Obama election-night rally
Thousands of Chicagoans gather for historic night
The Chicago skyline gets patriotic for election night.
When it came to the rally in Grant Park on the night of the presidential election, Chicagoans generally fell into two camps: those who considered it a terrible idea, and those whose sense of history made them brave the crowds (and a potentially dicey situation if Obama lost). Here’s a report from one of the latter. (FYI, I think my watch was running a few minutes behind.)
5:58 p.m.: A Mazda Miata is double-parked outside the Trader Joe’s near State and Erie. Its license plate: “NO HOPE.” A bad omen?
6:07 p.m.: The event has expressly forbidden food, alcohol, water, blankets, chairs, and just about anything that could make the experience of cramming hundreds of thousands of people into a park more bearable. But they can suck it: I’m buying some trail mix, a couple of energy bars, a bottle of water, a bottle of wine (easier to conceal than beers), and a corkscrew.
6:23 p.m.: I notice I’m one of maybe five people walking east down Monroe toward Columbus, the northwestern edge of Butler Field, which was reserved for those of us without tickets for the rally. Turns out there’s a reason: Everyone has to enter at Congress and Michigan. I’m shocked to see how calm and orderly the whole area is—sneaking in would be tricky, so I hoof it.
6:32 p.m.: The punks (or maybe “punks”) are out in front of the Art Institute. One has written in Sharpie NO ONE IN ’08 on his orange T-shirt, with the first O making an anarchy symbol and the second O some kind of flag. He must be here to scoff at the sheep who buy into the whole fraud of general elections. Smash the state!
6:35 p.m.: There’s a word for the security checkpoint area, and it’s CLUSTERFUCK. Despite the efforts of event organizer C3 (which also does Lollapalooza), there’s little semblance of order at the entrance for the ticket-less. Just half a dozen stressed-out staff members shouting incomprehensible orders and confiscating bottles. I’m always losing stuff in the folds of my big-ass messenger bag, so I’m confident that my contraband will remain concealed under all my crap. I spot a staff member who looks pretty lax, and with a quick look in my bag, she waves me through. Dammit, of all the times to forget those pipe bombs I have sitting around at home!
The crowd at Butler Field could watch CNN, but not really hear it.6:53 p.m.: In Butler Field there may be the largest crowd ever gathered to watch CNN. On the northeast end of the field, opposite of the Petrillo Music Shell, is a big screen showing Wolf Blitzer’s ursine face, though I can’t really make out anything he's saying. The south end of the park, where the ticketed folks are, has a real PA, so I occasionally catch bits of dialogue from that. Thank God for CNN’s eye-catching graphics!
6:56 p.m.: Ah, the confusing science of projecting elections: CNN shows Barack Obama ahead in South Carolina, but projects McCain to win it. People around me cheer, then abruptly stop. The general consensus is “Huh?” The later winner projections, where the network called races with 0 percent of precincts reporting, only heighten the effect.
7 p.m.: Barack takes Illinois. People go ballistic. McCain takes Oklahoma and Tennessee, and everyone boos. Someone behind me yells, “Die old man! Die old man!”
7:05 p.m.: There’s a pair of German men standing next to me in crowd, watching intently and commiserating. I can’t make out any of it until a few minutes later, when I hear “‘Staying Alive’… Travolta” in a thick German accent. What the hell are they talking about?
7:11 p.m.: Time to unleash the contraband. When the cork on my bottle of wine pops, everyone turns around. Amazingly, I don’t see anyone else taking surreptitious sips from flasks or bottles. I text Genevieve, whom I know will appreciate my subterfuge: “Atta boy!” she writes back.
I was one of the few successful booze-smugglers of the night. Hooray?7:12 p.m.: CNN shows Grant Park, the first time I’ve seen it on TV since my arrival. The crowd of course goes cheers, and will continue to do this any time the network shows the park for the rest of the night. Typical quote I overhear when this happens: “Hey, that’s us!”
7:17 p.m.: Making its way above people like some kind of crowd-surfing idol: a papier mâché, or possibly plaster of Paris, white goat. On it in giant letters: GOATS FOR OBAMA. It’s a huge hit.
7:40 p.m.: Obama takes Pennsylvania. Obligatory shot of Grant Park follows. So does the chanting: “O-BA-MA!” briefly, followed by “Yes-we-can!”
8:05 p.m.: I realize I’m almost surrounded by college students. I thought they didn’t vote!
