The Touch

The following is an essay I wrote with the hopes of getting it on the radio...possibly as commentary on NPR's Morning edition. I submitted a shorter version to NPR and haven't heard anything back... so here it is in its entirety:

I am new to the role of political supporter. As a newspaper journalist, I met or was in the same room as many prominent politicians. I covered events with Bill and Hillary Clinton, Laura Bush and others and while I may have been more excited about reporting on certain events, I never let it show. Now that I no longer need to remain impartial and am free to support candidates of my choice, I have a little trouble getting into it. At rallies I can’t bring myself to cheer or even hold a sign up for very long. I remain uneasy about making political donations and posting political bumper stickers on my car. And so, when I waited outside a Catholic church in Albuquerque, New Mexico’s Old Town this Sunday and to catch a glimpse of Senator John Kerry, I really didn’t know what I was in for.

Supporters were cordoned off behind ropes across the street from the church, and as I stood in the crowd, I longed for a press pass and notebook so I could get a better seat and not have to be a part of this giddy group. Despite the oppressive heat, the Kerry supporters were oozing enthusiasm. Their dedication impressed me and I thought about how surreal it would be to emerge from mass to see a few hundred people who all wanted something from you – a smile, an autograph, a handshake.

As I stood there watching various gray-haired congregants exit the church, I wondered whether I might miss Senator Kerry. Maybe I wouldn’t recognize him. Or maybe he’d walk out and disappear before I could catch sight of him. But there was no missing the Senator. He emerged and the crowd started cheering, and even in person, he looked larger than life. The New Mexico sunshine was helping – casting perfect light down onto the candidate. It was the kind of lighting that makes everyone look great and he was basking in it as he walked across the street toward the crowd.

Senator Kerry works the crowd with both hands, his eyes, and his mouth. While he’s shaking with his right hand, he’s looking at someone else and talking to yet another person -- maximizing his impact on the crowd with the tools he has. Occasionally, his left hand reaches out as well, one more point of contact, one more way to please his public and possibly get some votes.

By the time he works his way down to our end of the street he’s sweating in the heat. His wife Teresa has stopped right in front of me and is talking with a family like she knows them. I overhear something about them having met in Arizona, business cards are exchanged and I unashamedly stare at the woman who could be the first lady. She is more beautiful in person than on television or in the various newspaper photographs I’ve seen.

Kerry is moving more slowly. As he gets closer, the crowd cheers louder. “Help is on the way! Help is on he way!” drowning out the handful of Bush supporters that have shown up and mixed in. I think about how at a Bush event in New Mexico, everyone attending has to sign a form saying they will vote for the president…so they probably don’t get many hecklers. And even though I don’t like what they’re saying, I’m glad the Bush supporters are here.

And then, Kerry is upon us. Despite protests from my intellect, my body kicks into adrenaline mode and I start panicking about what I’ll say if I get to shake his hand. I wipe my palm on my jeans to make sure it’s dry. And laugh at myself. I had been wondering why all these people wanted so badly to touch this man. But now as he is a few paces away, it becomes clear to me. Or at least as clear as it can be. I want to touch him for so many reasons: I want to wish him luck; I want to be able to tell my grandchildren someday that I shook hands with the president on a campaign stop in Albuquerque; and then on some other much more basic level, I want a piece of him, a moment of his attention. I want to have a few seconds in time that I share with this man who is carrying the hopes and dreams of so many – including myself – on his shoulders.

I take a deep breath, stick out my hand and make contact. He grasps my hand in less of a handshake and more of a thumb war grip, or the first in a series of short grips and touches making up a secret handshake.

“I really hope you win,” I say loudly, but probably not quite loud enough. I’m looking at him, but even though I’ve got his hand, his eyes have already moved on down the line. “Thank you!” he says, but he probably wasn’t talking to me, so I stop looking at his face, shift my eyes to his hand locked with mine and let go.