Quin Hillyer
The morning of the first day of a national political convention has a unique feel. Delegates haven’t yet gotten down to business yet, but many of them already have started the nightly rounds of extravagant parties. Few of them make it to the convention hall early, but by mid-morning the place is buzzing anyway.
Media hordes are swarming around the hall trying to figure out logistics, and party officials are constantly doing microphone checks, walk-throughs with people scheduled to speak from the podium, and handling a myriad of other details. And ushers ask passers-by to show their credentials — not to see if the passers-by are in the right area of the hall, but because the ushers themselves are still trying to familiarize themselves with what the correct credentials look like.
Then a children’s choir all dressed in maroon shirts practices its entrance route to the front of the stage. They stand there for ten full minutes as all around them them is the sound of the bustling functionaries. Then, suddenly, the children’s voices, probably 100 strong, burst out in a full practice rendition of the Star Spangled Banner — grace notes amidst the din.
