, before we start the long drive to Miami Beach. He says “good things” will happen at the Convention and he told me it won’t be like last time, the cops probably won’t tear-gas us and bash our heads in. That remark made me glad I was seeing Dr. Wolk in the afternoon. She asked me to imagine the worst thing that could happen at the convention or on the trip there or back. “Well, I could die,” I said, but when she pressed me, I really couldn’t figure out how that event could come about. Dr. Wolk said I know what to do when I have panic attacks and that even if bad things happen, good stuff will come out of it. Yeah, I agreed, even breaking up with Rona was such a horrible, depressing experience, but I grew from it. She said maybe I could thank Richie because by seeing Rona behind my back and then marrying her, he was the catalyst for my growth. I just changed the subject back to my fears about the convention. Tonight I packed. Mom thinks I’m going away for a year and wants me to take everything but the toilet seat. I went out to Rockaway and picked up Mark’s valise so he doesn’t have to take it to school tomorrow. I’ll write next from Miami Beach if we make it.
Saturday, July 8 We made it, though there were moments when I didn’t think we would, like riding on US 301 (I-95 is barely done once you get past Virginia) through this horrible town in North Carolina at 2 a.m. and coming face to face with this huge billboard that said WELCOME TO KLAN COUNTRY! It had a hooded guy and burning cross, and I think, OK, I’m in a car with three New York Jews and a homosexual, and we’re all going to die. Flip and Lenny met us at Campus Corner after my final (I wrote that I would cast a black man as Goldberg in Pinter’s “The Birthday Party”) and all they brought were their knapsacks. I started driving the Pontiac, but Flip said even the trucks in the right lane on the Jersey turnpike were passing me, so he took over in Delaware. Mark said he wasn’t feeling well, and when we stopped for dinner at this motel in Petersburg, Va., he spent most of the time in the bathroom throwing up. Lenny said that your body is very surrealistic and Mark was puking because he had never been away from Rockaway before. Mark blamed being sick on his new prescription glasses. Anyway, I got a really bad headache and forced us to stop at South of the Border, this motel at the start of South Carolina, which has lots of signs with their mascot, Pedro. They also sell fireworks. I sprang for the whole $24 for the four-bed room. We slept a few hours, and then I drove us through South Caroline at dawn, which was kind of pretty. Georgia had a lot of signs for pecans, and finally we stopped for lunch in Jacksonville. Unfortunately, Florida seemed endless. Lenny kept trying to distract me from complaining by talking about how we’re going to kick Nixon out of the White House, but I don’t think even he believes it. We arrived at Grandpa Nat’s condominium around 6 p.m. The old Jewish people saw us get out of the car and one of them pointed and said, “What is that?” like they’d never seen young guys with shoulder-length hair before. The place is very luxurious. Lenny and Flip were annoyed because I insisted Mark and I have the king-sized bed in Grandpa Nat and Grandma Sylvia’s bedroom. I admit that it probably made more sense for them to have the bed together, but frankly it creeped me out to have two gay guys sleep in the same bed as my grandparents. Actually, I’m almost positive they don’t sleep together. I’m just prejudiced. We called our families from a pay phone using some number Flip had that allowed us to call long distance for free. After dinner at McDonald’s, we went over to the Diplomat and Mark checked in at the N.Y. delegation booth. In the elevator, I ran into Jimmy Breslin, a delegate, and I told him I really loved his columns. He looked drunk. Miami Beach is this vulgar, style-y place, but it has a kind of obnoxious charm. Mark is asleep now, and Lenny and Flip are watching the Democratic telethon. The Supreme Court put the Calif. and Ill. delegate disputes back into the hands of the Convention.
