Deep Inside the RNC as a Convention Volunteer: Part 1
“Dunk my brain in a slow simmer of mask-off conservatives who have the desire and disposable income to spend a week at MAGA Coachella”
Suffice to say, I’m not a good multi-tasker. My day job working on documentaries requires full-time plus for months on end and I’m woefully bad at carving out time for my own goals. This is usually to the detriment of my health, dating life, and creative bullshit. So when it came time to see if there was a way to get myself into the Republican National Convention, set for July 2024 in Milwaukee, I had missed the credential deadline by a country mile.
Kicking myself and reading articles about the convention plans, a special pop-up blinks onto the page just for me:
VOLUNTEER NOW FOR THE RNC! Help be a part of this historic opportunity!
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so sign me up.
Volunteering for the Republicans in July doesn’t guarantee I’ll actually see the nomination in person, but it could pay off in a few ways. First, media are usually limited to certain areas of a convention, as someone gophering in a greenroom or shuttling politicians in golf carts I may have access to places others won’t. Second, more importantly, not bearing the scarlet letter of a media pass at a MAGA-heavy event will garner more genuine interactions with attendees. I’ll still have to find a way into the arena itself, but it’s a calculated risk. I click the ad and enter my info. Seven weeks later, I’m standing on the packed convention floor with the delegates, surrounded by thunderous applause, waiting for the balloons suspended above us to spill onto the crowd and bless the smiling Trump family.
This is my account of a week as an RNC volunteer, surrounded by the true believers. Those we’re meant to assist are not your standard rally attendees but players with money, influence, and power. Those who have truly elevated Trump to the highest office and hope to again. When asked why I want to spend the time and money hanging out with the Fox News set in Milwaukee, I give my usual response: something pleasurable happens inside my brain when I’m around people with very different ideas. Sometimes I feel there’s critical blind spot inside the West Coast Liberal Bubble and I think it’s important to send dispatches to LA from outer Trump Country. I love crossing these lines, I love being somewhere I shouldn’t be, I love taking pictures. And I am absolutely addicted to weird situations, I don’t have a better answer than that. So having said all this, join me at the Conservative Superbowl. The shirts are red, the takes are bad, and the circus is coming to town.
My first step will be to register my personal info and apply for a background check with the secret service. While that processes I’ll also need to attend volunteer orientation. The in-person training, held in a midwest hotel conference room, is primarily a 50 plus crowd. I sit in the back row, conspicuous in my age and attire. Training consists of reading the already-distributed booklet followed by a Q & A. Many of my questions are answered; Yes, we could attend the convention when not working. Yes, any items were permissable as long as they weren’t weapons and fit inside a clear stadium bag. No, you could not wear MAGA hats (loud protests from the crowd.) Yes there would be protestors (chuckles.) No, the odds of attacks by Antifa soldiers were not likely (doubtful head-shaking.) I qeued for my official volunteer shirt, a Men’s small that hangs like a nightgown, and I‘m done. I received my clearance from secret service and 2 weeks later I’m RNC bound.
I arrive in Milwaukee 7/14 and unpack during a Sunday night thunderstorm. It seems to last all night, lightening forking across the sky and lights up the stuffy AirBnb. Using basic sewing skills, I’d taken in the red volunteer shirt to fit and rebuilt a pair of cargo pants into long skirt. The outfit is positively Trad wife to me and I model the outfit for a friend who is doubtful, “you're going to stick out like a sore thumb.” In the morning, my first shift begins at 11am. I’m doing a double so I’ll be working until 1130pm. We’re meant to arrive at the large stadium parking lot miles from the perimeter and ride a school bus in for each shift. It’s going to be in the 90s today and the collected volunteers are already sweating under a large white tent when I arrive. Some appear to be wearing their Sunday best under their flowing red shirts, perhaps anticipating an invitation from Trump himself to join his family on stage or speak to the media on behalf of the party. Pools of sweat start to appear under their arms and down their backs. My Lib-cuck natural deodorant is not up to this, it’s going to be a long day. I’m given a blue lanyard and the first of many credentials. On top is my secret service pass verifying my bonafide sanity. The second is a large card denoting Perimeter Access for today only, we are to receive new cards each day we work. Shit, how will I enter the perimeter when I’m not working?
