entry seven. witnessing history.

Day five: Thursday, August 28.

The Obama Acceptance Speech.

After a day of perfect conclusion came the epilogue.

Corbin and I decided it would be absolutely insane to have one of the more important speeches in American history happen across the street without our presence. Jeremy and Abby concurred, and together we crafted a crudely-made cardboard sign that simply read: "College Kids Need Tickets... Please?".

After about an hour of holding it up, (and losing most faith) a guy came up to us posing a question to us. 

"Say I had an extra ticket, but only one--which one of you would get it?"

At first, I thought he was just messing with us, and was half-ready to shoo him away. But I used my better judgment, and went along. I said Corbin, because he was most excited to see this speech, and he, being a vehement Obama supporter, would appreciate the most. Everyone else said that I should go, because I was the one with the camera, I was the one with the documentary to complete. Which was extremely nice of them, but this wasn't really my focus, and I didn't want to be the only one from our group to get in. (They all got in to the speech eventually, so I didn't have anything to be guilty about for long.)

But it turned out, I accepted the ticket, despite my guilt, after making sure it was okay with them. I handed the cardboard sign to Jeremy, and ran in with this guy I had only met minutes prior.

Rajulio was a jovial person, as giddy as I was to get into this absolutely historic, prestigious event. He revealed to me that the ticket he had was a Staff ticket, meaning that we could get in to any place at Invesco Field, from the floor to the nosebleeds. I was in shock.

We went through security, which was pretty loose considering the circumstances, and tried to find our place. The man assisted us by showing us the designated Staff seats, which just so happened to be with the Press. It was fairly crowded on first glance, but this vague notion of crowding was eventually quashed as soon as we entered the stadium.

I stopped in my tracks. Stevie Wonder had just finished (which I'll never forgive myself for missing) and the crowd was on its feet. All 160,000 feet. Considering Beaverton has a population of roughly 95-100-thousand people, to see 80,000 people at once, all excited and jumping for the same thing at the same time, was nearly too much to comprehend. Simply, I will never see that many people at one time ever again.

Pushing our way through the crowd, the two of us tried and continually failed to find open seats. In our efforts to find seating, we came upon the most entitled and rude crowd I've ever been a part of. And I've seen punk bands in concert.

Never have I seen so many angry and frustrated people than at this event. It's as if they'd never had to wait for anything their entire lives, and were absolutely appalled that they had to, (shutter the thought!) stand for a few minutes until it wasn't congested anymore.

"What kind of shit is this?" a huffy dignitary exclaimed. "Um, excuse me, I need to get to my seat." While no one else was moving, and no one else was getting to their seat, a good majority of the crowd expected that everyone else move mountains for them. After spending a week with protesters who were just grateful for a bottle of water or a place to sleep, this absolutely disgusted me.

Another official looking presumed-delegate began to push Rajulio and myself through the crowd, going against the grain to get to his seat. His hand was literally on my shoulder, pushing me against the crowd. A middle-aged gentlemen from Rhode Island began to yell at me.

An Unexaggerated Dramatization of The DNC, by Chris Osborn.

AL GORE has just begun his speech, as the crowd cheers wildly. CHRIS is being continually shoved forward by PUSHING MAN, an older African-American not-so-gentlemen wearing a traditional African hat, and a black three-piece-suit. In the fray is RHODE ISLAND, a man of about 58, who wears a pastel-coloured plaid shirt and khaki cargo-shorts. His socks are high, but bunched up. He has a frustrated disposition.

RHODE ISLAND. What the hell are you doing, kid? Sheriff! Sheriff!"

CHRIS. Sir, I'm being pushed this way, I'm sorry.

RHODE ISLAND. Yeah, yeah sure. Yeah right. 

RHODE ISLAND begins wildly motioning with his hands.

RHODE ISLAND. Sheriff! This boy is blocking us from our seats.

CHRIS. (desperately) Sir! This man behind me is pushing me this wa--

PUSHING MAN. (with vitriol) Oh, so I'm the bad guy for wanting to get to my seat.

DIPLOMATIC WOMAN. (overly-earnest) Please, please! This is history, let's not get upset! Let's enjoy this!