8:10 p.m.: The evening’s first dark cloud: McCain has a sizeable lead in Missouri, but Obama has a big one in Ohio and is up a few points in Florida. The cheering returns.
8:14 p.m.: The college kids behind me decide they want to start a chant:
“Yes we can?” one asks. He gets a tepid response.
“Fire it up?” another suggests.
“Eh, let’s just clap!” another says. A suggestion to do The Wave isn’t even acknowledged.
“Yes we can?” one asks. He gets a tepid response.
“Fire it up?” another suggests.
“Eh, let’s just clap!” another says. A suggestion to do The Wave isn’t even acknowledged.
8:20 p.m.: The projection for the Kentucky Senate race names Republican Addison McConnell a winner. All Republican victories are greeted with a chorus of boos.
8:23 p.m.: Watching CNN’s self-proclaimed “best political team on television” mime through whatever it is they’re talking about, I wonder: Is it better that I can’t hear them?
8:24 p.m.: Much like stories of “terror sex”—“The world could end tomorrow, baby, so let’s fuck”—that followed 9/11, resignation sex followed W’s victory in ’04. A guy in front of me tells his friend how he picked up some woman at a bar and had bad sex with her afterward. “I don’t even remember her name!” he says, beaming.
8:24 p.m.: On the screen now: Hank Williams Jr. live from Phoenix. A college-age woman behind me asks, “Who’s that guy?”
8:24 p.m.: My feet officially hurt.
8:34 p.m.: Obama has Ohio. The “O-BA-MA!” chant returns. “These real smiles scare the fuck out of me, you know?” says the resignation-sex guy to his friend.
8:35 p.m.: “I asked my friend who she was voting for,” says one of the college girls behind me, “and she said ‘Sexy Obama!’” “Obama is sexy,” chimes in one of her friends. Maybe that was the key to mobilizing the youth vote.
8:37 p.m.: To be short here is, like at shows, a curse. A man behind me is describing the non-action on TV to his short friend. “Okay, he’s touching the screen. He’s moving the screen. He’s moving the screen more.” This really is the most exciting election in our lifetime!
8:42 p.m.: There’s a small panic among the college kids: CNN political reporter John what’s-his-face is making a bunch of states light red. “Why’s he doing that?!” they exclaim. It’s cool, guys: He’s just showing what McCain would have to do to win. The confusion remains long after it’s been explained.
8:43 p.m.: Quarters are extremely close throughout Grant Park, so it’s perhaps surprising that I’ve been here for so long and am just now smelling a fart.
8:46 p.m.: “I was saying if he wins, I’m going to England,” says some guy behind me. “Canada’s not far enough—you gotta go to England!”
8:47 p.m.: New projections: Obama in New Mexico, McCain in Louisiana. Here come the boos. “After what Bush did for Katrina, they’re gonna vote for that guy?” asks a guy behind me.
8:51 p.m.: A roll of toilet paper sails over the crowd, leaving a soft two-ply wake. A yellow beach ball occasionally bounces around. This is just like Lollapalooza a couple months ago.
9:03 p.m.: The crowd begins to thin a bit, at least in this part of the park. On nearby Jackson, where there’s another screen and coherent sound, the crowd is pretty tight. I head that way.
The sound and picture were better on Jackson.9:07 p.m.: A super-hyper guy standing behind me takes a look at James Carville’s squinty, alien-like visage, apparently for the first time, and yells, “Mister Cleeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaannn!”
9:18 p.m.: I wonder if people from other parts of the city will start heading down to the park if it looks like Obama will win. It sounds like a bad idea, but maybe people figure they can catch the good part of the night.
9:33 p.m.: Rows of Porta Pottis lie just off of Jackson and Columbus. Some agile people have climbed atop them to see the screen better, while others ascend trees. People did the same thing during Girl Talk at Lolla this year. There’s no music here, but the atmosphere is almost as jovial. In half an hour, the scene will make any Girl Talk show seem sleepy.
People scale the trees for a better view.9:44 p.m.: The downside of being able to hear CNN now at my new location: unfunny commercials for D.L. Hughley’s show on the network. The second downside of my newfound audio: Listening to Anderson Cooper awkwardly interview a hologram—yes, a real live hologram, like something from Star Trek—of will.i.am, who’s in Chicago. He spends the time talking about what an inspiration he and his song were for the Obama campaign. (“When inspiration calls, you answer,” he says.) Leave it to will.i.am to talk about himself on the cusp of the nation electing its first black president.