Sunday, July 9 I just got home after getting some groceries at Publix, and everyone must have gone to the beach or someplace. We all went to the Diplomat at 10 a.m. for the Youth Caucus. There were about 50 delegates under 30 from N.Y., but the whole thing seemed sort of silly. There’s a Women’s Caucus and a Gay Caucus and Black, Latino and Jewish Caucuses. I made a joke about everyone being the Captive of the Caucuses (Caucasus) to Lenny, figuring he might get it because he’s going to grad school in Comp Lit. But he just looked at me blankly, so I don’t think he’s read Andrei Bitov. Mark just sat there saying nothing, and seeing how other people like Mike Gerstein sounded, I think he did the right thing. In the lobby, I ran into Bob Corbett, who took me to see Liz Holtzman, who I guess is looking for a Congressional staff since she won the primary against Manny Celler. I can’t imagine what she’ll look like if she serves 50 years in the House like he did. The big thing, Liz said, is the seating of the Calif. delegation – if McGovern gets all the delegates, he’s got the nomination. But isn’t it kind of hypocritical to rely on the state’s winner-take-all primary rules when he chaired the committee to reform the process? It took a long time for all the 278 state delegates to caucus. There’s a fight for the chairmanship of the N.Y. delegation between Joe Crangle, the state chairman, Mary Ann Krupsak, an upstate legislator; and Bronx Boro Pres. Bob Abrams. Mayor Lindsay looked tanned and handsome, as usual the Golden Boy even if he did horrible in the primaries; Bella Abzug was in a feisty mood and a floppy hat; the Queens boss Matty Troy dressed like a slob; and sanitation commish Jerry Kretchmer wore a T-shirt. I also spotted Al Lowenstein, Herman Badillo, and Arthur Schlesinger in his bow tie. There was a minor revolt as the diehard reformers tried to oust Crangle from the Rules Committee, but he survived. Mark and I had lunch in the coffee shop, then I went with Lenny and Flip down Collins Ave. to the candidates’ HQ at the various hotels. We collected lots of buttons and posters from the campaigns of Muskie, Humphrey, and Chisholm, and we put this big poster, “Wilbur Mills for President,” with his big red nose, on the hood of the Pontiac. At the Doral, Flip tried to say, “We’re with Mills,” but I don’t think they believed we were workers for the chairman of the…as it’s always called…powerful Ways and Means Committee. We were trying to find Gene McCarthy HQ, but the people at the hotel where it was supposed to be said they’d never even heard of him. We also went to the HQ of the two idiotic Vice Presidential candidates, Alaska Sen. Mike Gravel (who I actually shook hands with) and former Mass. Gov. Endicott “Chub” Peabody. (Q: What three cities in Mass. are named for him? A: Endicott, Peabody, and Marblehead.) Then there was a cocktail party for the N.Y. delegation back at the Diplomat, but they served just watery punch and stale pretzels, not real cocktails. They turned the cameras on only when Big John came in to mingle. I went up to Mary Lindsay and started telling her I first met her when I was only 14 and they were campaigning on the beach at Rockaway, but she simply nodded and smiled. The atmosphere in this town is absurd. The Zippies and others are downtown camping out in Flamingo Park, and the Convention Hall has barbed wire around it.
