Photograph by Chris Nelson / Full gallery here

They say first impressions are everything, but my first impression of Barack Obama’s speech last night wasn’t much. I was slightly dismayed at how let down I was by “the once-in-a-generation experience.” Covering the convention should have given me the ultimate insight into Obamamania. For most of the time, I was convinced that, aside from a few moments (the Roll Call vote, Bill’s speech, and hearing Obama utter the words “I accept your nomination for president”), it would all be a waste.

But at an afterparty last night, something pulled my head out of the journalistic, observational fog. I had spent the week trapped in a political convention bubble, enveloped by a non-stop barrage of punditry. At the “Yes We Can” Celebration party thrown by Perennial, the same management company behind the epic Wyclef Jean event earlier in the week, I watched a set by the Black Eyed Peas, who managed to penetrate my persistent cynicism with their raw energy and gusto.

Toward the end of the evening, I had gotten separated from the rest of the group, and decided to walk outside to see if there were any interesting conversations to be had. I struck up one with two African-American men, who didn’t know each other, but both of whom, by coincidence, were from Los Angeles. As we chatted, a Kenyan man wearing a dapper suit approached looking for a light and joined in on our chat. He had flown all the way from Kenya just to see Obama’s acceptance speech. His tribe in Kenya neighbors that of Obama’s father.

“I am here, because this is our presidency,” he said. Looking all of us in the eye, he clarified that he meant not just black people, and not just Kenya, but the world. He went on an impassioned diatribe, imbued with gravitas by his continental African accent. He finished with a gracious, low-sweeping bow, shaking each of our hands, indebted to us simply by virtue of our nationality.

It hit me, then, as I watched the interplay between our Kenyan friend and the two Angelenos. Forget that Obama delivered a carefully crafted speech with emotional peaks and valleys that addressed all of the major Republican criticisms facing him heading into the general election. Forget that he attempted to lace his graceful oratory with more specific policy points—with varying degrees of success. Forget the rabidly cultish delegate fan-base, who you would inevitably hear reciting the talking points that were drilled into skulls incessantly throughout the convention weekend, endlessly chattering, “We can’t afford four more years of the same failed Bush policy.”

And forget the claims that “hope” and “change” are hollow slogans concocted by the Obama campaign. Forget the claims that these words serve as intentionally ambiguous blank slates, allowing for Americans to project all of their own dreams of this country on to one man. And forget that that man cannot possibly be Santa Claus, dropping solutions down the chimneys of a disenfranchised, disaffected America on November 5th.

Standing there, as a white man among two African-Americans and one African, I finally understood how seeing someone with their skin color on the Presidential political stage means—how it outstrips all the historical baggage. I understood the hope that their world would forever be changed by seeing Barack Obama ascend to the Presidency of the United States. I have heard all of these arguments many times before. But to witness it firsthand, in the faces of three complete strangers brought together by happenstance on the final night of the convention week, brought a moment of clarity I will never forget.

The event instantly washed away the weeks and months of punditry poison that shackled my brain with unreasonable expectations and meaningless goals of political expediency for Obama’s speech. The poison had almost made it impossible to process Obama’s words, and to fully grasp the symbolic nature of his candidacy.

I had also my over-hyped expectations to blame: I found out months ago that I would be coming to the DNC. I had been thinking about witnessing this historical moment for so long, crafting the experience in my head. It’s like when you are so excited for a movie that you construct the most satisfactory version possible in your head that when it doesn’t play out, even a great movie can fall flat.

Barack Obama is just a man. It’s easy to forget this watching him on television or 80-foot tall screens. But when you see him in person, even from 40 feet away, you are reminded that he is not a deity. When someone is portrayed as so transcendent, as to be larger than life, he’s at an immediate disadvantage in person just by being human.

After I got home at about 2:30 a.m last night, I immediately watched the speech again, start to finish. The difference between frantically photographing the speech from the floor, trying to gauge 12 different aspects at once, while trying to pay attention to the speech itself, and watching the entire thing on a couch, as if you are three feet from the man, was astounding.

One would think it would be the opposite: the event would be more visceral on the floor, being in the middle of everything, as one of the 80,000 eyes (or 0.2% of the 38 million in total) watching it all unfold. But journalistic detachment became my metaphor for the entire week—the human element became lost.

It was a simple exchange between three people that convinced me, without question, that one singular experience in a parking lot at 1 a.m. conveys a greater understanding of what is going on in our country, than any blow-by-blow analysis of the speech could offer.

As a white person, I feel that no candidate could come through on every campaign promise, not even Obama, who eloquently promises lofty social change. This list of promises for change in legislation and societal norms isn’t realistically achievable in four years: Affordable health care and college education for everyone, tax cuts for 95% of the population, evaporated dependence on foreign oil within 10 years, and more involved—yet less bloated—government.

Usually it is enough for me if the ideals behind those promises are in line with my own. For other Obama supporters (many of them white), I learned this weekend that this was their core reason for supporting him as well.

For everyone else not in White America, however, change and hope take on meanings beyond moving past George W. Bush, and all that his name symbolizes policy-wise. It is not simply about black, white, and brown unity, either.

After I related my experience at the club to her, fellow P+P’er Sharifa Johka pointed out to me that any person of any color around the world sees Obama’s background, his looks, and his name, and in his ascent, feels that anything is now possible within their own lives.

One of my new friends from outside the party explained to me how Africans from Africa often look down on African-Americans as having eschewed their true heritage in favor of assimilation. He told me that beyond bridging the white and black cultural divide, to have a Kenyan express such solidarity was a transcontinental bridge that moved him deeply.

I was, in turn, compelled to tell him that I had just underwent one of the most profound experiences of my life, seeing the raw significance of Obama’s candidacy in their eyes, and being included in the circle. I told him that I understood one small piece of his culture  His struggle. I saw the difference between what President Obama would mean to me, and what it would mean to him.

I got it.

He looked at me without blinking. “Now, you’re on the inside,” he said.

The entire week, I thought I was finally covering politics from within. Little did I know I wouldn’t actually be there until the final hour of the final night.

Tags: acceptance speech, chris nelson, democratic national convention, denver, invesco field, obama speech