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Bernie Bros, 'Justice 4 Harambe' Protesters, and an Alpaca: DNC from the Outside

Reporting from the periphery of the Democratic National Convention, where everyone is either incredibly hopeful or grumpily awaiting the apocalypse.
Photo via Getty

Last week I went to Cleveland for the Republican National Convention with my Trump delegate father. As the final day of the convention approached, the inevitable, "So, will you be in Philly for the DNC?" questions increased. The enthusiasm and resolve with which I responded, "Hell no" also increased, as my spirit had crumbled at the hands of the mighty RNC. There was absolutely no way my mind, body, and soul could withstand another convention. Plus, I have long hated Philadelphia. I repeat: I was not going.

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Oh, how naive I was then…


Monday, July 25, 2016: Convention Day 1

After having lived through the Trump spectacle, the prospect of watching the entire DNC from the comfort of my couch is delicious. However, sometime after FLOTUS delivers her rousing speech, I receive a text from an old friend and mega-Bernie supporter, Sam Siegel. In true Bernie supporter form, Sam is a long-haired white rapper from the Bronx. After the DNC email leak scandal, his outrage has compelled him to head south to Philadelphia to check out the scene. He wants me to come with him; he suspects that after my adventure in Cleveland I may be the right person with whom to spectate.

Read more: This Week, Tim Kaine Became the DNC's Favorite Daddy

After very little cajoling, I agree. I had done the RNC with my Delegate Dad, and it looks like I am going to do the DNC with my Bernie Bro.

Tuesday, July 26th, 2016. Convention Day 2

I learn that Sam can't go to Philadelphia until Wednesday morning, but I decide to head down a day before him. By 4 PM, I am standing at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia sweating my ass off. The heat in Philly—like nearly everything else in this city—is oppressive.

The DNC welcome wagon here is decidedly less welcoming than what I experienced at the Cleveland airport. The signage is lackluster, and there is a distinct lack of cute old lady volunteers ushering me to and fro. I've heard rumblings that Uber isn't working efficiently down here, leaving stranded journalists and delegates alike all over town. I walk a bit before finally snagging a ride. En route to my Airbnb, I go through my contacts to see who I can sweet talk into giving me credentials for the convention center. Without them, I will be sequestered to the periphery. Unlike Cleveland, Wells Fargo Arena is nowhere near the city center. Located in deep South Philly, it feels a million miles away from any of the other action. Cleveland is set up in such a way that even if you weren't in it, you still felt in it. My suspicion was that Philly would not be quite the same.

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Lackluster signage at 30th Street Station

Some friends I made in Cleveland last week have been kind enough to let me stay in their Airbnb. The house is massive and spooky, but at least the walls appear to be more soundproof than those at the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel, and these guys are more respectful than the screaming New York Republican Delegation. We watch the roll call for nomination from one of their computers. It is essentially the same old performance as in Cleveland—just replace "Donald J. Trump," with "Hillary Clinton."

I am moved to tears when Bernie Sanders' brother pledges his delegation's delegates to his little bro. I am also moved to tears when Bernie Sanders humbly asks the DNC to nominate Hillary. So far I have cried exactly two more times at the DNC than the RNC.

Before I know it, it's just past 10 PM, and I am standing in line for a Planned Parenthood party. The sidewalk is littered with chic Democrats in expensive shoes queuing up for entry. Opposite them are some charming and entirely sane pro-life protesters carrying massive signs plastered with graphic images of aborted fetuses.

Protesters outside the Planned Parenthood event

I am not technically media, but the people I'm with are, and so we manage to sneak our way in through the VIP line without any issue. Fun fact about these convention parties: Pretend like you are supposed to be there and literally nobody will stop you. The venue for the party is gigantic and glowing with a purple hue. The atmosphere in the room is buzzing with optimism. I am not in apocalyptic GOP land anymore. No, I'm in its parallel universe where—with Hillary's help—things are going to be just fine.

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Several beers later, I am in line for the bathroom when I look to my right and realize the girl next to me is barefoot. We lock eyes. "Oops, guess I should have put those back on," she giggles. I am disgusted. I thought Democrats were more civilized than this.

Back outside, I decide I cannot miss the opportunity to take photos with these pro-lifers. I pose for one, giving double peace signs, cracking a massive smile. The woman holding the sign asks me, "Do you enjoy mocking dead people?"

I respond with a confident, "Yes. Very much so."

The author and a protester and a giant picture of a fetus

Wednesday, July 27, 2016: Convention Day 3

Honestly, it is too early for Rudy Giuliani's shit. The Republican National Committee has set up a headquarters in Philadelphia to hold press conferences and do rapid response work to what is happening inside the DNC. It's mid-morning and I am seated inside RNC's HQ for today's press conference. Giuliani, the human equivalent of a Furbie you lost somewhere in your house, will not shut up. He's going on about how the DNC is the "fantasy convention" where the world is perfect and everything is rainbows and butterflies. He steps aside and wipes the sweat off of his forehead. I want to vomit.

The coffee here, I might add, is terrible.