SASSY LATINA WITH REFRESHMENTS. You'd be frustrated too, if you just spent an hour waiting in line for food.

RAJULIO. Look man, no one's getting through! Okay?? So you just need to calm down and shut up.

RHODE ISLAND. (over his lines) Blah, blah, blah! Whatever kid, I'll let the Green take care of you. I'll let the Green take care of you!

A LITTLETON POLICE OFFICER enters from S. Left, holding his belt. He wears a GREEN uniform.

EXUENT.

***

I was flabbergasted. No concert crowd in my life, not even the absolutely atrocious Girl Talk crowd at CU Boulder last weekend, was as disgruntled as these Democrats.

After sitting through an unbearably bland performance from Michael MacDonald while blocking the views of four very testy women, (we missed Stevie Wonder, but got this?) Rajulio and I realized down was the best option, and managed our way onto the floor.

Here we were, in the heart of it, walking past every major news station, rubbing shoulders with all the bigwigs of the Press. Over there was NBC News! And CNN! I could literally smell Wolf Blitzer! And there was Charlie Rose! And the Reverend Al Sharpton just walked by!

It all got to be too much, (and unwatchable--I couldn't see a thing from the floor), so I found myself a seat in the third row.

I sat directly behind the FOX News hub, which was endlessly entertaining. The newsladies they have working there were schmoozing it up, constantly mussing their hair, or applying more makeup. They were the vainest of any of the journalists I'd seen that day. I caught some flirting with cameramen, taking photos with them, eyeing them seductively. I couldn't believe my eyes.

The seat I had found for myself just so happened to be with the NPR crew. And in my absolutely geekiest fantasy, I sat two rows in front of Ira Glass himself, host of This American Life. I was absolutely petrified that it wasn't actually him, but rather some other gray-haired fellow with giant glasses who happened to work for NPR, so I didn't introduce myself, and instead opted to creepily glance to him every other minute.

All of this drama nearly made me forget the reason we were all there in the first place. Out came Barack Obama, waving to the crowd, smiling wider than I'd ever seen him smile.

The speech, as you all know, was absolutely fantastic, coming off tough and Presidential, while personalizing his goals by tying it back to his childhood and the people he loves. Regardless of the spin cable news channels may have, there's little to question when it comes to his sincerity. It was present in this speech in particular, as Obama was impassioned, fiery and yet, tangible. Claims of elitism seem so unjustified when you see him speak in person, and as this was the second time I have, this was the dealmaker.

Others weren't as impressed as the rest of us. The NPR crew behind me were like kids shooting spitballs from the back of the class, occasionally making a cynical remark or snide laugh. Ira Glass was stoic the entire time, refusing to clap or smile or nod at anything. 

The staff at FOX News could have cared less that there was a speech going on, which surprised me the most. Usually, you figure the newscasters are listening to a speech in order to make informed criticisms on it for commentary. Not so with FOX News. Instead, the women continued to flirt and fix their hair and makeup, whereas Shepard Smith seemed to be discussing baseball with one of the grips.

The finale of Obama's speech was most gripping, as he reminded us of Martin Luther King Jr.'s famous speech forty-five years prior. The symbolism, as orchestrated as it was, was undeniable. Regardless of your political beliefs, it was something to be proud of.

The fireworks exploded around 80,000 cheering people, not for one single man, nor for his words, nor a political party, not even for a country. No, they were cheering for change, and not in the immediate sense. They cheered for the beauty of humanity, and its ability to better itself. They cheered for possibility, for inverted history. They cheered for each other, for the closeness they felt for one another.

They cheered, because you can only whine about getting to your seat for so long. Sometimes you cheer when others get to theirs.

entry six. the storm (with a silver lining)

Day four: Wednesday, August 27.

There's a lot to this post, so I'll get this out of the way first:

Matt told me Tyler got tickets to the free Rage Against The Machine concert and I leaped from bed.

Within thirty minutes, we were in the Denver Coliseum, and despite the fact I hadn't eaten anything yet, I was feeling elated. I was more than willing to put aside my indie-cred to admit that, yes, I loved Rage Against The Machine as a kid, and, yes, I still do love Rage Against The Machine. 

