HIPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN
PetroneIla Wyatt finds the Democrats sadder than the Republicans — and marginally .uglier Frank Sinatra sang. On the right was the Wrigley building, weaving Gothic patterns into the skyline; on the left the Navy Pier off Lake Michigan with its multicoloured Ferris wheel; then granite-faced City Hall, which for decades ran the local political machine; and memorials, many memorials, to Chicago's most famous citizen — Mr Alphonse Capone. Like Chicago and the mob, Chicago and the Democrats go back a long way. Some memories are better than others. There was the famous Democratic convention of 1932, the turning-point for the Party's presidential nominee Franklin Roosevelt, whose promise to repeal Prohibition helped to win over a largely 'wee Chicago vote. Then there was the infamous conven- tion of 1968, when 5,000 anti-Vietnam war demonstrators fought police on the streets. The election was won by Richard Nixon. Now, we were told, the Democrats were• hoping to come full circle, to 'erase the ter- rible scars of '68', as one local newspaper put it. Though the Chicago Democratic machine is long dead, the present mayor, Richard M. Daley, is a Clinton supporter whose people still control the powerful local board election commissioners. Daley's father was the famous mayor who helped to hand Illinois to John F. Kennedy in 1960. He was called Richard J. Daley (in Chicago it is obligatory, it seems, for every mayor to be called Daley). At their conventions the Democrats sing 'Happy Days Are Here Again', the Roo- sevelt campaign song. But for a day or so it looked as if hippy days were here again. Shortly before the convention opened there was a protest in Chicago's Grant Park. Walking across the grass, I was hit by a protester, naked but for a strategically draped American flag. The protester told me that his name was Free. He was white and only just over 21 — too young, then, to have rioted in '68. Free explained: 'It's the damned police.' (This had a familiar ring.) 'They won't let us go to the bathroom.' Actually, it was true. The dispute had grown over the lack of portable lavatories
assembled for the public in Grant Park. It soon became known as the 'porta-potty fiasco'. The original protesters were some- where else — on the convention floor pos- ing as respectable delegates. I encountered one of them, Vivian Stovall, now 48, sip- ping cappuccino in a bar near my hotel. Mr Stovall recalled his role in the anti-war riots. 'I was hit with a police stick and bled' like crazy. But now I drink Evian.' This was one less thing for President Clinton to worry about.
Indeed, on balance, Mr Clinton seems to have little to worry about. When I arrived in Chicago the polls had the President at 48 per cent while Bob Dole had fallen back to around 39 per cent. Mr Clinton was pulling out the stops — literally. He had decided to enter Chicago after a whis- tle-stop train tour, making campaign speeches along the route. Harry Truman earned the nickname of Give 'em Hell Harry because of a similar propensity for railway speaking. Mr Clinton aspired to be Give 'em Hell Bill. Or, as some wag put it, 'His upbringing was white and poor, so we'll call him a Give 'em Hell Billy.'
Mr Clinton's continuing lead is some- thing that the British rind hard to under- stand. The reason for this is mainly the 'character issue', or rather the question of whether Mr Clinton possesses one. Despite the allegations of financial corrup- tion and personal bad behaviour, the Pres- ident would seem to come out of it almost smelling of roses. I decided, accordingly, to make a brief tour of Chicago in order to find out why. The results were surprising. The Chicagoans appeared to think that the candidate was shifty, feckless and dishon- est. They were speaking, of course, of Bob Dole.
Chicago, like New York, is multi-ethnic. Dan, a barber, was white and by tradition a Republican. But he said he would be vot- ing for Mr Clinton. 'I can't stand Dole. He don't look honest.' Surely Dan meant the President? Nope, I meant Dole. He looks lcinda mean. A lot of people feel that way.' The bellman in my hotel expressed a simi- lar view: 'It's the better of two evils. Clin- ton ain't great but he seems more fun.' The general feeling was that Mr Clinton. had the advantage on charm. The Presi- dent had the enviable political ability to look boyish, trustworthy and sincere, and then tell the most whopping lie. 'Okay, he's a draft-dodger but at least he's upbeat about it,' said delegate Thomas Bell from Ohio. 'Dole is well, just doleful.' The female convention-goers responded partic- ularly well to Mr Clinton's facile Southern manners. 'Whenever he says anything I just have an orgasm,' confided Sheila Polk of Connecticut.
Still, it is always difficult for an incum- bent president to whip up excitement dur- ing his party's convention. The Republic- ans were judged to have done a slick job, with an emotional few days that included a touching speech by Nancy Reagan. But the Democrats were not to be outscored on the sobometer. The Party lined up speak- ers whom American commentators referred to derisively as 'quasi-politicians'. These included Mrs Alma Brown, the widow of Ron Brown, the commerce sec- retary killed in an air crash, Jim Brady, who was partially crippled during the assassination attempt on President Rea- gan, and the paralysed actor Christopher Reeve.
This strategy is known as 'playing down the political and playing up the personal'. Both parties have adopted it. But the Democrats are the real experts. Demo- crats are sadder than Republicans. The Democrats could have jerked tears from Caligula's eyes. This may be because the Party has included a larger number of the sanctimonious middle class and the more wretched sort of poor. Democrats are also fatter than Republicans and marginally uglier. This is especially true of the male delegates. Most of them were so wide that they had to go through the doors of the convention centre sideways.
H.L. Mencken, who despised all Demo- crats, wrote, The truth is the Democratic Party is no party at all, but simply an illog- ical and uncomfortable compound of fac- tions.' The Democrats certainly go big on the tired, the poor and the huddled mass- es. For their national convention in 1992 they brought on the angry feminists, the Aids victims and the economic doom- mongers. Now that they are in office, the economic doom-mongers did not seem such a good idea. So on came the weeping Hispanics, the auto-workers, the construc- tion unions and a group of black singers who sobbed out a number called 'Seasons Of Love'.
At regular intervals the chairman of the Democratic National Committee, Mr Don Fowler, informed us: 'This is the people's party.' Mr Fowler became the much-need- ed knockabout turn of the convention. His recurring line was, 'I couldn't be happier if I tried.' But Mr Fowler missed the point. This is a sentiment that should be expressed discriminately, at appropriate moments of joy. Mr Fowler expressed it all the time. He expressed it after some blacks had spoken of their feelings of alienation. He expressed it after we were shown a video featuring the tragic end of Ron Brown: Mr Fowler said : 'I couldn't be happier if I tried.'
The Democrats have called their 1996 convention 'American Celebration'. The proceedings, however, were less Doris Day than William Faulkner. Images of Mr Clin- ton talking to the poor at railway stations were beamed onto a huge screen in the convention centre. Hillary's arrival, mean- while, was a catalyst for screaming femi- nists. But after the questions about Whitewater and her commodity trading, Mrs Clinton was sticking to women and children. The First Lady 'played down the political and played up the personal'. Afterwards came the deluge. Fortunately for the Clintons, it wasn't a political one.
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