Claire Messud on Obama
Classy, cool, hip, glamorous, even sexy—all these words have been used to describe the presumptive Democratic nominee. He has excited the young, the disenfranchised, the traditionally cynical and apathetic: even I, for the first time in my life, had given money to a campaign—his. Outside Obama events you can buy T shirts bearing his likeness, strangely cartooned, looking vaguely like Malcolm X or Che Guevara memorabilia; you can pick up buttons with slogans like HOT CHICKS DIG OBAMA. I saw a young girl in rural Missouri, upon shaking his hand, scream and hop up and down as if he were John, Paul, George or Ringo: she then called up friends on her cell phone, gazing at her own hand as if it were a mystical relic. He’s repeatedly been compared to JFK, to George Clooney, to Sidney Poitier and, sarcastically, by his opponent, to Paris Hilton and Britney Spears; he’s been both hailed and condemned as a celebrity. We’ve opened every magazine and newspaper to find him profiled, analyzed, taxonomized again, and again, and again, to the point where the American people are tired of the hype. We’ve been apprised of the likes and dislikes of his wife, and of the routines of his children. He has stolen—some would say, hogged—the limelight for months.
It’s past midnight in Denver. Day 1 of the convention is over. I’ve been up since six, first standing in lines to pick-up my press credentials, then attending Asian American and Indian caucuses, and finally going to the Pepsi Center to hear Teddy Kennedy and Michelle Obama speak. It’s too late to write more but do check out the lovely piece by Claire Messud which I read on the light rail on the way back to my hotel.
