A sunny day in Seattle always makes for an almost awkward level of camaraderie- the mass effect of a rain-drenched hibernating people collectively emerging with a unified sense of happiness and hope. And on August 8th, 2015 around the University of Washington campus, the positive energy was magnified with the presence of Bernie Sanders.

(Joshua Trujillo, seattlepi.com)

On that Sunday, Sanders finished his speech to deafening applause and made his way to the rope line, where, at the end of the queue stage left, I waited. I thought of what I was to say as if it had the power to change the course of history. Hours of standing in a line with fellow over-caffeinated, sun-drunk Seattleites had got me a front row seat. An opportunity to say something to someone who may become the most powerful person in the country.

I was ready to make my impression, I wanted to tell him that his message of hope for the bottom was that magical and energizing. Ready for the moment, the Senator finally made it over to me. My sweaty hands met his sweat hands as our fingers interlocked. The crowd was roaring still in appreciation of hearing his stump speech first hand. We stood there a moment, as our clinched and shaking hands jostled my carefully crafted, nuanced comment from my brain. My eyes met the eyes of a man with profound intensity. Veins bulging, hair blown, eyes wild, Bernie said with a force loud enough to carry over the cheer, “make some sense to you?!”.

Caught up in the moment, all I could do was let the energy carry over me. “Yes!” I managed, with an stutter of a person caught off-guard.

And, to me, that is Sanders . The passion and energy of a movement millions strong, embodied in his classically angry nutty-professor image. A true and pure messenger for the cause- I have much respect. But I could not help but feel disappointed. I had responded to his question in agreement not because I agreed wholeheartedly, but because it felt like the expectation. As I walked out in a daze, thoughts of group-think and ideological signaling filled my uneasy mind.

The only time I had met a true front-runner was in Spring of 2014. Then Secretary Clinton came to a book signing and between her and Sanders, I was convinced I had met the next President.

It felt like classic Clinton- an event fit for one of the greatest political juggernauts in American history. There was a line, but we had gotten our wristbands the morning of with not too much of a wait. The wristband entitled us to a signed copy of Hard Choices (the defensive title an indicator for the campaign to come), and a chance to shake hands with the author. I had shared on social media that I was to meet the Secretary and my incomparable high school English teacher had responded lamenting that she would not be able to make the event, but that she had been inspired by Hilary for over 45 years, since her commencement speech at Wellesley in ’69. I decided the best use of my 10 seconds would be to share this with the Secretary. I found it awesome and inspiring . That a teacher that had left a significant impact on me, had felt so strongly supportive and connected for so long.

When the time came, I gave my bit. Secretary Clinton had a relaxed smile as she looked at me and nodded. She was warm, but felt distant with glazed eyes as she thanked me and told me to thank my former teacher as well for the support. At the same time, I felt her attention shift to the next person in line. For her, I guess that magic of being the inspiration didn’t the same pause as it once had. The Secretary is one of the most impressive and accomplished humans politics aside, and, after what I think is safe to estimate as north of a million hands shaken and countless stories of inspiration shared, the whole thing had become rather mechanized. I felt like I had just shaken the hand of the embodiment of one of this nation’s most formidable political machines.

And then, I met Mayor Pete.

I had traveled 2,000 miles to be there for his announcement. I had listened to hours of interviews and his book Shortest Way Home. And what a shitty day it was… weather-wise. I arrived at 7am to find myself the 10th from the first in line and with hours of wind and rain to look forward to before the doors opened. I wanted to make myself helpful and ended up volunteering to staff the front-gate, helping bemused church-goers shuffle around the barricade blocking access to the church across a parking lot adjacent to the old Studebaker factory building. My efforts as a volunteer did not go unrewarded and I ended up with VIP access for me and an awesome girl that had joined me at our station. We got right to the front. Soaked from being outside all-day, we stood out next the real very important people, immediately surrounding us were staffers and kind, senior citizens (One woman insisted that her husband give me his vest in an attempt to ease my shivers.

To all that would listen, I explained that I had acquired a antique (broken) South Bend branded pocket watch and my intention to set the time to the exact time of Pete’s announcement in an effort to capture the emotion. of the moment. And at 3:20 PM, he said the nine words that only he, and half the democratic party in 2020, would proclaim, “I am runn…”, you know the rest. And so I set the watch.

After the speech came the moment once again. I was nervous. Swept off my feet with the candidate so far, was I going to come away with the same disappointment of 2016? Would that be indicative of the fate of the campaign? My friend asked me if I was going to move up to reach out a hand. I shrugged while at the time inching my way forward. I wasn’t in the front row and unlike before I had not prepared my remark. Without expectation and with some reluctance I stuck out my hand right just as Pete Buttigieg turned his shoulders to square with mine. His eyes met mine and what saw was something I have rarely experienced.

Bring the pancakes because here comes the sap. It was listening personified. Maybe I looked like I had something to say, maybe it was chance, maybe my rain-soaked long-hair, and clothes topped with the borrowed jacket two sizes too big was simply alarming, but in that moment Mayor Pete looked like that kid in the front of the class with the pencil held at attention as the teacher enters the room. Eyebrows slightly raised, ears in anticipatory strain to compensate for the noise. Here was my moment. And all I could rally was “thank you”.

Lame. But fitting? Maybe. It was thank you for the hope central to the campaign. A thank you for the passionate, enthusiastic speech he had just given to announce his candidacy. And above all, a thank you for that moment. That moment that sealed the deal because to me, it meant more than any speech, or promise, it meant that I had met the real deal. Thank you for being a listener when we need it most.

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