The crowd of volunteers mill about without direction, sharing rumors and guesses about what the day holds and processing limited answers from sign-in staff. Where do we get water? What if it rains? Who tells us when we’re done? Finally a group of fresh young 20-somethings in white polos surround us with numbered signs and herd us like casino tour groups. Braiden must have been born sometime in my college years and tries to patiently calm the middle-aged volunteers experiencing low-level panic at the lack of information. He uses a confident fraternity-house voice to wrangle the team. Today, we’ll be checking media credentials.
“But we’re not supposed to talk to any media,” someone yells from the back. “Well no, you can talk to them to tell them where they need to go or how to get somewhere, but that’s… you know?” Braiden tries his best to give direction, “Just be careful, keep it simple. But hey, it’s the media, we all know what they can do, right?” The volunteers chuckle and nod in agreement at this vague accusation.
We shuttle downtown. The convention perimeter consists of several blocks around the enormous Fiserv arena and includes bars, theaters and hotels. Only those of us who have passed a background check and are scanned by mags can enter. Today, I’ve brought only a little point and shoot camera which looks benign but takes surprisingly high-res pictures. Along with some gum and sunscreen, the bag is whisked quickly through scanners without a second glance. No one cares what’s inside. Excellent.
Media is primarily quarantined to a smaller sports arena next to Fiserv, save for some favorable spots for friendly media (Fox News has taken over an entire multi-level restaurant across from the arena, TurningPointUSA has a bar and connecting stage complete with pyrotechnics.) We are lead into the lobby and another man, this one in a suit, describes the job. “You’ll be checking Media credentials. Media has the yellow lanyard. They have to go downstairs to the media floor. The only media allowed upstairs are Rumble or local stations. Unless they have red lanyards, or white ones. You might see blue too, like the ones you’re wearing. Or secret service who don’t have any. OK? Six should stay here.” The group looks dumbfounded but no wants to ask for clarification so six stay, visibly confused.
I’m posted upstairs in the local media row, sectioned off for several area radio and tv stations. Same confusing directions but 2 of us are just guiding each outlet to their pre-determined spot, easy enough. I stand off near the tv area and occasionally greet teams. There’s only a trickle of media types and I lean against a wall eyeing the journalists and equipment. I look around to each giving a friendly half nod. Several don’t meet my gaze, a few return a half smile, tinged with pity. One beefy camera guy arches his thick eyebrows above the rims of his glasses and presses his mouth into a flat expression, making a slow, pronounced rotation away from me as if I’ve tried to hand him a flat earth pamphlet or a business card for essential oils. Today, a MAGA hat is this red volunteer shirt I’m wearing and people are treating me accordingly. I feel a little ashamed in this Republican get-up, especially since Trump’s base has fresh beef with the media after Saturday’s assassination attempt. They become rigid when I approach them. I know exasperated exhales and wide-eyed scans of the middle distance means “please don’t bother me with your MAGA bullshit” because I do it all the time. Most of the women in the concession stand avert their eyes as I walk by, a few stare me down silently projecting disapproval.
I take in this feeling of rejection and consider it for a few minutes. It’s not overwhelming, or even that apparent. But I feel it still. I imagine it spread out over a day, and then I unfold that feeling, laying it over weeks and years. It compounds. I replay anecdotes from Trump supporters I’ve talked to in the past. Why do they have to be rude to me? I was just wearing a hat, and my neighbor or the other PTA moms or my own kids rolled their eyes at me. The grocery clerk called me an idiot under his breath. It’s not like I support everything Trump says, just the wall. And that stuff about Hillary’s emails, and China… something about China. I feel how easily this rejection could become defiance. If that metastasized into righteous anger, and spun itself around the core of who you are, it would be nearly impossible to let go. You’re not going to be reasoned out of these beliefs, you’re going to hold them like a life raft. You’d have to. You’d dig in with more hats, and shirts, and coats, and car decals, and charm bracelets because it’s their problem, not yours. It feels like quicksand and I shake it off.
I’m stationed with a good looking young guy maybe in his early 30s, and we make small talk. We laugh about the disarray of the day. I try to imagine him having reasonable debates with liberals around him, then I remember I’ve rarely heard a young guy say anything reasonable about Trump. I don’t want to imagine him saying ugly things. I say it’s quieter than I thought it would be. “The good stuff will be later this week,” he says. “But it’s quiet here yeah, I want to be there where the real action is.” He points to the TV monitor above us where a speaker on an enormous stage is prompting the delegates from each state to speak. “So,” I fish for info, “how do we get in there?” He shakes his head, “You can’t enter the actual arena without an arena pass, but I heard there’s ways.” I make a note to keep my ears open for info on these elusive passes.