Monday, July 10 The convention doesn’t begin for another half-hour, but there’s so much going on already. Lenny and Flip went to Flamingo Park to stay with the demonstrators. Mark, of course, is taking his seat in Convention Hall. We drove over to the Diplomat this morning for a delegates’ breakfast, then I took a drive downtown and was outside the Convention Hall, near the Jackie Gleason Theatre. There was very tight security, and barbed wire, and things were cordoned off. I met this man who said his brother was a Wallace delegate from Fla. He couldn’t get a guest pass, either. I talked with him and understood a little better why people like George Wallace – because he gives vent to their frustrations about taxes, busing and welfare. Back at the Diplomat for the N.Y. Caucus, I ran into Prof. Abbott from the Poli Sci Dept., who said he was there to observe the scene. The caucus itself was ridiculous. There were endless nominations for chairman of Crangle (by Lindsay), Abrams, Krupsak, and Lillian Roberts, a black. Crangle said he wouldn’t accept a co-chairmanship and they got into a horrible parliamentary wrangle. The four candidates were nominated in every conceivable combination for co-chairmen (chair-person, as they say at this convention). Finally it appeared that they were going to go through an endless series of roll calls when Matty Troy asked for a recess. Everyone was so tired that in the end they agreed to have 4 co-chairpeople. I asked Al Lowenstein why they didn’t just have 278 co-chairpeople, and he said, “Make that 277, I don’t want it!” and he ruffled my hair and gave me a little hug. I don’t think he’ll ever get back into Congress again. In the end the 4 co-chairpeople raised their hands in victory as the crowd cheered. Someone said Humphrey was in the hotel addressing the Ill. delegation, but you couldn’t get in without an invitation. One of the 11th C.D. alternates didn’t show up, and Maida Asofksy, head of the Brooklyn delegation, said he needed to be replaced. Mark suggested I do it, but actually I’d rather watch the action on TV, as I’m going to do now. The Calif. and Ill. credential challenges should make this a very long night. I hope Mark is okay because he looks lost half the time.
Tuesday, July 11 The 37th Democratic National Convention opened last night and the political revolution expected because of the party reforms may be taking place. A lot of delegates are young people, blacks, Chicanos, gays, women, Indians and people who are independent radical thinkers. The convention opened peacefully with a welcoming speech by Sen. Lawton Chiles, who didn’t wear a sport jacket. Chairman O’Brien said the party couldn’t promise anything other than the truth and people needed to be talked to honestly. Then came the minority reports on credentials, starting with the challenge to South Carolina for under-representing women. It lost, but narrowly, and the McGovern forces apparently held back their votes in order to block a later parliamentary challenge on precedent. The TV networks didn’t understand it was a strategic move and were saying McGovern was weaker than expected. Anything but. The next important challenge was Calif. I had my scorecard to follow the roll call, and in the end the vote was to seat the entire McGovern delegation, giving him an extra 150 votes and just about locking up the nomination. As the convention dragged on, the vote came on Ill. With the Daley group rejecting any compromise, a final vote was taken and the McGovern 69, led by Jesse Jackson and Bill Singer, were seated. Mayor Daley walked out, so this time he won’t be telling Sen. Ribicoff to go fuck himself like he did four years ago after hearing the truth about the Gestapo tactics in streets of Chicago. At 10 p.m. Humphrey withdrew from the race, and a little later Muskie also called it quits. The convention didn’t end till 2 a.m., and I went over to the Diplomat to pick up Mark. When the Chicago delegates’ bus arrived, they hugged each other and started to party. Finally Mark came back and I took him home. I told him he looked good on TV and did well in his CBS interview. I didn’t want to tell him they wrote “Moskovitz” as “Moskowitz,” though I suppose he’s used to it by now. Lenny went to his aunt’s house today, and Flip met some guy he was spending time with. Mark slept till mid-afternoon, as he was really exhausted. We all met up for dinner at this roast beef restaurant where the waitress spilled coffee on me and the meal made me incredibly nauseous. Tonight’s the keynote speech and the platform fight.
Wednesday, July 12 Last night’s convention session turned out to be the longest in political history. After the keynote speech by Gov. Reubin Askew (he seemed all right and impressed Mark, who thought he might vote for him for V.P.), the platform fights began. Gov. Wallace made an appearance in his wheelchair to fight for an anti-busing plank, which lost despite his speech. There were fights for gay rights, abortion reform, tax reform and other things. They all failed, primarily because the McGovern staff was lobbying against them, saying George can’t win the election as an advocate of “way out” positions. So as the session dragged on until 6 a.m. with all these debates on the losing planks. They’re left with the majority report, a moderate and vague platform. I dragged myself over to the Diplomat and watched the exhausted delegates come off their buses. Mark ended up going to bed at 8 a.m., and despite being tired, he seems to be enjoying himself more. I took a walk in the warm Florida sun in late morning. This trip, whatever bad things happen, has been a great thing for me. It’s been good to be out on my own, not with my family but with my friends. In a way this convention makes me think I could do anything I wanted to. Late this afternoon we went to the Diplomat to pick up Mark’s credentials and wait with him for the bus to Convention Hall. A lot of people are saying that McGovern sold them out, but he’s assured of a first-ballot nomination. Mills and McCarthy have also withdrawn as candidates, leaving only Wallace, Scoop Jackson, Shirley Chisholm and Terry Sanford against the McGov juggernaut. The revolution of the Democratic party has been won – by us. But has it gotten us anything, really? Only time will tell. Now it’s time to turn on the TV.
