The hype and hysteria reached even the sleepy North Shore of Boston. In the
weeks leading up to the summer's seminal event in The Big City, local police
chiefs were predicting endless commutes and near-constant gridlock. Many
advised
locals to "go to New Hampshire for the week and don't look back." Thanks to
the comfort of an overwhelming Police (State) presence, the terrorists,
tourists, troublemakers and travelers were kept at bay.
Poor Boston. $60 million on security, and 0 income for tolls. By the second
day, the secret started to leak that our charming provincial capital had
become
somehat of a ghost town. Of course, there were dissenters in the streets:
Veterans for Peace and the Boston Social Form held their own conventions, and
United for Peace and Justice, Black Tea Society, Food Not Bombs and many
other
groups made their presence known as usual. Of course, many
activists--including
many of us who tried in vain to yank the Democratic Party out of its pro-war
stupor--were also convinced to stay home, or run the gauntlet of the Protest
Pen, a court-sanctioned cage for protesters designed to make the effort of
free
expression so unpleasant as to suppress it completely. No tear gas, no
riots--the perfect "democracy."
Of course, local merchants were also treated to the blessings of the Security
State. The culture of fear, originally peddled by the would-be party of free
markets, was embraced wholeheartedly by planners in Democratic Boston. Closed
roads, rerouted traffic, and a bored and sleepy cop on every empty
corner--all
take their toll as shopkeepers reported business off as much as a whopping
50%. Signs screaming "Welcome to Boston," and "Welcome Delegates," couldn't
compete with the opposite message conveyed by the stranglehold of
security. And
not for lack of trying, either. Donkey pillows winked forlornly at passersby
from swank shops on Newbury Street. A bizarre red flag with reverse images of
Kerry and Edwards recalling the famous Che Guevara poster--to which my wife's
first response was that they have tried to make Kerry more attractive by
cutting
at least two inches off his head. (Boy, has radical chic taken a dive:
Leonard Bernstein must be rolling in his grave).
It's all about money, Julia said sadly as we stood among overdressed gawkers
ogling ueberdressed celebrities paying $1000 a plate for some gathering or
other. We did catch a glimpse of Jerry Stiller, and the most political
statement
I dared squeeze out in such a crowd was a heartfelt shout of "Serenity Now!"
Even with the Red Hot Chili Peppers playing two blocks away, businesses still
couldn't catch a break. And trolling cabbies honked enticingly at almost
anyone
walking in the drizzle--one even stopping to let us cross against the light,
a desperate trick usually reserved for late night airport runs or after the
club crowd has dwindled. We've driven home from Boston many, many tired
nights,
through more traffic at 3 am than we witnessed at 11 this night, when the
Biggest Show In Town was in town.
Naturally, we didn't go near the convention itself. And it wasn't just
because we hadn't sent in the requisite blood and DNA samples by the
deadline, or
that we were petrified of being forced to express ourselves freely from
behind
the razor wire. We did hear that Kucinich and Sharpton gave great
speeches; and
the get-drunk rooms at every delegation were up to the same standards, I'm
sure, of conventions past. But the clincher for us is that despite the dire
warnings of a precious few men of conscience, there is no indication
whatsoever
that the party apparatus is listening. Of course the mainstream press
wouldn't
know what to listen for anyway--it's too busy comparing the headgear of the
various networks, or chiding Jesse Jackson for the unpardonable sin of
suggesting--gasp!--that Boston may have a race problem. [Note: as one who
grew up around
Boston, I learned early that white Bostonians often feel perfectly
comfortable telling racist jokes to white strangers. I have even had a
mechanic (who
knew I was the white half of a mixed marriage) tell me that the stop sign
on our
school bus could not be fixed, because "Really, Danny, that thing has hit
everything but the nigger pool!"]
But certainly the powers-that-be are even less interested in listening to
even the majority of their own delegates. The platform and the rhetoric
were as
empty as Beantown's deserted streets. Derisive monikers abound: Nothing for
Everybody…The Milquetoast Miracle--though none quite captures the
deedication with
which the string pullers quashed nearly every populist granule expressed by
thousands of delegates in state conventions throughout the country.
Ironies, too, are more prevalent than shoppers in the quiet Boston streets.
The buzz is that Teresa Heinz Kerry gives a good speech. While the Ketchup
Lady
talked of the Peace Corps and her early life in Mozambique, though, an
activist is dragged off the floor of the convention hall in handcuffs. His
crime?
Trying to unfurl a banner that said "End the Occupation: Bring Our Troops
Home!"
All part and parcel of the self-inflicted fear of their own shadow that has
kept Democrats running from McGovern for the last three decades.
