NEW YORK--Trying not to think of the Stay Puft Marshmal-low Man, I roam midtown Manhattan during the Repub-licans National Convention. I encounter police officers everywhere, protesters packed behind barricades, and the media running about like ants after you stomp on their hill. I have heard rumors of protesters dragging police off their horses, police beating protesters with batons, and some nude guy biking around with "Bush" painted on his chest and "Kerry" on his back.
At the convention, the police have Madison Square Garden understandably under tight security, making navigation similar to being unwillingly blindfolded and forced to hop through a minefield on a single leg.
Every day seems to start out the same. After climbing out of the southbound C-train from Central Park West, I head up to the first security gate of the MSG. Pushing through cable news reporters, tripping over television equipment, and trying to avoid the yellow-shirted "Fulan Dafa" Chinese ladies, who are trying to get everybody to meditate, I approach a group of about 10 cops and secret service guys. With my press credentials swinging around my neck, I get the obligatory, "Ya, sir, this pass ain't gonna work here. Ya gotta go to ... uh ... (fill in some random street corner in Manhattan)."
So, I wait till that particular cop is yelling at some other journalist who has yet to figure out the system. Then I single out the one cop who appears to read better than the others, supply the RNC pass-of-the-day, my press badge, and proceed down to the next security area.
The second post is where they have the x-ray screening and metal detectors. Where the ensuing inquisitional search starts with my backpack. "Hey. Ya laptop? Ya gotta turn't on. Those ya cameras? Gotta turn'um on." So, I slowly reach over for the power buttons of everything. It takes a few seconds, so they make me wait off to the side as the line gets increasingly longer.
Inside the MSG is a labyrinth of stairwells leading to hell, hallways that never end, journalists asking for directions, confused delegates, and cops asking for credentials.
Most everything is partitioned off for specific media organizations, the delegations, the various RNC committees, plus the infamous "floor" where the delegates watch the speakers.
The first day inside the MSG, I tried to help out when asked for directions by pulling out my official RNC issued map, but not surprisingly I found it more useful crumpled up in the trashcan of the men's room. So now, whenever asked for directions I just randomly point and authoritatively reply, "Oh, it's just down the hall and up the stairs. You'll see it."
Enough of my venting; I really do feel that being here has taught me how much our votes are really worth. Yesterday morning, I was photographing Arizona Sen. John McCain speaking to the New Hampshire delegation. He spoke about several subjects including the war in Iraq, border policy reform, and how it's possible that Michael Moore can make $120 million on a film and still not afford a shave and a haircut.
And in the afternoon, I met some protesters from Tucson. One of their buddies, Josh Banno, was thrown in jail for allegedly being a member of a group that burnt a float during a march in front of the MSG. For me, seeing this dichotomy of the right and the left existing at the same time in the same place is what makes the basic principles of democracy amazing. Whichever way you bend, if at all, this is the time to vote. Your voice needs to be heard and your opinion does matter. That is why politicians speak and protesters march.
David Lukens is a photography senior. Reach him at david.lukens@asu.edu.
