At times, it can feel like Kamala Harris is running to succeed Trump, not Biden. Her heroes (and the dozens of videos played to the public as reminders of her credentials) walk a fine line between owning what’s been accomplished under Biden and offering a new path forward. It’s a balancing act: pretending that the past four years haven’t happened, but a lot has. When Harris’s husband, Doug Emhoff, takes the stage, it’s a relief. There’s, finally, a sense that a real person is speaking to us. That’s why I don’t take notes while he speaks. I can finally relax.
I, too, didn’t notice anything during Michelle Obama’s speech. All these years, I’d read about her intelligence, her presence, her courage. I knew what she was saying was true, but I assumed it was exaggerated. It turns out that her control over our chamber cannot be overstated. When her husband begins his speech by saying, “I’m the only person stupid enough to speak since Michelle Obama,” you get the sense that he’s not just flirting with her.
AOn the third day, I ignore McCormick. I try to get to a panel discussion hosted by Julia Louis-Dreyfus instead. She’s speaking to eight Democratic female governors. It’s off-limits: All I can do is stream it on my computer. The reason I want to see it isn’t just because I love Veep (the show Louis-Dreyfus starred in, and whose ratings, I just learned, jumped 350% after Biden stepped down) but because the blurring of lines between politics and entertainment in America fascinates and worries me at the same time—just as it worries Veep creator Armando Iannucci, who recently wrote in an op-ed for the New York Times that journalists’ interest in his take on the current situation has irked him. “Politics has become so much like entertainment that the first thing we do to understand the moment is to test it against a sitcom,” he said. “The things happening there now are crazier than Veep and more deadly.” But in one of Louis-Dreyfus’s first questions to the panel (“Is there something you wish you knew on day one that you know now?”), Massachusetts Gov. Maura Healey responded in a direct reference to the vice president: “It turns out you really need Gary.”
The third night seems to be the moment when I overdo the boring rhetoric. One of my colleagues compares it to force-feeding: we are ducks waiting in line to be turned into foie gras.
The conversation is lighthearted and serious. We learn that Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer, in order to get through tough times (for example, the 2020 kidnapping plot), keeps a gratitude journal, in which she writes down three things she’s grateful for each night: “Some days, I’m just grateful for my dog, my bed, and my tequila.” We’re reminded of the critical importance of primaries and early voting. But of course, the panel has to end on a lighthearted note, with Louis-Dreyfus asking her guests: “I’ve played the president of the United States on TV. Do you think that makes me ready to hold office?” The predictable response is quick: “You’re more qualified than Donald Trump.”
At the United Center, a new wave of politicians takes center stage, and new memories are being stirred: I’m not in kindergarten but in high school this time, in French class, learning all about rhetorical devices. In an attempt to minimize boredom, I’ve decided to treat the evening like a game of rhetorical device bingo. There are metaphors and hyperbole at every turn. The popularity of repetition at the beginning of sentences (my least favorite trick) is annoying, but pretense (mentioning something while pretending to omit it: “And don’t even get me started on…”) is used less than I expected. The sheer number of phrases like “let me get it all out” and “we’re just getting started” makes me physically nauseous (and no, I’m not turning this into a drinking game; this is a dry run). If we’re always just getting started, when will this end?
