The Hottest Ticket in Montana
What a party. Anyone who made it through last Saturday (April 5) evening at the Butte Civic Centre without some seriously extended grinning is in need of Prozac. It was arguably the first and last time that the Montana Democratic Party’s Annual Metcalfe Mansfield Dinner was as hot a ticket as a backstage pass for the Rolling Stones. The headliners were Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton and the tickets had sold out two weeks before, ten minutes after going on sale.
If there is such a thing as diversity in Montana, which is debatable, it was in evidence in the festive lineup snaking around the building two hours before the doors opened: senior citizens with peace signs; flocks of high school students with Hillary for President placards; clusters of middle aged biddies for Obama, native Americans from all over the state, the names of their tribes proudly sewn onto jackets and caps; groups of young gay boys giggling; state elected officials in ill-fitting suits and cowboy hats; and rich people in designer party clothes wearing the much coveted red arm bands that signified seating on the main floor where the hors d’ouvres and tables were, as opposed to the poorer progressives wearing shabby chic and the blue arm bands of the cheap seats way up high in the balcony. Placards were waved, songs were sung, buttons and T-shirts hawked. There was even a truck of surfers from Stevensville Montana with an “OBAMA” surfboard tied on top.
The admirable Carol Williams, our first female speaker of the State Senate, was standing patiently in line in the chaos of the bus station across the parking lot, waiting for someone to get to the W’s on the ticket list. “I’m for Hillary, all the way to the bitter end,” she said. Outside in the cold Monica Lindeen was chatting cheerfully with Jeanne Marie Souvigney, while waiting for her husband Bob Raney. Every hopeful Montana Democrat running for elected officed turned up with buttons and placards with their names on them, while ACLU volunteers moved through the crowd with petitions.
Easily the most moving moment of the evening happened before the official event even began, outside in full view of the chilly, patient crowds. An ignorant pig of a man held up a vile sign that read “America without N*****s” , and almost immediately two high school students from Bozeman moved in front of him and covered his sign with an even bigger one that said “HOPE”. The racist moved out from behind them, irritated, but the boys again scooted forward and covered up his sign with theirs. And again. And again. The new “HOPE” obliterating the old “HATE”.
Inside the arena the air was electric. Everybody who was anybody who wasn’t Republican was there: John Bollinger looking healthy and happy with his new wife; Big Jon Tester and his rock of serenity Sharla and a gaggle of boisterous grandchildren; Jonathan Windy Boy and his wife Sarah, easily the evening’s most beautiful couple, were wearing Barack Obama buttons; and Matt McKenna, the Bozeman boy who’s ambition is to be the Karl Rove of the Democratic party (and who for the last few months has been Bill Clinton’s spokesperson, with arguably dubious results) was standing conspicuously alone in the crowd frantically texting on his Blackberry so as not to look like a wallflower. Two flamboyantly fur-draped fashionistas swept in with great fanfare and no credentials to much whispering that they must be Clinton operatives from the East. In fact one was a gospel-singing black Baptist preacher from Philadelphia and the other the owner of a Butte piano bar but it was hard to tell under all that mink and raccoon.
Max Baucus was there, smiling, as usual. It is often difficult to tell what Max is smiling at, exactly, as the smile is often directed at no one in particular, but it is a pleasant smile. Governor Schweitzer”s entrance met with much clapping and cheering from the crowd, and within about seven minutes he had managed to work the entire room, missing no one. And of course there was Jag the dog, found standing in line at the bar. Actually there were a lot of people standing in line at the bar. This is Montana, after all.
“There are lesbians everywhere you look,” observed one elderly gentleman.
“How can you tell?” said his equally elderly friend.
“From their haircuts. And they all have Hillary signs.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know”
“I didn’t think we had a lot of lesbians in Montana. Well what the heck, as long as they’re good folk, who cares what they do at night?”
Then it was showtime. After a couple of short speeches and a hauntingly elegant Indian drumming prayer, the words most of the room had been waiting for were spoken. “And now, I am proud to introduce ….Senator Barack Obama!”
The place went nuts, completely nuts.
Only political neophytes take campaign promises seriously. There is a surfeit in American politics of candidates who make detailed laundry lists of campaign promises disguised as financially feasible plans, and they are generally applauded in the press for their attention to detail. Rarely is it mentioned that the groceries on the lists are rarely bought nor the promises realized because 1)the items first must be approved by Congress and 2) there is not enough money in the federal piggy bank to pay for them once the wasteful and fraud-ridden military budget is taken care of.
Yet there is a serious deficit of politicians who practice what can only be called “holistic” politics, a concept in which all of a candidate’s speculations and ideas are complementary and hang from a philosophically solid frame. Obama is such a politician. His laundry lists are more challenges to his listeners of things THEY must do to bring about change than they are promises of what HE will do. It is one of the reasons his supporters feel so personally invested in his campaign, and so passionate he ignites the basic goodness and idealism of his audience and again and again asks them to rise to the challenge of selfless action. His much talked about charisma is certainly a reality, but his brilliance lies in the way he has turned the conventional way of campaigning on its head.
According to several independent reports Obama received over 71 ovations during his 42 minute speech. These did not come from mindless “kool aid drinkers;” they came from serious political junkies who had never seen anything as thrilling in their lives. Many of them cried.
When the speech ended Brian Schweitzer was stunned. “How do I follow THAT?” he asked the person standing next to him. “Keep it short” they suggested. So he did. And for extra insurance he got Jag the dog up there on stage with him and Jag did the same old Jag tricks that always bring laughter and applause. Our Governor is ham of the first order.
Hillary Clinton in person is a hundred times more sympathetic than the harsh and often disingenuous persona we are subjected to on televison. It was impossible after hearing her speak not to conclude that her shambles of a campaign has done great disservice to this bright and accomplished human being. She was clear and concise and absent was her seemingly omnipresent anger.
Yet her speech was full of promises contradicted by many of her votes in the Senate and by the policies and laws implemented during her husband’s administration. Hillary as a populist is a sell only to audiences with no political memory. Carefully constructed phrases about the Clinton presidency like “What part of peace and prosperity didn’t you like?” brought predictable ovations that, although somewhat lacking in unrestrained conviction, were definitely bursting with respect and love. Hillary was family. And not only had she done well, she had reminded us of why we had often been so proud of her. One could only pray that when she finally realizes that it is time to throw in the towel, she goes out on a high note like the one she struck on Saturday.
Then it was over. The bar was running out of the popular brands of beer, words of the party goers had begun to slur, and the designated drivers were rounding up their charges. Even Jag had run out of steam. But the chattering cascade of excited voices continued out of the building into the cold Butte night as the last stragglers were seen getting into their cars, still grinning from ear to ear.
—Margot Kidder