Inside the 'Bernie or Bust' Movement's Last Gasp
Marchers grasped in the dark after their candidate's show of party unity Tuesday
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| Some Bernie Sanders delegates walked out of the Democratic National Convention Tuesday. Nicholas Kamm/Getty |
It's a balmy 90 degrees in Philadelphia's Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park. The late afternoon sun is washing over some 1,500 Bernie Sanders supporters sitting in an open grassy field, rapt by the events unfolding on three massive LED screens that have been erected for the occasion. The crowd is angry, bereft and glued to the telecast as the presidential nomination roll call takes place. Their horror couldn't be more at odds with the festival setting; it's like watching a plane crash live on TV, at Bonnaroo.
Apart from a lone man in a "Hillary for Prison" t-shirt raving about how Clinton stole the election, a tense quiet hangs over the crowd as they watch each state announce their delegate tallies. (The man, an Alex Jones fan, appears determined to mobilize Sanders supporters for Trump by stoking their sense of injustice; he succeeds at summoning a "Hillary for prison!" chant from the crowd, but overplays his hand when he tries for an "All lives matter!" one.)
They whoop and holler when the states that broke for Bernie announce their votes, and boo and flip off the states where Clinton won a majority. When the emcee gets to Vermont, and the state elects to pass, a ripple of confusion moves through the crowd. A dude sitting on the grass explains to three women next to him what it means: the rest of the states will vote, and they'll come back to Vermont so Bernie Sanders, the state's senator, can formally nominate Clinton for president. "Are you fucking kidding me?" one of the women, stunned, demands in a low voice.
There's a delay in the broadcast, so many in the crowd get a New York Timesalert informing them Clinton has been nominated for president before they see it on TV. Some leave. The ones who don't get on their feet, chanting "Ber-nie! Ber-nie!" when Sanders takes the microphone. Deafening boos rip through the crowd when the chair calls for a voice vote and affirms Clinton's nomination. Pharell's "Happy" can heard playing in the convention hall, but the mood in the park is ashen.
Rema Loab, 83, is standing under a tree when Sanders nominates Clinton. "No. I love you, but no," she mutters under her breath. Loab says she's worried for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Clinton "has sold out to the fossil-fuel industry, and we can just expect climate change to go galloping. It's gonna be worse" under her administration, she says.
Loab was born just 13 years after women won the right to vote, but she's not struck by the historic nature of Clinton's nomination. "It doesn't mean a damn thing" that she's a woman, she says. "I want a good person. I'll probably be voting for a woman — Jill Stein — but I'm not sure [Stein can win] unless we all stick together."
Over the PA system, someone announces a 30-minute panel on how the election was stolen from Sanders is about to begin on the main stage. Sarah Stovall is still sitting on the grass, wiping away tears and comforting her 14-year-old daughter, Kathryn. The pair worked double shifts cleaning condos this summer to raise enough money for the trip from Panama City, Florida.
Sarah introduced her daughter to Bernie, but it was Kathryn who insisted they make the drive. She liked that Sanders is in favor of clean energy and against the banks, and she likes that he's a (democratic) socialist. "My dad is a firefighter, so he gets paid by our taxes, and he needs more money," she says. She also likes his stance on raising the minimum wage to $15. "This year I'll be working a minimum-wage job because I won't be able to work with my mom all the time, and I don't think it should be $7.25 — I think it should be more," she says.
"We're not going to vote for Hillary," Sarah Stovall says, anticipating the question. She realizes that might mean a Trump presidency, and that concerns her, but she wants to see the DNC and the politicians who unfailingly stood behind Clinton punished for their bias. "I'm willing to pay that price just to teach them a lesson, and maybe they'll fix what they did after they see what a mistake they made. I know that's a huge price to pay."
Dale Rains and his buddy Tom are sitting in a couple of camp chairs at the park's edge, smoking a cigarette and gazing through the eight-foot fence that surrounds the Wells Fargo Center. Rains is the administrator of one of the dozens of pro-Bernie Facebook groups that sprung up around his candidacy; he came to Philadelphia to finally meet in person the people he first connected with online.
"I'm sitting here at the wall to let the delegates know it worked — that a revolution started, and it's still here," he says.
Laura Genna is sitting on a rock, writing on the back of her "Bernie or Bust" sign with a sharpie: "NJ voters: Get Jill on ballot! I have the petition." Green Party organizers already have enough signatures to get Jill Stein on the New Jersey ballot in November, but they're trying to amass a surplus in case any are challenged. She's dressed head-to-toe in Bernie blue: t-shirt, bandana, "Talk birdie to me" pin.
Genna was a volunteer for the Sanders campaign in New Jersey. "I had a lot of social anxiety, so I didn't really feel comfortable doing a lot of outreach. But I kind of pushed myself outside my comfort zone, and over time I started taking on more and more responsibility at the campaign office," she says. "It was a life-changing experience. I felt so motivated and connected, and I felt like I was able to do things that I never imagined I would be able to do."
"I think the DNC made a huge mistake today. They nominated the weaker candidate against Trump, and Bernie supporters had been saying 'We're not going to vote for her. We're Bernie of Bust. We're going to vote for Jill Stein. We're going to vote for Gary Johnson.' And they didn't listen to us, so the vote is split because they did not nominate the candidate who could have unified the party," she says.
While we talk, half a dozen pallbearers march by, hoisting a coffin painted with red, white and blue donkeys, chanting, "This is what democracy looks like!"
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