9:45 p.m.: A tired group of people passes by me, apparently looking for a place to watch. “This is fruitless,” says one woman. “This is fun! This is adventure!” chirps her friend.
9:57 p.m.: Obama takes Virginia, the first time that state has voted Democrat since LBJ in 1964. Cheering erupts. Everyone knows it’s coming now.
10 p.m.: Obama wins. The crowd fucking erupts:
10:04 p.m.: People begin chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A!” I get my first goosebumps of the night.
10:05 p.m.: A banner makes its way through the crowd that says HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN over an Obama logo. The optimism and goodwill are practically palpable. Wait, what’s the opposite of despair? I’d forgotten it over the past eight or so years.
10:16 p.m.: CNN shows Jesse Jackson backstage in Grant Park with tears streaming down his face. Hysterical cheering follows.
10:17 p.m.: McCain concedes. When he takes the stage, there are some boos, followed by a quick rendition of “Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good-bye….”
10:20 p.m.: The people watching McCain concede at that hotel in Arizona are overwhelmingly white and old. The people around me in Grant Park are so diverse it looks like a setup from central casting: There’s an interracial couple behind me, a pair of lesbian couples a few feet away, and a large mix of ethnicities. There’s a sense of the changing of the guard—and now it’s just the countdown until Obama shows.
10:40 p.m.: The screens switch from CNN to a feed from the cameras fixed on the stage on the south end of the park. A video plays on the screens to the tune of The National’s “Fake Empire.” Well, okay, bad title for this particular event, but name an upbeat National song. Somehow, despite the T-shirts the band made in his honor, I suspect “Mr. November” won’t get played here, even though the sentiment is much more apt: “I won’t fuck us over / I’m Mr. November.”
10:45 p.m.: A succession of other songs plays as the crowd slowly grows quieter. Where is he?
10:55 p.m.: A guy standing next to me calls a friend to see if there’s any word on TV about why Obama hasn’t showed yet. He wasn’t planning to appear until 11, but McCain conceded early. “I’ve already waited all night,” says another guy next to me. “I can wait five more minutes.” The man who called his friend adds, “I’ll wait a couple more hours!”
10:59 p.m.: Obama and the family appear on stage. Goosebumps again.
11:04 p.m.: The sound of Obama’s voice echoes off the buildings around the park. Everything about this moment feels historic.
11:17 p.m.: On the way out, a woman offers glitters to passerby. “Take some glitter!” she orders merrily. “This will never happen again!” She’s right—I stick out my hand, and she fills it with blue glitter. I toss it up for good measure.
11:42 p.m.: A guy walking northbound on Michigan Avenue at Jackson with the masses carries a sign saying I LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU AMERICA. It’s like V-J Day on Michigan Avenue. There’s kissing, hugging, and spontaneous cheering every few minutes.
A sea of humanity at Michigan & Jackson, post-rally.11:46 p.m.: Here comes the fun part: getting home. The lines for everything are out of control, so I consider walking south of downtown to pick up the Red Line before it hits the crowd. But everything’s packed. I just starting heading west. My feet are officially killing me.
The celebration gets musical outside of Grant Park.11:53 p.m.: Everything has been seemingly very orderly, but when a teenager makes a break for it south on State, the cops give chase, probably eager for a bit of action. It looks like he lifted somebody’s wallet, and he quickly stops running. The cops pin him down and throw handcuffs on him, probably pretty psyched that something happened.
12:01 a.m.: Clark Street north of Van Buren has a fleet of buses on it. From what I can tell, the city was prepared for this: There were cops and CTA personnel everywhere, and this army of buses was making its way downtown to deal with the overflow. I hop the 147 express and think about how, seven years after 9/11 led to the U.S. government quickly disgracing itself and squandering the world’s goodwill, we’ve elected a man who was Muslim as a child, whose middle name is even “Hussein.” Say what you want about us, foreign countries, and I’ll agree with some of it, but I don’t think this could’ve happened anywhere else. And with that, comes a growing sense of redemption.
I think of the speech MLK gave in Montgomery, Ala., in 1965. He quoted a senior woman who’d endured the Montgomery bus boycott, who said, “My feets is tired, but my soul is rested.” For Americans who’ve felt deep despair and shame over the country’s direction, souls are resting for the first time in a long while.
