My “Visit” to the Democratic National Convention

It was August 22, 2024, and I was on my way to becoming a part of history. The destination: Chicago, site of the Democratic National Convention.

My family and I had been to the Windy City on many prior occasions—a sibling, or sibling-in-law, has that sort of pull.

But this time was different—an American political party had recently nominated a woman as its candidate for president.

Sure, it had happened before, but victory in the general election had been elusive. In other words, the glass ceiling above which sat the White House remained intact.

There was also the issue of the nominee’s skin color. We should have been well past that, but as the saying goes—as in the one I’m about to make up—we run with idiots.

In any event, the tinted one, the one with two X chromosomes, was set to speak that night. Despite having spent many years as a prosecutor, she wasn’t known as a gifted orator, and speaking 48 hours after a duo of master rhetoricians—the Obamas—only added to the pressure. That said, with intellect on her side, expectations were high.

The location was the United Center, better known as the spot where Michael Jordan dominated the NBA for a decade. In fact, during the roll call of delegates two nights earlier, the state of Illinois chose to use the same song the Chicago Bulls had used to introduce their starting lineup throughout that commanding run.

At 7:30 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time, we boarded a plane in the pride and joy of Lake Ontario’s American side—Rochester, New York. The direct flight to O’Hare International Airport doubled as an overhead tour of two other bodies of water—Lake Erie and, of course, Lake Michigan. On the western edge of the latter awaited the grand metropolis, anchor of the third largest metropolitan area in the US.

As we approached the airport, the iconic skyline loomed to our left, a reminder that the city was more than worthy of hosting the moment.

It was only after landing that I had my first inkling that something was amiss. Rather than head east toward downtown, our driver veered south toward a more suburban location.

I knew suburbia well, and this was suburbia on steroids.

Costco.

The Home Depot.

Nordstrom Rack.

You name it, and it was just a few strip malls away.

Shortly thereafter, instead of reaching the United Center, we ended up at the home of the aforementioned sibling (in-law).

And instead of the energy of a once-in-a-lifetime political event, I was greeted with…a to-do list.

My niece was two days shy of her coming-of-age ceremony, and my job was to take her and my daughter to a nail salon!

All was not lost, however, as the non-descript plaza was replete with nourishment options, and as the manicure and pedicure progressed, I was able to obtain a transient surge of dopamine from a greasy snack.

That evening, I took solace in the fact that I would still be a part of the Democratic National Convention, just with the aid of a flat screen and an internet connection.

After a series of preliminary speeches, the moment finally arrived.

The family room fell silent, tense with anticipation.

I glanced at my wife, knowing that she would be proud of the progress.

And there, on a Thursday at 9:30 p.m. Central Daylight Time, as the country waited to hear the words that could dictate the direction of its history, she was fast asleep.