High Life: A Weekly Forum For High School Students : Confessions of a Political Junkie : Irvine Senior Gets Her Fix at the Republican National Convention

It was a hot and humid day as I tried to keep pace with the swift-moving crowd that was chanting, “Bush-Quayle-’92!” and “Four more years!” We swarmed through double doors and into the massive Astrodome, which was decked in red, white and blue for the 1992 Republican National Convention.

I was invited to attend the convention while I participated in the Junior Statesmen Program earlier in the summer at Georgetown University. One of my counselors was a member of the College Republicans, which made its way to Houston as part of the National Youth Coalition.

Security was tight, to say the least. No one even got into the parking lot without the proper credentials, which were essential for admission everywhere. A person’s credentials designated where he could sit in the Astrodome and what night he was supposed to be there.

We didn’t spend all of our time on the convention floor. Unfortunately, most often we were in Exhibit Room C, a gray room in the Astroarena, which is adjacent to the Astrodome.

Our leaders used the time we were sequestered there to give us information, to fire us up for the rallies and to distribute pre-painted signs (because any other would have been unauthorized and confiscated). They even directed us on what we were to chant. (“When Dan Quayle comes out tonight, everyone chant, ‘Dan Quayle is our man!’ . . . No, change that. ‘Dan is the man!’ Sounds better.”)

A spirit of unity prevailed at the convention. The only time I didn’t feel it was when Gov. William Weld of Massachusetts declared during his speech that he was pro-choice. Hisses came from half the audience and applause from the other half.

During no other week could I have rubbed elbows with so many of my political mentors. When Newt Gingrich, the House minority whip, gave his speech, I was on the convention floor, in close range of the podium. He looked down at me and smiled. I thought it was because he had recognized me from our photo-op earlier in the Astroarena. I waved, and he waved back.

The next day, as I was on my way to Exhibit Room C, he walked right beside me. “Newt Gingrich!” I cried. “Remember me? I was the girl who was waving at you last night.”

“Oh, really . . .,” he responded. “My speech started out kind of slow, but it picked up. I thank you for your support.”

No doubt he had no recollection of me. I can’t imagine what he must have thought of my greeting.

If there was anything I became that week--besides a political junkie--it was assertive. During Marilyn Quayle’s speech, I succeeded in sneaking out of the stands and onto the floor. I got past numerous security personnel and finished just 12 feet away from Mrs. Quayle. I read she was nervous by her smile.

I stood on the convention floor at the Astrodome for the last time when Quayle and President Bush accepted their renominations. “Where was Bill?” the crowd chanted as Quayle lavished praise on the President for his successes in foreign diplomacy.

An overly enthusiastic lady tried to start a chant--”Bush-Quayle-’92, Bush-Quayle-’92 . . . “--but when the masses didn’t follow her lead, she blushed into silence.

The closing ceremonies saw balloons and confetti fall on the crowd. People went wild, batting balloons back and forth in a frenzied game of volleyball. “Viva Bush!” a Hispanic man shouted as he waved an American flag.

Upon leaving, the scene resembled a half-price sale at Nordstrom. Everywhere people scurried for souvenirs. A youth jumped to tear the “R” from “Republicans” off the side of the stands. I spied a delegate carrying away the “Vermont” sign post. I scooped up a handful of confetti.

Unfortunately, I had no film left in my camera when I ran into Jack Kemp, secretary of housing and urban development, at the airport cafeteria as I was getting ready to leave Houston.

As I tried to push my way through to see him (I had met him earlier at a reception), I got crushed up against a bunch of college-aged boys. He saw me and said, “Excuse you, gentlemen, there is a beautiful woman here.” He made his way through, shook my hand and asked me my name. When the boys reached out to shake his hand, he joked, “You guys are ugly!”

I always liked Secretary Kemp, but I like him even more now. Of course, I didn’t bother to ask him if he had remembered me from the other night. I had learned one important political lesson.