An Introduction to National Politics: The Time I Shook Hands with Bill Clinton

1992

Every second Monday, after leaving the wild exuberance of the lunchtime playground and returning to the dark confines of the classroom, my third grade class would find a magazine waiting on each of our desks. We universally loved these magazines. Not only did they interrupt the monotony of our regular lessons, they were the only printed words available to us in school that didn’t come from a textbook, worksheet, or classroom reader. The magazine was exotic; it looked like something adults would read. And, being in 3rd grade and nearing adulthood ourselves, we felt certain we should be reading more grown-up material. The magazine contained four pages and was titled “Keeping Up With Current Events (2nd/3rd Grade Edition).”

Here’s a modern version of a school news magazine, not unlike what we had 25 years ago

Each student took a turn reading one paragraph aloud until we finished the magazine, becoming well-versed in society’s vital issues in the process. The last page contained five questions which we answered on a separate sheet of lined paper using cursive handwriting and complete sentences. With the questions completed, we submitted our work and forgot the world existed outside our own ten-foot radius until two weeks later when the latest issue of “Current Events” arrived.

Then came the day when the cover of “Current Events” piqued my interest far beyond the bi-weekly novelty of reading a magazine in school. Apparently, the United States had a presidential election in the works. Being too young to remember the previous election four years prior, here was my introduction to presidential politics. Despite my ignorance, I knew this much: presidents were important. Inspired by the gravity of such an event, I decided it was high time I got involved.

The article itself wasn’t much different than the typical non-fiction we normally read. What caught my eye—and imagination—were the pictures. Staring back at me were the photographs of ten middle-aged white men, one of whom would be the next President of the United States.

The men were divided: three on the right side of the page and seven on the left. The left men were Democrats and the right men were Republicans. I had no idea what made someone a Democrat or a Republican, just that they were very different from one another. Trying to recall my parents’ discussions, I had the vague notion that somehow Democrats were good and Republicans were bad, though I had no idea why.

I related the idea of opposing political parties to rival football teams. I didn’t have any firm rationale for why Michigan State’s football team was comprised of revered heroes while UofM’s football team was a group of nefarious villains whom I despised—but it felt so unquestionably true. Likewise, why should I need logic or facts to discern the good Democrats from the bad Republicans?

In 1992 all these Democrats wanted to be President and also they all had penises.

I carefully looked over each picture of the ten candidates, wondering which of these men would end up winning the grand prize. A presidential election was far more crucial than any football game; I needed to diligently study these men. This was no easy task because I didn’t recognize a single face other than that of George Bush, our current president. I analyzed each man, searching for clues. Who would I vote for? Who among these men could be worthy of my admiration and support? My eyes settled on someone who stood out from the rest. Staring back at me was a handsome face, maybe more handsome than all the others. All these men were old, but this man seemed younger somehow. His eyes held a vitality, his smile a warmth. He looked friendly and fun—an adult I could hang out with, like a cool uncle. Conversely, the other men looked like they could be my school principal. I had never heard of this man fifteen minutes ago, but in the fast-paced world of presidential politics I decided to throw my support behind Bill Clinton.

After school I told my dad about my decision. He seemed impressed that I was taking an interest in something for grown-ups. Or maybe I just imagined his reaction. Either way, it certainly made me feel more grown up.

“You know,” my dad told me, “Bill Clinton is coming to town next week.”

“He is? Why?” I struggled to comprehend how this was possible, feeling both excited and disappointed. I was excited because my main man was visiting my own hometown, but also disappointed because this visit made him seem less presidential—no one with a serious chance at being president visits Saginaw, Michigan. Do they?

“He’s giving a campaign speech at the UAW Hall downtown. Should we go?”

“Here? In Saginaw?!”

“Yeah. The Michigan primary is only a few weeks away. Other candidates I’m sure will be around. Jerry Brown was in Flint just yesterday.”

Fate must have ordained such events. In the span of one single day I had:

• learned that the presidential race existed
• chosen which candidate to support
• discovered that the very man I chose would soon be visiting my hometown.

One week later I sat in the shotgun seat of our car as my dad drove us to see Bill Clinton live and in person.

This illustrious-looking building is the Saginaw UAW Hall.

My dad parked the car on a side street in downtown Saginaw. As we walked several blocks and passed several available parking spots I grew confused. Dad always took pride in his ability to find a great parking spot, no matter the crowds. Did he not know where the UAW hall was located?