The author drinking terrible coffee

Sam finally makes it to Philly, and we link up sometime around 5 PM. Despite having no leads on snagging credentials, we decide to head down to the convention center. Sam and I make it as close to Wells Fargo as is humanly possible. This particular gate, the site of various rowdy protests over the last few days, is allegedly where all of the action outside the arena is happening. When we arrive, however, things are unusually low-key. Hot, tired looking people are mulling about making very little fuss.

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The most excitement is a man, whom we both vaguely recognize, viciously berating a journalist. "THIS MAN, THE MEDIA MAN, IS THE PROBLEM," he shrieks over and over. Meanwhile, a gentleman holding a large I HEART TRUMP sign saunters by, and nobody—save for me—seems to notice or care.

We pass a homemade banner that reads, "RIP DNC." The anger directed towards the Democratic party permeates this experience in the most obvious way. The anti-Trump folks in Cleveland seemed to concede—pretty quickly I might add—to the notion of Trump as their nominee. Not here. Though peaceful, these people reek of frustration and hatred towards Hillary Clinton.

Maybe Giuliani should come down here because it feels pretty bleak.

An anti-Hillary protester

At the nearby park, just outside the secure area surrounding Wells Fargo, three dozen or so tents have been erected. Protestors, many without shoes (this is becoming a theme), are strumming guitars and singing about peace. As we enter the park, a woman gliding by on a longboard tells me that if I am a Hillary supporter I "will be monitored." Another woman is holding a "HILLARY IS A LYING CUNT" sign. A man wearing a boot on his head is chatting with some dreadlocked girls. I feel very uncomfortable.

Of course, the fact that I do not have credentials to this convention colors my forthcoming observation but let me say this: This convention feels significantly more exclusive and untouchable than the RNC. While the RNC seemed like the Trump Show 3000, the DNC, from what I can tell, seems like it was dreamed up in Hollywood. Bradley Cooper is sitting on the sidelines. Sarah Silverman is promoting party unity. Tomorrow, Katy Perry will perform a la halftime at the Super Bowl. Meanwhile, outside, it is Burning Man-lite.

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As we're leaving, a man with an alpaca is posing for photos with cops. I pose for one too, obviously.

The author and an alpaca

Obama is speaking now, and I am watching on massive screens in Independence Mall just adjacent to the Liberty Bell. I will miss his hopefulness. Remember, back in 2008, when it didn't feel like the world was coming to an end? I am crying again, so that officially makes three times. The Philly locals around me are up on their feet. Cars driving by are honking. People on bikes are cheering. When it's all said and done, Sam turns to me and remarks that hopefully, the President will have just succeeded in unifying the party.

Suddenly it's 2016 again, and the stakes feel so high.

Thursday, July 28, 2016. Convention Day 4

Sam and I link up at City Hall, where we know that the other protestors have been marching. We find my favorite insane people, the Westboro Baptist Church, holding signs and screaming into bullhorns about how much they hate gays, women, porn, smokers, masturbators—everything fun, really.

A woman named Mary approaches us to say that if we pay attention to the WBC, we're giving them exactly what they want. She is a Bernie supporter, and after some questioning, she tells us, "If a gun was pointed at my head, and I had to choose between Trump or Hillary, I would choose Trump." Well, I think to myself, that just about says it all.

Suddenly, some counter-protesters appear with signs and start chanting to drown out the hateful things being blasted out in the bullhorn. One is holding a JUSTICE 4 HARAMBE sign. When the Westboro Baptist Church starts chanting, "NO JESUS, NO PEACE," the counter-protesters respond with, "NO CHEESUS, NO CHEESE." This doesn't exactly feel productive.

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WBC counter-protestors making the important demands

I meet up with some Planned Parenthood street team volunteers that I had met at Tuesday night's party. They are handing out condoms that condemn Donald Trump, but it starts to rain quite heavily, and we make a run for the City Hall convention center. I don't need credentials to enter this building.

Every bathroom here is rebranded as being gender neutral. Unlike the RNC, which just had media stations, these halls are littered with booths for various causes. When we enter the Planned Parenthood private room, I inquire about the vast significance of this election. The volunteers agree that the stakes could not be higher and note that Mike Pence, in particular, is among the most threatening and terrifying politicians standing in the way of pro-choice policies.

In the lobby of the convention center, I speak briefly with a woman sitting alone holding a sign that reads, "Supporting Hillary? I'd like to listen." She tells me, "Bernie Sanders was our last chance for a non-violent revolution." She says she will not be voting for Hillary. She seems confident that America is going to have a revolution and that she will be raising her children in a war-zone, but that when we emerge it will be a more peaceful and accepting place for all. Apocalypse meets fantasy, Mr. Giuliani—what do you have to say about that?

Afterwards, I decide to watch Hillary speak in another public square. We arrive as Chelsea is finishing up. Chelsea sounds like she is on Xanax. I am not impressed. But then, there's Hillary. Hillary who I don't even particularly like. Hillary who, frankly, a lot of people don't particularly like. And yet, when she—a woman!—formally accepts the nomination, there go the tears again.