Rotating to a post in the front entrance, I stand with 8 other volunteers, laughably useless. Not only do we not know what we’re checking for, only one or two people enter a minute, they are swarmed by a half dozen volunteers bored and confused. A figure emerges from the floor entrance flanked by reporters. Volunteers immediately gather around Vivek Ramaswamy and take out their phones, abandoning their posts. I look around for coordinators to stop us but no one does. There are only 4 rules for volunteers and one is not to take photos on your shift. No one seems to care as new people walk through the lobby doors and into the building, credentials un-checked. I instantly regret the small point and shoot camera in my pocket, I could have brought my whole damn camera package and no one would have cared.
We break for lunch and after some confusion (we’re first sent to an empty theatre where there’s no food or water but there is a short film on how republicans are actually not that racist) we’re taken to a hotel across the river for pizza and salad. Corrie, a polite woman in her mid 40s falls in with me and strikes up conversation. “What do you think about Vance as VP?” I ask. She takes a deep breath, “I wish they had opted for someone who would be less controversial, I wanted a VP who might bring people together.” I’m relieved at this moderate tone. “Yeah, I think I would have wanted that too.” As we eat, we discuss wanting to see a more civil tone. This is the dance I do in conservative spaces where I can discuss vague points but not identify myself as solidly on one side or the other. I don’t want to lie about who I am or what I believe, but I want to hear their honest thoughts unfiltered. Also, sometimes I can slide a liberal point into my conversation and nudge the conservative I’m talking to just a hair to the left. This is actually the best part of these little adventures.
Corrie laments the country’s polarity and wants to see more civility. “I think as conservatives we’ve had our ‘branding’ twisted by liberals and I think we should be mad as hell.” She fears that liberals have taken the fact that women like her are conservative and twisted that into ‘hating women’. “I don’t hate women,” she continues, “Just because I’m pro life. They call that extreme. I’m not extreme. And liberals have taken over the image of being the caring ones. Liberals are planting a flag in compassion and declaring that conservatives have no place there.”
I consider the position and clear my throat, “Can I make a suggestion?” she nods, “I wouldn’t start by telling people to be angry. If you feel like your intentions are being misinterpreted, maybe… I’ve had a good experience just talking to individuals one on one. You can explain your position. If you start with anger, it only escalates from there, right?” She takes a breath and agrees. “Look,” I choose my words carefully, “a lot of this fighting is bullshit. As a country, we mostly agree on the same things.” We discuss a centrist view on abortion, “so if that’s most people, why are we fighting? Maybe if you start at a place of finding common ground, you’ll be more successful in building bridges.”
“Wow OK, can I quote you as a Republican, suburban woman?” She pulls out her phone and admits that she’s feeding quotes to a New York Post writer. What the actual fuck? Am I the only person who read any of the rules in the damn book? I think for a minute about the implications. “Um. You could say conservative. Moderate?” I feel the moral gray area clouding my good time.
She moves on to trans rights, which she has been vocal against in her school district, and her work on banning books. “I don’t want porn in the library,” she insists. “Fair enough, but again, are these real issues or is social media creating this culture war shit?” I line myself up for a leftward nudge. “Do you know how many trans highschool athletes there were in 2022?” I ask. “A dozen. Do you know how much we talked about it? There were hundreds of news segments on Fox and CNN. Hundreds. Maybe this isn’t actually a huge deal,” (nudge,) “maybe it’s just a few people a little different than you and I, just living their lives.”
“Well, it was a big deal to the girls on sports teams at those 12 schools who had to compete against a man,” she declares, guessing wildly and retreating to her talking points. I feel her dig in. “What about them?” Emotion rises slightly in her voice, “So some guy with pearl earrings can shower next to my little girl? No. No, that’s not right.” She shudders at the vividly imagined and highly unlikely scenario in her head.
“Can I ask you a question?” I crumple my napkin over the sad salad and stack my barely used flatware on top. “How many trans individuals are in your daughter’s school?” She pauses and I kick myself for not leaving it be. “Well, that’s fair, no there aren’t any,” she admits as we move to exit, “but there’s one in the next district over.”
