A startling feeling overtook me as I watched Hillary Clinton’s speech at the Democratic National Convention in Denver Tuesday night, creeping through my mind like a professional thief. Inexplicably, it wasn’t sensory overload brought on by the 1970’s shag carpeting hue of burnt orange of her premier pantsuit (although, let’s face it, it isn’t the sort of fashion item you can ever forget).
What so unsettled me was that as she spoke, she evoked what could almost be considered respect. Having transformed from HillDawg to George Clinton during the primaries, her “I’m-doing-this-for-the-party” talk, even if it was in her own political self-interest, was an act of baptism by symbolism, washing away the crimson stains of pandering so ludicrous it bordered on self-parody.
Nothing has changed. The Clintons are still self-serving boomers who will do anything to achieve power. But everything has changed, because they are performing the preordained rituals of Democratic supplication with breathtaking exactness. By bringing the crowd to their feet by exhorting the full support of Barack Obama, she’s once again the toast of the her party. It’s a position she’s fought tooth and nail to return to, should the opportunity to run for president again present itself.
