For six months, the SEIU's local 32BJ union—an organization of local churches that calls itself Brooklyn Congregations Together—and members of the St. Paul Community Baptist Church had planned a boisterous January 14 event.
The Manhattan Center rally was meant to draw attention to the union's campaign for better wages and health benefits for security guards, and also to pay tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s work during the famed Memphis sanitation workers' strike of 1968.
A location was secured, the speeches were written, the Brooklyn Congregations Together Joined Choir was practiced and ready. Then, three days before the big event, Senator Hillary Clinton's camp asked if she could take part. Clinton ended up speaking for 20 minutes to a surprised audience that wondered where she'd come from. ("She dropped out of the sky!" one attendee quipped.)
A detail of Secret Service agents quietly filtering into the meeting was, for most, the first indication that something unusual was happening. Meanwhile, onstage, Reverend Johnny Ray Youngblood warmed up the audience and was greeted by three rounds of thunderous applause and whoops of encouragement.
"I say to all of you: Namaste," the pastor began, using the Hindi greeting that commences each of his church services. He compared the sanitation workers' strike of 1968 with the current plight of the security guards, noting that the workers back then were earning the equivalent of the $10 to $12 per hour that New York City security guards earn now. "It was sanitation workers yesterday, it's security guards today—it may be your turn tomorrow!" he thundered, amid affirmations from the audience.
Meanwhile, Senator Clinton listened from a small cocoon of support onstage—sitting near her were Representatives Gregory Meeks and Anthony Weiner, Local 32BJ union head Mike Fishman, and Reverend Calvin Butts, who have all endorsed her. But as Reverend Youngblood made way for her at the front of the stage, she elicited only subdued applause accompanied by a sprinkling of boos.
Clinton said all the right things: Dr. King was a great man; the union's struggle is a righteous one; this is an important time for the nation. The substance of her speech had already been heard before—from the religious leaders who had spoken earlier with significantly more humor, color, and motivational skill. As Clinton waxed poetic about how she'd been "transfixed and transformed" at age 14 after hearing Dr. King speak in Chicago, a few elderly members of the choir behind the senator quietly slipped off the stage so they could sit down. Meanwhile, a large group from the middle of the crowd told a woman policing the exits that they had to catch a bus, and quickly bolted. Others simply sneaked away without explanation as Clinton reminded the audience that her candidacy was as historic as Obama's. "How many of us thought we would ever see the day when a woman and an African-American would be running for president?" she asked, to polite applause. "Right is of no sex and truth is of no color," she added, quoting abolitionist Frederick Douglass.
News reports the next day depicted an auditorium filled with black people seemingly there to support the senator. But the reality was different. Two artists who performed, slam poet Jennifer Falu and MC Keith Richards, had no idea that Clinton would be showing up, and described her speech as "too long" and disingenuous. Reverend Clinton Miller, who also spoke at the event, publicly endorsed Barack Obama just four days later. But what most perturbed a number of attendees were the subsequent media reports, which characterized the day as nothing more than a Clinton campaign stop, with almost no mention of the rally's actual agenda. "We were hijacked," said one attendee.
For Clinton, however, the meeting was an opportune one. She was attempting to limit the damage from charges of racial insensitivity, and the publicity from the rally certainly helped that cause. But to many of those present, she accomplished just the opposite—alienating many of the very African-Americans she needs to sway in a historic contest between a leading woman candidate and her equally formidable black male opponent.
"She was looking for voters; she doesn't give a shit about those security guards," said Fredrecia Hartley, a 49-year-old Bed-Stuy resident who attended the meeting. "I was offended." Even those who proclaim their affection for Senator Clinton—like Bruce Booker, a retired NYPD sergeant—said her presence may have done more harm than good. "She overshadowed the event," Booker said. "That may not have been on purpose, but she's larger than life right now, and [from the media reports,] no one heard about the living wage for security guards or their trials and tribulations." Voice interviews with 15 other attendees, most of whom said they support Obama, revealed a similar dissatisfaction.
It turns out that public bathrooms are the ideal location to take the political pulse of the people. In the ladies' room at the Manhattan Center, as women took turns applying lipstick and checking their cell-phone messages, it quickly became clear that Clinton's speech had done little to change the minds of undecided voters. "I'm torn," said Jestine Curmon, a city employee. "I really like Hillary, but my heart feels like I have an obligation to vote for Obama. . . . I would love to see a woman, whether white or black, as the president, but that's a minute part of it." Patricia Hoggard-Harrison, a St. Paul member, said Clinton "spoke the truth," but added that she was still undecided. It wasn't until later—after those media reports that largely ignored the security guards' rallying cry and touted Hillary's appearance as "damage control"—that the grumbling really started.