Yes, I recognize that they market anti-capitalist revolution through a corporate major recording label that pays them handsomely. Yes, I understand that the rap-metal trend of the 1990s is single-handedly their fault.

But I don't care. They do what they do well. Very well.

What greatly disappointed me was the general apolitical nature of the crowd. The majority of the audience were merely there to see Rage. Each time Jello Biafra, who acted as host of this thing, would launch into one of his famously witty political rants, the crowd was blatantly not into it, and more interested in getting their $6 nachos and $3 bottled water than realizing why they were here in the first place. Any attempts to get chants going were embarrassing. It made me fear for our generation as a whole.

Who impressed me greatly were the Flobots, a Denver band you may have heard on the radio or MTV, ("...I can ride my bike with no handlebars/ No handlebars/ No handlebars...") While I doubt I could listen to their album for extended periods of time due its often sloganeering lyrics, their live show was something incredible, due in no small part to their endlessly talented violist. She made the band.

Rage's set was one of classics, playing to the audience every hit, every song the fans would like to hear. Fortunately, I had met up with Brock incidentally, and Tyler and I sat with him, getting perfect seats. At first it was weird being in the seated area during a show as volatile as Rage Against The Machine, but as soon as they went on, I'm really glad I wasn't down there.

The crowd went absolutely nuts. There were waves of people moshing and shoving one another, especially when Wayne Kramer of classic proto-punk band, the MC5, (who played the 1968 Chicago DNC), came onstage with Rage to perform "Kick Out The Jams".

Watching this crowd explode, knowing full and well that the concert preceded a march into downtown Denver, had me vaguely worried about the level of violence that was about to ensue in the streets. Though everyone from Jello Biafra to the Flobots to Rage themselves made an intense effort to preach non-violence to the crowd, I figured there was no way it wouldn't be.

The march that followed the Rage concert was sponsored by protest groups Tent State University, and mostly, Iraq Veterans Against The War. The veterans led the nearly six-mile march into downtown from the Coliseum. I figured other people would be covering it and decided to get some food and wait until it came into town.

Two hours later, while walking to pick up my camera from Kate, I see a massive wall of people coming through the Auraria Campus. "This is impossible," I thought to myself.

An estimated 6,000 people marched with the Iraq Vets Against The War, and my faith was renewed.

After finagling my way into the fray, (the only time this entire week my press pass worked), I blew past the police that were blocking delegates and other citizens from getting through and started filming. The amount of people in this protest was staggering. They had begun to sit in the streets and block traffic. A lot of them got out their guitars and starting playing Bob Dylan songs. One woman's voice was a dead ringer for Janis Joplin's. Protesters were shaking hands with one another, meeting for the first time and sharing water with one another. Others freestyled imagistic rhymes about the state of affairs, about liberty, about rising up. Music held this place together, much like it has throughout the city this week. Connections to our current decade and the Sixties were never more justified.

As the march sat up and marched onto Speer Blvd., I knew there was going to be trouble. We all could feel it, that itchiness.

American soldiers, in full uniform, stood in lines and stared down the police, who had entered in full riot-gear. The police surrounded the marchers, as well as the soldiers who led them, in SWAT Team vans, on jet-black cherry-pickers, and on foot. The image was staggering, to say the least, these two symbols of authority squaring off in an almost unbearably heated standoff.

Everyone was awaiting the thunder. The vets were protesting Obama's war plan, asking him to accept the three tenets of their organization [1) Immediate and complete removal of all troops from Iraq, 2) Full healthcare benefits for returning vets, 3) Reperations to the Iraqi people we've hurt from our occupation of their country].

Until Obama agreed to meet with their group, they would remain in the streets.

Obviously, no one thought Obama would be bothered by this protest group during what is probably the most important political week of his career thus far, so we were all awaiting the violence.

It was dusk. Our cameras were trained on the tense showdown, and our bandanas were over our faces. The police had asked them to disperse. They were immovable. The police adjusted their position closer. They were immovable.

And just when it seemed like all was going to break...

