Democrats Dance Together in Chicago

As the Democratic Convention dominated these August evenings, I found myself thinking how much my parents would love this celebration.
Not so much for the music – Mom and Pop had old vinyl records of Marian Anderson and Paul Robeson, as much for their politics and social meaning as for the voices, I would guess.
My parents would not know the singers on the speaker system.  Pop used to wince when Chris, the youngest of five, sang and strummed the music of Bob Dylan: “The answer, my friend….”

However, my parents would love the spectacle of dancing in the arena -- Blacks and whites, everybody mingling, finding common cause in familiar music, in the current America,  in the hope of scuttling the odious one in November.

My parents were 30’s lefties, who hurt their journalist careers by going on strike, helping to build the Newspaper Guild, the union that pays my supplementary charges beyond Medicare. I think of them every time my medical bill is (mostly) covered.

By the 40s and 50s, my parents displayed their social values by belonging to a discussion group, strictly consisting of half Black, half white, from the post-war working class of Queens County. Bootstrappers. Union members. Government workers.
They would meet in living rooms and back yards of Queens, discussing pre-selected topics. My memories of my early teens include voices drifting upstairs, some voices raised, some laughing.
 
My parents raised me with warnings about Joe McCarthy and Richard Nixon. They adored FDR and looked for another one. And the racial mix of visitors in the discussion group set a vital life example to my four brothers and sisters.
 
My parents would love this Chicago convention – the Black delegates letting loose with good moves and happy smiles: this arena is their arena. And the speeches match our beliefs:  build, share, help, cure.

Some of our heroes have been up there, on the stage.
In the summer of 2004, I came home from the ballpark one night and Marianne told me about a young man named Obama, who gave a great speech, and Marianne said, this is our next President.  
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Nowadays, we admire Michelle Obama just as much as her husband, particularly since reading her autobiography about growing up in Chicago.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were in a restaurant in Nassau County, a few miles east of the city line. It was a quiet lunch hour, and four burly males (three white, one Asian) were splayed around a table, eating, and talking loud, on purpose, it seemed.
We could not miss their distaste for the sudden emergence of Kamala Harris as presidential candidate. It sounded as if they were mocking her looks, her voice, her politics, but they agreed on one thing: she’s not as bad as Michelle Obama.
My wife and I concentrated on our lunch, but we could not miss the blatant racial prejudice. It never goes away.

The other night, the Obamas materialized at the convention and I was reminded of the televised celebration in Grant Park the night Barack Obama won the 2008 election – husband, wife, two daughters and the beloved Marian Robinson, Michelle’s mom, may she rest in peace, all going to the White House as a unit.

I still thrill at the memory of being in the White House in 2011, covering the Presidential Medal of Freedom ceremony.  
I still remember Barack Obama schmoozing as his pal Yo-Yo Ma sat in with a Marine string group.  And how the President worked his way back to the staircase, saying, “Guys, I have to go, I have work to do.”
He pro-actively stuck out his hand to guests who were making room for him. I still recall the soft, supple feel of his hand, on the go.

My parents passed before the time of the Obamas. He would have been “their” president, the way FDR had been.
The other night, the Obamas were back in public – like two great jazz saxophonists, improvising personal riffs, Michelle Obama went first, striking a phrase, “Do Something,” getting the audience to respond, and shortly afterward Barack Obama captivated with a basketball head feint here, a jazz honk there, and a sly hand gesture aimed at the odious one.
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Thousands of delegates and guests have been rocking to the beat, for a few nights in August, Blacks and whites have been mingling in the arena, in a louder, more visceral gathering than the sedate ones in Queens, so long ago.
My parents would have loved it.
                             ***
 My earlier thoughts about our Queens background:
 
https://www.georgevecsey.com/home/please-dont-blame-queens-for-that-guy
 
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