“Dad, we’ve been walking forever. Why didn’t you park closer?”

“Because,” he replied, “your mom took the Pontiac to work today and she wasn’t home by the time we left.”

“So?”

“So we had to take the Toyota.”

I didn’t understand what that had to do with anything. “But dad,” I protested, “look at all these close parking spots you passed up!”

“Look,” he said firmly. “There’s no way I’m parking a Toyota within ten blocks of the UAW hall so stop whining. A little walking won’t hurt you.”

I could tell he was annoyed so I shut my mouth despite the lingering confusion.

Our 1970’s Toyota Celica looked very similar to this car.

Upon reaching our destination we entered the building and found a spot to stand as more and more people filed in by the minute. This wasn’t my first time inside the UAW hall but never before had I seen it so jam-packed. Never before had the stale air held so much anticipation. Everyone was eager to see this man and hear what he had to say and I was no different. I realized that it wasn’t right to support a candidate based on looks and feelings alone. I needed to pay close attention to his speech. I needed to learn if he had any substance behind his friendly face.

On the balcony to the right of the stage stood a secret service man scanning the crowd. He dressed in a black suit and wore sunglasses even though we were indoors. What a cool guy, I thought. I wondered if anyone might try to kill Bill Clinton. Probably a lot of people wanted to kill him, why else would he need secret service? I didn’t want anyone to die, but I admit that the idea of witnessing an assassination attempt thrilled me just a bit.

Loud rock and roll music poured out of the speakers. I had never heard this particular song before but I immediately liked it. The masses clapped along to the upbeat rhythm. As the excitement and anticipation reached a crescendo, the significance of such an event overwhelmed me. As a mere third-grader, I felt fortunate to be a involved in something this important. In fact, this could be the most important event of my life thus far, I told myself.

Finally, Governor Clinton appeared. He jogged onto the stage as people applauded. Everyone cheered for a long time while Bill waved and said “Thank you!” over and over. Then the music died down and the crowd quieted along with it. The man of the hour stepped to the podium to begin speaking.

I couldn’t see much of anything amongst a jungle of legs. Everyone was so much taller than me. I complained to my dad so he lifted me up and let me sit on his shoulders. Now I had a great view and could really focus my attention on the speech. Bill’s voice sounded exactly the same as his picture looked, warm and inviting. I hadn’t heard many southern accents in my life, but I sure enjoyed this one. It came across so affably, a voice of someone I could really trust.

I didn’t comprehend most of what Bill said, but it must have been good because everyone seemed to like it. The people nodded their heads in agreement and voiced their approval throughout the speech. Every once in a while he would say something that made everybody laugh or clap loudly. It was definitely a great speech, I concluded—one for the ages.

Just imagine a young Danny in that crowd somewhere. (I went by “Danny” in those days).

After he finished talking, the rock and roll song played again and people applauded for a long time. Bill stepped off the stage and started to shake hands with people in the front row.

“Do you want to shake his hand?” my dad asked. I looked at him with enthusiastic eyes but didn’t respond verbally. Then I looked toward the stage; we were at least twenty rows back from the front. “Go ahead. You can squeeze through all those people,” he said. So I squeezed and squirmed, shuffled and side-stepped until I found myself at the velvet rope which separated the crowd from the candidate. To my right Bill Clinton slowly made his way down the line of people toward me. I turned back and saw my dad gesturing at me to hold my hand out over the rope. I stretched my arm out as far as I could. Bill continued to get closer and closer. I was one moment away when the man next to me thwarted my hopes by asking a question. Bill spent what seemed like forever answering this man’s question. COME ON, I thought. Suddenly there he was, standing directly in front of me. Bill Clinton held out his hand and we shook. He smiled down at me and then continued on down the line of people. In a daze I wandered back to my dad and we left.

I no longer cared that we had to walk so many blocks to reach our Toyota. At that moment nothing could deter my ecstatic mood. “Just think,” my dad said, “if he wins the election you can say you shook hands with the President of the United States.”

If he wins? IF?! How could he not? The entire evening reaffirmed that I had made the correct choice in backing my candidate. He had the personality, the looks, the charisma. I still didn’t know where he stood on the issues, but that hardly mattered. I was only eight years old. Social and economic issues are complicated and difficult to understand. But I knew what kind of person I liked. I liked a person who was friendly. I liked a person who was charming and fun. I liked Bill Clinton.

Note: This piece is part one of a three-part series on politics told from three different perspectives during three different elections.