"Obama's agreed to meet with one of our members!"

Rather than break out into violence, a protest march of roughly 6,000 people broke out in celebration. A protest march of roughly 6,000 people began dancing, hugging, and crying, even chanting Obama's tagline: "Yes, we can!" 

This, more than anything else this week, reaffirmed my hope in this country. That non-violent, civil disobedience could actually work, if only this one time.

The sun was low. Colors illuminated the sky. And somewhere within them, our forefathers were smiling.

entry five. the calm.

Day three: Tuesday, August 26.

The word of the day is: Anticlimactic.

After an entire day of "will-they, won't-they" political tension, it was ultimately a bust. The police presence successfully quashed any hopes of an organized march. Any pockets of protest were small and disorganized, often collapsing or so earnest that it came off forced.

The majority of people we've met over the past couple of days were awaiting word on which plans would be realized, which were canceled, and which couldn't get off the ground. 

It's less laziness and more fear. You cannot walk a block in this city without coming upon dozens of police. The protesters want to actively pursue their message, but are left unable to, by the fear of more unprovoked arrests like the first day. 

The greatness of today came from the vibrancy of the streets, and the interesting people we met on the way. Jeremy and I networked with many people, musicians, web-designers, photographers, makeup artists, and just all around cool dudes, who were all just as in awe of this as we have been. From my what I've observed both last year and this year, Denver is typically a Libertarian city, not necessarily in its politics, but in its ideals: "I'll let you do your thing, you let me do my thing." In comparison to Portland, the city is a place where most don't wave and chat with random people on the street. They just don't.

The Convention has brought to Denver what snow storms bring to suburbs: something to talk about. And regardless of this, or the politics behind it, it has, at the very least, allowed a lot of our citizens to feel comfortable talking to people on the train, or in the streets. Everything from active political dialogue, to simple Hellos and small talk, to friendships and relationships and everything in between. 

An authentic New Orleans Brass Band marched through the 16th St. Mall this afternoon. This is music born from the soul, not from technical ability (of which each player had a great deal). You can't teach, nor learn this type of beauty. 

Most resonant was their final song of the set, which featured a call-and-response chorus of handclaps and vocals, singing out: "No matter what they say, we are one." 

It's the kind of observation, the kind of simple lyric that is so obvious, yet always, always uplifting. And I could think of nothing truer.

entry four. protesters big and small, left and right.

Day two: Monday, August 25.

In a day touted to be the strongest offensive in both the police and protester camp, my day was filled with a lot of wandering, a lot of searching, and, eventually, a lot of success. The majority of my day was spent alone, with a camera and a mission, walking up and down 16th Street Mall.

The highlights of the morning included three celebrity sightings: New York Senator Charlie Rangel, Charlie Wilson, the real person portrayed by Tom Hanks, and, (pardon my geekiness) Danny Glover!

Even the sight of Danny Glover up the street couldn't satiate my hunger for a story to find. Of course, as usual, the stories found me: an anti-gay rally in the heart of 16th St. Mall gave way for some of the most interesting, on-the-street dialogue I've yet encountered. Words were exchanged, insults too, and more impressively, common ground was found.

Next came the "Clintons for McCain" march of less than twelve people. These ten-twelve people, (mostly men!) marched down the Mall, with signs for McCain, and sassy attitudes. The three women at the front were a walking SNL skit. I could see Kristin Wiig portraying one of them. Unleashing such diatribes as "Lay off the Hope-ium! DEEEE-TOX!" and repeating "Sweetie!" after every chant, (in reference to a FOX News interview with Obama where he called one of the female interviewers "sweetie", which they viewed as condescending and misogynistic), they said they were sick of their Party, and were going to vote for McCain.

Alex Fenaughty tipped me off about the Westboro Baptist Church (read: the "God Hates Fags" cult), protesting off the corner of Speer and Colfax, so I ran over. Of course, as usual, they had a child with them, holding posters saying: "God Hates America". 

What was most interesting was their willingness, in fact, glee, that I was filming them. I didn't want to. I didn't want to dignify their presence with my camera, but I was too intrigued to discover. In talking with them, calmly mind you, there is such an immovable logic to their beliefs. During calm discussion, they actively support and reinforce their dogma, and why they bring their kids to it.

