By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
By Roy Edroso
Before last week's big Barack Obama rally brought life and light back to the place, the last political event of any size at the Marriott hotel in downtown Brooklyn was a dismal affair, a fundraiser for the Kings County Democratic organization. It was overseen by Clarence Norman, then the party's chairman and an assemblyman from Bedford-Stuyvesant. That night in 2003, he wore a dark double-breasted suit, a bright red pocket hankie, and a dour look.
It grew more dour when he was asked about the scheming judges his party had put on the bench. One had just pled guilty, another had been booted from office. Several others were under investigation. This gave Brooklyn's judiciary a higher crime rate than Norman's district. Norman explained that the judges hadn't yet committed their crimes when the party supported them. Then he walked into the ballroom filled with favor-seekers who had paid $500 each to gain his attention.
That gloomy evening was one more marker along the road toward the end of hope for politics. It was also the beginning of the end for Norman, who was soon convicted of corruption. He now wears number 07A3169 and resides in the Oneida Correctional Facility upstate.
Then last Wednesday, there was a purge of those old ghosts. Streaming in the doors of the same ballroom where Norman and his clique had gathered came a surge of excited people. They poured into the room, blacks and whites, a few Hispanics. Most of them were young, and all were there to get a look at this presidential candidate who has been in the U.S. Senate for only three years and, at 46, is the youngest one running. The rap against him is that he is too young, too dark, and too inexperienced to win. But he is still three years older than John F. Kennedy was upon his election in 1960. And like they did for Kennedy and his brother Robert, the crowds gather around Obama, who generates the kind of electricity political consultants pray for.
Those attending the Brooklyn event paid $25 a head; the student rate was $15. This kind of retail politics is not supposed to be terribly effective for raising the millions needed to run a big national campaign. Last quarter, however, Obama raised $31 million for the primary, $10 million more than Hillary Clinton, the New York senator who leads almost every poll. Obama's average donor gave $202. The maximum allowed is $2,300. Although it is supposed to be Clinton country, Brooklyn represents potentially ripe pickings for the candidate. With 2.5 million people, a third of them black, the borough would be the nation's fourth-largest city if it stood on its own.
Outside the hotel, the crowd waited for an hour in an unusually chilly August drizzle. They lined up along Adams Street, three and four abreast, past the shuttered Family Court building, almost to the Brooklyn Bridge. Eric Chichester, from Bay Ridge, brought his wife, Pshala, his sister Mandy, and his nephew Kaylub, who is six. Chichester, 31, an African-American, said he wanted his nephew to "see a role model for our community." His wife interrupted him: "He's here because he loves this man. He's on the Internet every minute he's home, reading about him." Chichester grinned. "He has this passion," he said. "Hillary is good, but she's scripted." The wife and sister nodded.
The line moved and people filed inside and up the escalator. The ballroom, capacity 1,200, filled up, and then an overflow room with 400 more. This left 300 outside in the rain. "I'm sorry," the Obama coordinators apologized over and over.
Upstairs in the hotel, people swarmed a table where T-shirts were sold and volunteers recruited. Someone reached into a cardboard box and held up the biggest seller, a black shirt with white writing that read "Got Hope?" with "Obama for America" beneath.
"Hope" is a word that is used a lot by Obama. His latest book is titled The Audacity of Hope, a phrase he used in his riveting speech at the 2004 Democratic National Convention. Many in the crowd came clutching copies, wishing for a chance at an autograph. When Obama emerged onstage at 6:40 p.m., the crowd whooped, stomped, and cheered. It was standing room only. To get a better view, middle-aged women climbed onto chairs lined against the walls and stood on them in bare feet, clapping their hands above their heads.
Obama is whippet-thin, with big ears that give him a boyish look and a wide, toothy grin that he constantly flashes and which folds his cheeks into deep wrinkles. Earlier in the day, at a smaller rally at a West Side union hall, he had plunged into the crowd like a natural, double-clutching many of the outstretched hands. If this is a tactic, it works, just as it worked for another natural-born politician, Bill Clinton. On the stage in Brooklyn, he showed a mix of the ex-president's easygoing poise and Jesse Jackson's fervor. He hugged the young son of a doorman who had sent him a $25 donation last spring, a gift that had "moved and touched" him, he said, because he knew the donor "was having a hard time."