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something of a mystery to me. I had met John Kerry for the first time after
the Illinois primary, when I spoke at his fund-raiser and accompanied him to a
campaign event highlighting the importance of job-training programs. A few
weeks later, we got word that the Kerry people wanted me to speak at the
convention, although it was not yet clear in what capacity. One afternoon, as
I drove back from Springfield to Chicago for an evening campaign event, Kerry
campaign manager Mary Beth Cahill called to deliver the news. After I hung up,
I turned to my driver, Mike Signator.
ôI guess this is pretty big,ö I said.
Mike nodded. ôYou could say that.ö
I had only been to one previous Democratic convention, the 2000 Convention
in Los Angeles. I hadnÆt planned to attend that convention; I was just coming
off my defeat in the Democratic primary for the Illinois First Congressional
District seat, and was determined to spend most of the summer catching up on
work at the law practice that IÆd left unattended during the campaign (a
neglect that had left me more or less broke), as well as make up for lost time
with a wife and daughter who had seen far too little of me during the previous
six months.
At the last minute, though, several friends and supporters who were planning
to go insisted that I join them. You need to make national contacts, they told
me, for when you run again-and anyway, it will be fun. Although they didnÆt
say this at the time, I suspect they saw a trip to the convention as a bit of
useful therapy for me, on the theory that the best thing to do after getting
thrown off a horse is to get back on right away.
Eventually I relented and booked a flight to L.A. When I landed, I took the
shuttle to Hertz Rent A Car, handed the woman behind the counter my American
Express card, and began looking at the map for directions to a cheap hotel
that IÆd found near Venice Beach. After a few minutes the Hertz woman came
back with a look of embarrassment on her face.
ôIÆm sorry, Mr. Obama, but your cardÆs been rejected.ö
ôThat canÆt be right. Can you try again?ö
ôI tried twice, sir. Maybe you should call American Express.ö
After half an hour on the phone, a kindhearted supervisor at American
Express authorized the car rental. But the episode served as an omen of things
to come. Not being a delegate, I couldnÆt secure a floor pass; according to
the Illinois Party chairman, he was already inundated with requests, and the
best he could do was give me a pass that allowed entry only onto the
convention site. I ended up watching most of the speeches on various
television screens scattered around the Staples Center, occasionally following
friends or acquaintances into skyboxes where it was clear I didnÆt belong. By
Tuesday night, I realized that my presence was serving neither me nor the
Democratic Party any apparent purpose, and by Wednesday morning I was on the
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first flight back to Chicago.
Given the distance between my previous role as a convention gate-crasher and
my newfound role as convention keynoter, I had some cause to worry that my
appearance in Boston might not go very well. But perhaps because by that time
I had become accustomed to outlandish things happening in my campaign, I
didnÆt feel particularly nervous. A few days after the call from Ms. Cahill, I
was back in my hotel room in Springfield, making notes for a rough draft of
the speech while watching a basketball game. I thought about the themes that
IÆd sounded during the campaign-the willingness of people to work hard if
given the chance, the need for government to help provide a foundation for
opportunity, the belief that Americans felt a sense of mutual obligation
toward one another. I made a list of the issues I might touch on-health care,
education, the war in Iraq.
But most of all, I thought about the voices of all the people IÆd met on the
campaign trail. I remembered Tim Wheeler and his wife in Galesburg, trying to
figure out how to get their teenage son the liver transplant he needed. I
remembered a young man in East Moline named Seamus Ahern who was on his way to
Iraq-the desire he had to serve his country, the look of pride and
apprehension on the face of his father. I remembered a young black woman IÆd
met in East St. Louis whose name I never would catch, but who told me of her
efforts to attend college even though no one in her family had ever graduated
from high school.
It wasnÆt just the struggles of these men and women that had moved me.
Rather, it was their determination, their self-reliance, a relentless optimism
in the face of hardship. It brought to mind a phrase that my pastor, Rev.
Jeremiah A. Wright Jr., had once used in a sermon.
The audacity of hope.
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