I was "fortunate" enough to receive a letter from DNC, although I have no
idea how I got on their list. The ask was directly from the Senator, and it
started Dear Dan. I also had no idea that I was on a first name basis with
the
potential President of the United States. My shock and awe at the sheer
goosebump-all-over gooiness of having made the grade was shortlived,
however. My jaw
dropped, perhaps making my head about half as long as our Junior
Senator's, when
I searched in vain for at least some mention of the war. No mention of
Iraq in
an appeal to an antiwar activist to help our man beat the warmonger--not one
word.
I should, I know, be more than used to it. Forgive me if I exaggerate my
surprise for rhetorical effect. I did, however, dutifully send in my
contribution
envelope. Here's an Excerpt from my letter accompanying my contribution of
"other" ($0)
"Dear John (I always wanted to write a Dear John letter):
I am stunned at the audacity of trying to raise money from, I am assuming,
party activists, a significant majority of whom vehemently opposed the war,
without a single mention of this crushing imperial adventure. All the
issues you
claim to support are crippled by this bloated, flatulent, gorging elephant in
the middle of the room. There is no money for anything, because it is all
spent. While you are busy covering your right flank, it would do you some
good to
consider the base you are alienating."
The sad and scary truth, though, is that, within the party, McGovern was
right--both then and now. Still beating the peace drum, the aging Loser of
'72
called for at least a 50% reduction in military spending, 5% annually over 10
years. His simple reasoning is that terrorism is not a military problem, and
requires a non-military solution. The party and the country might be in a
different place today had the money men not abandoned his antiwar campaign.
Counterfactual history is necessarily speculative, and the influence of
the war
profiteers no small matter. But the hard truth is that the party's cigar
elite, the
precursors of today's DLC, couldn't give two shits about enabling the ongoing
criminal enterprise that was the Nixon administration. Imagine if Tricky Dick
had not destablilized Chile, bombed Cambodia, etc. How many lives saved, how
many possibilities unextinguished?
It's ironic: Now these same men who wouldn't save us from Nixon claim that
Nader is the Antichrist, a sort of evil enabler for Bush. God forbid that the
Democrats should have to earn their votes; in all other things sacred, both
parties extol the miracle of competition as an economic and psychological
panacea,
the holy grail that guards freedom. But choice for voters must be crushed at
all costs. This is what makes the manufactured unity and discipline coming
out
of Boston so galling. It reminds me of an old cartoon I once read, referring
either to the politburo or any corporate boardroom: The chair asks for a
vote,
and says "All who oppose please signify by saying 'I resign'"
Sure, there are still embers glowing. The "good" thing, I guess, is that
virtually no one in the rank and file agrees with this meaningless drift
toward
the right. And new organizations such as the Progressive Democrats of
America,
Progressive Vote, and others, are more determined than ever not to go to
sleep
once they elect Kerry.
You know, though, it should be a cakewalk. The website electoralvote.com,
which tracks the latest state-by-state polls, has Kerry pegged at a 291-237
electoral lead, before any convention bounce, and WITHOUT winning Florida,
Ohio, or
even Minnesota! Still a bit worrisome, though--should we have such trouble
dispatching with The Most Hated Man on Earth? Why not, then, push the
envelope
and seek a true mandate to govern on a broad based program really opposing
the
heart of the Bush agenda? Why not, in other words, give the people what they
seem to really want? Ah, here we hit the proverbial brick wall, the
inevitable
fate of progressives who venture too far into the Belly of the Beast that is
the Democratic Party. These brave or foolish souls expect the party apparatus
to collapse, leaving them as the sort of political version of Invasion of the
Party Snatchers.
But the money men care about power, not truth--they won't care if their
ideology is bankrupt. And money buys a lot of "unity," as the latest
generation of
the forcibly united can well attest. True, though, there is no exit from this
ideological, moral and common sense cul-de-sac. Unless it changes direction
radically, there is no hope for a party who thinks that salvaging America's
reputation lies in recruiting the youth of other countries and turning
them into
occupiers and sodomizers as well. Torturing children is not a glitch in an
otherwise successful or noble enterprise--the whole world knows this. It's
just
too bad those who would replace Bush don't seem to get it.
© 2004 Daniel Patrick Welch. Reprint permission granted with credit and link
to
danielpwelch.com. Writer, singer,
linguist and activist Daniel Patrick Welch lives and writes in Salem,
Massachusetts, with his wife, Julia Nambalirwa-Lugudde. Together they run
The
Greenhouse
School. Some of his articles have been broadcast on radio, and many are
available in up to 20 languages. Links to the website are appreciated at
danielpwelch.com