This essay is in response to one of our many Call for Submissions prompts featured every day on The Good Men Project.
The setting was all too familiar. From the sterile walls to the annoying rhythmic hum of medical equipment to the bright light from the television and most especially, the fogginess I felt in my head and the intense pain radiating from my abdomen.
It had been about 12 hours since surgeons sewed me up from another three-hour exploration through my intestines. I noticed through my bleary vision that is was about 11:20 pm, which meant a nurse would be in soon to check on me. Thank God, I thought, as I was in desperate need of some painkillers. And, I also needed someone to explain what I was seeing on the TV.
What I saw was reminiscent of events that I thought were part of our past. Mass amounts of people seemed to be in the streets, angry, protesting, rioting. Was I watching historical news footage from my childhood of the late-1960s? Between the fog that still filled my head and the post-surgical pain, I honestly wasn’t sure what I was seeing.
Thankfully, I heard the door open. A nurse walked in, asked how I was feeling and told me his name. He even brought with him a syringe full of demerol.
“I’ll need to check your vitals first, but I promise to be quick,” he explained. “Then, I’ll give you your shot.” As he took my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse he went over with me what the nurse on the previous shift had told him regarding my condition. “I understand you’ve had numerous surgeries like this before. Your surgeon believes he removed all the diseased bowel and since you came up to the floor, your vitals have been good, though I’m sure you’re quite uncomfortable.”
The update was reassuring. I mumbled something about being in a lot of pain, which was my way of asking him to hurry up and give me the shot, which he finally did. I also asked him what the heck was going on, as I still could not make heads or tails of what was on the TV.
“Just a bunch of out of control niggers; all of whom I’m sure are on welfare and need to get a job,” he nonchalantly said.
I was stunned. My body was already riveting in pain and now I began to shake in anger. “Get the hell out of here,” I exclaimed. “I don’t care how much pain I’m in, or even if I’m near death in the middle of the night. Get out of here and don’t fucking come back!”
At that very moment I set a goal for myself: Once I got back on my feet, I’m going to work on Bill Clinton’s presidential campaign.
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I had never worked on a national campaign before, though during the ‘92 cycle, it was something that I began to think more seriously about, in spite of how ill I was. I didn’t dislike President Bush, nor did I blame him for what I was witnessing on TV. However, I did honestly believe we as a nation needed to move forward on issues like race and our role in the world. When I had been healthy enough to work since graduating college eight years prior, I worked as a reporter and in public relations. I knew my knowledge of the Michigan media landscape, ability to write and passion for American history and politics would be useful for a campaign.
It took about 100 days for me to recover from the surgery. In mid-August, I read a story in the newspaper about the Clinton-Gore campaign opening its Michigan headquarters. In the news story, I noticed a quote from the Michigan campaign communications director. Perfect, I thought. I now have a name of someone to ask for.
As I walked into the campaign’s office that morning, it wasn’t quite what I expected, but it was a perfect symbol of the Motown economy: An empty and long-forgotten auto dealership on 7 Mile Road, some 8-10 miles from my parents’ home where I was living during my recovery. There were a handful of people scurrying about, some on the phone, some carting boxes to and fro, and a few banging away on computers.
Within minutes I was led into a back office and introduced to Jay, the campaign’s communication director. He greeted me with a warm smile and a firm handshake as I told him of my desire to work in the communications shop. I quickly, and in my mind succinctly, articulated my passion and desire to work on the campaign, along with my unique skills and knowledge.
“Well, I need to get out a press release,” he told me. “But I also need to be on a conference call in a few minutes. Here’s some info, do you think you could have a release written within an hour?”
Without looking at the information or even asking about the topic, I blurted out, “Sure. No problem.”
While Jay was on his conference call with the campaign’s team in Little Rock and other Midwestern states, I hammered out a press release about Vice Presidential candidate Al Gore’s upcoming appearance in Detroit. It only took me about 10 minutes, but I pretended to sweat over it for a good half hour before handing in my first assignment.
“Wow,” he said. “You wrote this in the short time I was on the phone?” Sheepishly, I admitted it only took a few minutes to hammer out. I was just waiting for him to finish his call so we could discuss changes.
“Changes,” he said? “I’m not changing a thing. Can you work every day? I get in by 9-10 am and am here until at least 8-10 pm, often later. Any time you can help out would be awesome.”
It was then I opened up about my health—how for years I had battled a serious intestinal disease, which caused many stops and starts throughout my life. I told him about my most recent surgery and the incident with the nurse, which led me to the conversation Jay and I were having. I attempted to be as honest with him as I could about my availability.
“If you really think I can be an asset to the campaign, and if my health holds, I’ll be here every single day from now through the election. For some strange reason, being here right now, at this moment in time, well, it seems to be right,” I said rather clumsily. And with that, began the craziest, most fun and exhilarating 12 weeks of my professional life.
◊♦◊
Bill Clinton and Al Gore would go on to win the 1992 election rather easily.
On inaugural day, less than nine months from the surgery and run-in with the angry, racist nurse, I was looking upon the West steps of the Capitol Building as Supreme Court Justice Rehnquist swore in Bill Clinton as President of the United States.
And within a few more months, I’d be working in the administration as a senior press officer for a Clinton administration foreign policy official.
Some still argue whether Clinton was the candidate of change. Obviously, my own views of his accomplishments as president are rather biased. But there is little doubt of the change that began to occur in my own life in 1992. All thanks to the first baby-boomer president, a racist nurse, and a burning desire to get out of a hospital bed and do something meaningful in my life and for my country.
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Photo: Getty Images
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