Thursday, July 13 The final session begins tonight, and everyone else is in Convention Hall – Mark on the floor and Lenny and Flip in the galleries. Mark got only 2 guest passes, and I said I’d stay home. I can see it better on TV anyway, and I had to clean up the condominium before we leave. Tonight is the balloting for Vice President and the acceptance speech by George McGovern. Last night the senator from South Dakota won the nomination on the first ballot with 200 votes to spare. He was placed in nomination by Sen. Ribicoff, as he was 4 years ago, but this time there was no police riot and no Mayor Daley. Chisholm and Sanford were also placed in nomination, Jackson got about 400 labor votes, and ole George Wallace had his diehard supporters. It was exciting, yet I had no great feeling of victory. It’s been a long time since that first meeting back at the Student Center in January, and this was anticipated, after all. Lenny and Flip took Mark back to the condominium, and we talked till early morning about the speeches and the floor demonstrations. That funny Puerto Rican guy from the Chisholm campaign looked so happy as he kept jumping up and down. We woke up late, and Mark and I went over to the hotel to have breakfast. We ate with two reporters from New Hampshire who interviewed Mark, a black man from Rochester whose wife is a delegate, and kid named Brad Angel from Long Island. Kenny Elstein of the 13th C.D. made the cover of Time, representing McGovern’s young delegates. Lenny said the guy is a friend of Richie and Rona and a reform hack. Later I went to see Dad’s friend and customer, Milt Littman, in his menswear store. I got there just as the biggest union boss in the world, George Meany, was trying on a suit. He was smoking a big cigar just like on TV. Meany looked old and fat and crummy in the suit, but he looked in the mirror and smiled and nodded. At least he liked what he saw. When I told this story to Lenny, he said it was a metaphor for the silent majority, the kind of people who’ll vote for Nixon, the way Meany probably will end up doing: They look at America’s reflection and it seems a lot better-looking than the ugly reality. Milt Littman gave me the $50 Dad told him to, which we really need to get back to N.Y. I shook hands with him, and to be polite, I smiled at his friend the big old Meany. Then I picked up Lenny and Flip and we went to the Diplomat for the last N.Y. state caucus. I was in a phone booth calling Grandma Ethel when Howard Samuels – who I hope will run for governor again – shouted out, “It’s Eagleton!” Sen. Thomas Eagleton of Mo., a rather bland guy, will be McGovern’s running mate. People were annoyed, but McGovern’s people are firmly in control, so Eagleton will probably get through tonight. We’re going home tomorrow. It’s been crazy, but a great experience for a kid my age.
