Conventions celebrate freedom to look ludicrous

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BY ROBIN GIVHAN / The Washington Post

At political conventions, where every word and gesture have been scripted, reviewed and revised, the motley collection of red, white and blue tailcoats, Uncle Sam top hats and other forms of aesthetically displeasing get-ups are as necessary as the gavels, the speeches and the power brokers flinging red meat.

There’s nothing like a man gussied up as P.T. Barnum or a woman who sets off alarms with her battery-powered flag suit to reassure the TV viewer that democracy is alive and functioning. Everyone is welcome: the tired, the poor, the goofballs.

The costumed conventioneers are reminders that politics is not just for stuffed suits who can’t understand the attraction of gimme caps and buttons that read “Hot Women Vote Obama” and “I (Heart) Caribou Barbie.” They are the hyperactive fans, the true believers. They’re cousins to the face-painted fanatics who scream from the sidelines at football games. They can be a little scary, but they’re awfully good for morale.

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The garb at the political conventions is worth noting. At left: West Virginia delegate Nora Ankron wears an elephant hat Wednesday at the Republican National Convention. At right: Nany Bobo, a delegate from Des Moines, Iowa, dons a cornhead at the Democratic National Convention Aug. 25 in Denver. (AP photos)

The garb at the political conventions is worth noting. At left: West Virginia delegate Nora Ankron wears an elephant hat Wednesday at the Republican National Convention. At right: Nany Bobo, a delegate from Des Moines, Iowa, dons a cornhead at the Democratic National Convention Aug. 25 in Denver. (AP photos)

The proclivity for appalling attire is not limited to one party. Democrats and Republicans are equally capable of transforming the business of democracy into an enormous costume extravaganza. Other than the name of the candidate and the preference for donkeys vs. elephants, the showmanship is much the same. A significant percentage of convention-goers plaster their bodies with as many references to their candidate as possible in the form of buttons, stickers and temporary tattoos, because merely uttering his or her name — or waving a placard with the name on it — simply will not suffice. They do not merely support the candidate; they are willing to suffer the indignity of bad taste for him or her.

Another goal is to wear as much red, white and blue as possible in a patriotic arms race. Thankfully, the competition is left to members of the audience rather than to the speakers. With every speech fundamentally about love of country, concern for the country’s future and a desire to make the world a better place for the country’s children, dressing like a flag isn’t necessary.

But the silliness also makes the convention seem more accessible. Even though the delegates are the selected few, as with everything there’s always an inner, inner loop — the place where all the real decisions seem to get made. The candidate’s “close advisers” never dress like Uncle Sam.

The major dressing-up is left to the people who form the chorus in these theatrical productions, those who are chanting their support or howling their displeasure from the nosebleed seats and the sidewalks. They represent the grand notion of democracy, the idea that just-plain-folks — a little wacky, yet deeply committed — are taking these important issues in hand.

The silly costumes reflect those desires. They’re worn by the folks who don’t get to make the speeches. So they announce themselves with a flourish. They wear something that will attract the cameras because their faces aren’t famous enough to do the trick. Maybe they’ll get a few words on the air, online or in print while they’re being photographed. Perhaps they will be heard.

But if even if they are not, at least they can return home confident that they have been seen.