Never did I ever imagine to be staring someone from the Phelps family in the eyes, talking with them, especially so calmly. It was unnerving, yet oddly human. I could see this man's humanity. I could see it in his eyes. Despite all this horrific speech was a person there. A corrupted person. 

I felt sick.

Surprisingly, as you have noticed by now, the largest presence of protests for the day did not involve anarchist groups, anti-war marchers or anything "juicy" by mainstream media standards. On the contrary, they were groups you wouldn't automatically expect to be out there, but groups that make a lot more sense to be there. It was fascinating.

Then, with the help of my father, I got in to a prestigious event at Invesco Field, the CH2M Hill Global Sustainability Fair with Corbin. Unfortunately, we hit it at an off moment, missing Willie Nelson, as well as the booths on sustainability. Got some good dinner though. Best root beer float of my life, and entirely sustainable!

Worse off, though we had planned on going back later in the evening when it was to pick up again, we received a tip about potential action going on downtown, once again on 16th.

Around 8:00pm, Jeremy and I rushed down to 16th, meeting up with the rest of our crew at Two Fisted Mario's. Apparently, we had missed all the riots and police brutality for the day, as each of them was competing for Best Footage of the Day. 

Billy won, by far, with absolutely stunning video of six cops on one protester, beating and spraying and kicking this guy, stained with the newly financed Green Paint/Pepper-Spray Ball Gun. Horses were rising, smoke and teargas was in the air, and it was absolutely terrifying. Of course we missed it.

After a misfire, and cancelation of the vague "action" that was meant to go down, we ran into some of the drum marchers from yesterday, and the story found us. Dozens of police wrapped the block, and in the streets, causing a mass interest among delegates and citizens alike. Dozens of police for this one kid.

The marchers were racked with grief over their friend who had just been arrested. What was the reason for his arrest? According to numerous on-camera accounts, the group of them were sitting at the corner of 16th and Lawrence, just chatting. A passerby asked one of them for an RTD Bus Schedule, and he handed one to the passerby.

Within seconds, police came at them from all sides, allegedly using their bikes to hit the friends away, and arrested the schedule passer. The belief is that the arrested guy was "spreading literature" or passing a note on potential violence that was going to break out. Or something.

There are more details elaborated on in the footage, but these people I came to know yesterday were absolutely devastated and shocked. They were crying, rather than getting angry and violent, they were holding one another.

The police presence in this city right now is excessive. I will just say that right now. It is excessive and overbearing. Fifty million dollars was spent on securing this Convention, and it feels ridiculous now that it's come. Which isn't to say I think they are oppressive or evil or out for blood or anything. On the contrary, the police I've spoken with have been gracious and kind to me for the most part, and if not that, then merely very serious. 

This morning, trying to get my passes for the Sustainability event, became an absolute quest for access. For those who don't know Denver, my dorm's are across the street from the pathway to the entrance to Invesco Field. The main street, Walnut St. is the road leading to the Pepsi Center. Now, in returning back to my dorm, it took five arduous checkpoints with eight separate police officers, to cross Walnut St. to get back to Campus Village, most of whom did not believe I lived there, despite the evidence I provided them.

If that isn't excessive, I don't know what is.

entry three. the first day.

Day one: Sunday, August 24.

Our day started at 6am. Our protest group was nowhere to be found. 

Alex, one of my partners, gave me the word that "they weren't interested anymore", which had an ominous twinge to it. 

We were greeted by Conservative protesters, holding signs such as: "Al-Queda Fanclub on THAT corner; True patriots on THIS corner," blaring any and every pop/country song that featured the word, "America" from a sound system.

One protester chanted into my camera, "Kill, all, the Arabs!", entering a diatribe of hateful speech justifying genocide in this case. 

Of course, my mic wasn't working.

In fact, most of the first day's footage ended up, of course, without sound. The reason is still unknown to me. 

Eventually, it kicked back in when I needed it most.

