The Democrat’s national convention has kept me too tired to ponder it. Many can’t-miss moments come after my frowning bedtime. Dog Henry makes no allowance for this derangement in the household schedule. At six he pees, Dems or no Dems, as his escalating paw-taps caution. It is well not to debate Henry on this point, so up I winch myself from our toasty mattress, feel for my slippers, and shuffle into the surprisingly autumnal chill.
A friend shies from televised conventions as prepackaged propaganda. He’ll vote right – why waste the time? All those delegates in funny hats yelling in orchestrated unison sadden him. No joy, he grumbles, watching man turn mannequin, no matter how laudable the cause.
He’s right, of course, but so what? My soul rushes to warm itself at this faux bonfire. Yes, every syllable is scripted here, every teardrop cued, but as at weddings and other tribal rites, platitudes satisfy, old hats fit fine. Conventions should be conventional, familiar – proverbial, not provocative – the dances of all, to which all, from toddler to totterer, know the moves.
More than one speaker – the incandescent Michelle Obama most glowingly – strove to explain this event’s exceptional effect. Like a town besieged, right-thinking Americans have grown grim with privation and drab with despair. Was this the promised end? Would we perish with starvation or by besiegers’ swords? Our ideal America has been under attack – for decades, it seems in hindsight – by the monstrous forces of greed. The rich, scheming to get richer, rewrote the rules of our democracy, statute by statute, byelection by byelection, judge by judge, duping the dopey multitude to endorse their predations in the name of God. The old idea of democracy was subverted by cynicism and endless funds. The ideals of our Founders were mangled, laughed at. Just yesterday a reclusive billionaire – who did nothing to amass his fortune – gave another fifty million to Trump – bringing his total contributions to more than a hundred million. When we spend money, we’re buying something. What do you think this misfit’s buying?
Many of us had given up on America – and the animating idea of individuality that’s been propelling humanity since the Renaissance. Our day was done, our goose was cooked, our standard-bearer too feeble to defend us against the onslaught of funding and the insuperable vileness of the orange blob. Goodbye, America! Goodbye, hope! Prepare to endure our new suppression, slavery in a new guise.
But then – whaddayaknow! – a miracle. We blinked twice. Could it be? Our depleted, defeated spirits were rescued – by accident, it seemed. Our commander collapsed – on the ramparts, before all eyes – to be replaced by an unexpected heroine, a Joan of Arc, who had to be seen to be believed (and even now, I pinch myself to be sure) – like a genie out of a bottle – the perfect answer to our panicked prayers. She and her chosen deputy are not as perfect as they appear – because nobody is – but let us dream awhile – and seize this implausible reprieve – and sing old songs in unison – you bet! – and joyously join in this conventional convention, confident and cozy in our old hats!
When, I think back, have I experienced such relief? When Jane said yes – yes. When my moribund company revived. When, unexpectedly, words I’d penned surprised me with their sweetness. When Bach or his fellows soared me, as if by a raptor’s claws, to dizzying heights. Miracles do happen – if you let them: Jesus is born – and born again – a siege is raised – and we’re glad to add our voices to the roaring throng, our eyes suffused.