The days when "hope" wasn't just a political term

graphic by Josh Covarrubias


Keep your eyes peeled in Springfield

As soon as we sat down in the confined space known as the coach seat of an Amtrak train headed for Springfield, Ill., I knew that this would be a strange trip. This was coach—the mode of transportation for drunks, housewives and apparently, college journalists.

Our mission was simple: Go to the Capitol and cover Sen. Barack Obama’s (D-Ill.) presidential announcement. I have never covered anything this big as a reporter, so I didn’t know what to expect.

My anxieties of performing under pressure were heightened when a grandmother with an unruly child sat across from the photographer and me. The fact that I was self-medicating with Wild Turkey, while going past miles of rusty silos and dilapidated Winnebagos, didn’t help either.

“Could you babysit him?” the grandmother eventually asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, obviously feeling the ill-effects of the bourbon. By then the kid was sleeping. And thank God for that, because he didn’t have the luxury of hearing the sailor storm of curse words and obscenities that came afterward. The photographer and I were the last people who should have had the responsibility of babysitting a child. But eventually granny came back and our babysitting adventure was over.

We arrived in Springfield around five in the afternoon. We met a French photographer from McClatchy-Tribune news services, who invited us to go and get our credentials with him. But we were not on the list for press credential pick up.

However, after much struggle and polite shouting, everything was in order. We had the credentials and we had the hotel.

Then fear began to show its ugly hide. Would I cover the event righteously? What if my recorder runs out of batteries?

I guess I would have to improvise.

When the day of the event came, I did my best to fit in with the army of media professionals who descended on the town like a pack of rabid vultures. I wore a tie.

Springfield looks like a micro version of Washington D.C.—without the press corps, the president or, apparently, nightlife. It truly is the middle of nowhere. It’s the type of town that has six major streets, conveniently called 1st through 6th.

The crowds that came out to support Obama were a determined bunch. The streets were littered with used up hand-warmers. And despite the insatiable cold, children sat on their parents’ shoulders and waved Obama 08 signs as if it were the Fourth of July.

I stood there on the media riser, with my fingers frozen, clutching a Panasonic recorder, cursing. A historic event was happening while I debated the quality of my leather gloves.

There was chaos all around.

Anchors with microphones resembling lollipops fed their reports to headquarters miles away every 15 minutes.

Then the ink in my pen froze. I was panicking while fumbling for a pencil buried in my coat.

At some point after Obama left the stage I rushed to interview people in the crowd. I talked to a few pro-lifers who were protesting Obama but nothing they’ve said made sense. It had nothing to do with a presidential announcement.

So I kept moving.

There was a point when I stood in awe in front of massive crowds, people passing me left and right, and I couldn’t help thinking—get it together and talk to anyone available!

And as I sat in my hotel room later, writing my story, I thought about the meaning of this trip. Despite that chaos that came along with reporting on something of this magnitude, I was glad I had the chance to be a part of this.

This wasn’t about an African-American announcing his presidential candidacy. The fact that 17,000 people came out to see this man speak showed something that couldn’t be described in words. This was about the essential hunger for change in American politics. This was about finding a leader.

The next morning the Amtrak station in Springfield was filled with homeless guys. The fact that our train was delayed by two and a half hours was enough of a disappointment. I worried about being stabbed.

Then the French photographer showed up again. In the best French accent since Gerard Depardieu, he said he was “pissed.” He would not make his flight home. As we waited, we talked about the American Dream and how bizarre it was for a train to be late here. He couldn’t rent a car because they were closed on Sundays.

“I am f—ed, ” he said. Then he made a pledge to never take Amtrak again.