I captured a conversation at the end of the "Funk the War" march, between a middle-aged female protester and a young, scrappy anarchist. The two engaged in an fascinating conversation involving their difference in tactics, and became quite heated. For a filmmaker's standpoint, I couldn't have scripted something more fluid and perfect.

I couldn't help but feel that I had captured the essence of America in that conversation.

NOTE: I'll be posting it in its entirety up here, as soon as I can track down a Firewire cable to upload it on my laptop.

Next was the second session of the "Funk the War" march. The sounds of marching drums and techno via wheeled sound system gave way to one of the most fun environments I've been in. What ensued was a mostly positive march, aimed at "dancing to end this crazy war" as the super cool ladies from Code Pink were saying.

There was a strong sense of community, of life, amid these protests. Amidst this highly isolated and digitized culture, it was fantastic being a part of something that involved kids, high-school and college-aged kids, getting out into the streets and being seen. So much of our political action these days revolves around blogs or online petitions, where young people can get the same cathartic response, without actually doing anything. (Please ignore that I am writing this on a blog!)

There was a vibrancy there, an unparalleled positivity, that I hope continues. The first march through the streets was so verbally aggressive, leading up to the standoff outside the "freedom cage" at the Pepsi Center. It was refreshing, after all of that, to see kids dancing, drumming, and just in all, doing something fun in the name of political action.

entry two. it's started.

Up until now, the differences were subtle. Previously decrepit storefronts on the 16th Street Mall had been renovated. Unmarked Secret Service vehicles made rounds. There were fewer homeless on the streets. Walking out of class today,  a triple-toned tour bus emblazoned "CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN" rolled in through the campus, as if born from some political fever dream. A makeshift stage had been set up in no time flat. The bus was almost parked when a stagehand crudely attached yet another "CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN" poster on a podium. The sight felt so jarringly out-of-place and sudden, I felt a odd sense of unease.

"What's going on here?" I innocently asked a fellow student, perkily smiling and walking on her toes.

"Howard Dean!" is all she said, and like a flash, the bus doors hissed open, and there he was, Howard Dean, chairman of the Democratic Party, casually stepping out to the meager sounds of a couple dozen students clapping, as if none of this was in the least bit strange.

I couldn't help but think to myself, as I stood there dumbfounded: "It's started."

After an embarrasing Freudian slip regarding Limbaugh and O'Reilly, (let's just say he mispronounced "folks") Dean shrugged and accepted his unintentionally obscene remark, and stormed through the rest of his speech. It was the typical talking points of the Democratic Party, one where there was a lot to agree with, and one that was disappointingly divisive.

The Democrats will do this, while the Republicans will continue doing that. Either or. 

Afterward, amidst a melee of national and local Press and eager college students wishing to shake his hand, I was able to shake Dean's hand, and say what I've longed to say to the entire Democratic Party the past three years.

"Please," I said, "follow through on what you're saying. For my sake."

His response was rehearsed and quick, but honest. I could tell he understood my graciousness. He admitted that they will make (and have made) some mistakes, but they are approaching it from the best possible angle for the American People. 

And that's all I wanted to hear.

entry one. introduction and backstory.

In the coming week, this blog will attempt to document the Democratic National Convention in Denver, Colorado, through the eyes of a college student transplant from Portland, Oregon, who has found himself an integral part to a university-wide documentary film project on the DNC.

I am Chris Osborn, for those of you who don't know. For my part of the patchwork film, I chose to be in the streets, documenting a protest group. All next week, I will be "embedded" with them, along with two fellow students, as we attempt to portray the event as objectively as possible. Taking cues from the classic Bob Dylan documentary, Don't Look Back, we intend to view the event through their eyes, taking a step back to become flies on the proverbial wall for what is bound to be one of the most legendary Party Conventions in history.

While our documentary is going to be detached from any spin, this will be my opportunity to document the events through my own eyes. I don't intend for it to be journalistic, but I also don't intend for it to be slanted. Primarily, this exists for my own retention of something bound to be life-changing, as well as a way to actively communicate my experiences to my friends, family and whoever else is interested.

I don't know what will happen. No one does at this point. But I can assure you, it will be up here.

love always, chris osborn.