Saturday, July 15 It’s 9 p.m. and I’m exhausted but exhilarated. I’m back home in my bedroom in Brooklyn, not dead at all, and I didn’t need my mommy and daddy to hold my hand through this experience. I had some panic attacks this past week, but I came out okay, and Lenny, Flip, Mark and I became a really tight unit. I slept in the same bed as Mark, ate off the same plate as Flip, and smoked the same joint as Lenny. Wait, I’ve done that last thing a lot before this week. The vice-presidential balloting was the most entertaining part of the convention. Although of course Eagleton won, votes were cast for Peabody and Gravel, Hodding Carter and Cissy Farenthold, and such lesser political lights as Roger Mudd, Bear Bryant, Lauren Bacall, Father Berrigan, Martha Mitchell, and Jerry Rubin. Mark voted, God bless him, for Abe Ribicoff. But the hijinks went on for such a long time, it was incredibly late when McGovern got to give his acceptance speech. The theme was “Come home, America,” and it was great, but I think most people, even on the West Coast, were probably asleep because it ended at 3 a.m., midnight Pacific time. (“But it was prime time in Guam,” Lenny said on the drive home.) On Friday we awoke at 11 a.m. and closed up the condominium, taking our stuff out. We stopped off downtown to say goodbye to Lenny’s Uncle Max and Aunt Leah, who seem sweet and are so poor they don’t even have air-conditioning. Then we watched the Zippies and other kids leaving their campground in Flamingo Park, backpacks on, hitching north or west. We started driving at 1 p.m., stopped for lunch and for Flip to throw up (I’m the only one of the four of us who didn’t vomit on this trip) and to buy oranges, jellies, and Florida souvenirs. We weren’t making very good time when, as Mark was driving at 80 m.p.h., we had a blowout near Cape Kennedy. We changed it, but the spare was no good, so we had to drive to Merritt Island to buy a new one. Luckily I had Milt Littman’s $50. After dinner in Titusville, we kept driving, driving, driving through the night. Flip drove mostly, and Lenny kept putting food in Flip's mouth to keep him awake. At about 4 a.m., Flip couldn’t go on, and we pulled over into a rest area. A few hours later we woke up all sore from sleeping in strange positions in a cramped car. I got very dizzy while I was driving around Richmond. I thought I was going to pass out, and I called Dr. Wolk from a phone booth to talk to her for a while. Reassured, I set out again. Flip decided to get off at Arlington to visit his bewildered fascist parents. The Dorringtons are a big military family, so you understand how they feel about a son like Flip, a radical long-haired faggot. In one of my few serious talks with Flip – his name suits him so, as he’s hardly ever not smiling – I learned how hard it was on him being gay and yet getting coerced into being a big jock and enlisting in the Navy for Vietnam. He never talks about what happened to him in the war, but I heard that his ship was bombed and he was the last person to get down the stairs or whatever they call them, and that all the guys who came after him died. We stopped in Bethesda, on Wisconsin Ave., for something to eat, and I dropped by to see Sid Bergman at his carpet store. Then Lenny, Mark and I drove back to N.Y. It was great to see the Belt Parkway again even though it was the only traffic jam we had on the whole trip back. Around 7 p.m. we arrived in Rockaway, where Mrs. Moskovitz and all the neighbors on Beach 128th St. greeted us like conquering heroes. While I was on the phone telling Grandpa Nat and Grandma Sylvia I’d arrived back home, I noticed a phone message from “Rhona.” Mrs. Moskowitz said Rona had called, asking when “the boys” would be home and could they come to a party she and Richie were giving to celebrate the convention. I wondered if that invitation included me. When I dropped Lenny off at his house, he said that now, with another burst of energy, I could continue and drive up the 100 miles to my parents’ hotel in South Fallsburg. But I wanted to go back to East 56th St. Later Rona called, saying Lenny was at their party and telling everyone about the convention and saying they’d like to see me too. Did the “they” mean her and her husband? It would be freaky to go to their house, but I’m too tired anyway. I feel like I’m still going 70 m.p.h. and I really feel funky after riding in a car for more than 24 hours. It’s a long time till November and this young Democrat needs a bath.
Richard Grayson is the author of nine books of fiction, including With Hitler in New York, I Survived Caracas Traffic, Lincoln's Doctor's Dog, and The Silicon Valley Diet. He's a lawyer in Florida. Recent work online has appeared on McSweeney's, Mississippi Review, Pindeldyboz, Surgery of Modern Warfare, and Eyeshot. He can be reached at graysonric@yahoo.com.
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Thursday,
July 6