I am standing on the floor of an arena in Chicago, waiting for Kamala Harris.
It’s been nearly three hours. There are thousands of us squished together, toppling over, jostling, hot, uncomfortable, straining under the lights. Everywhere I look, there are people holding tall “Kamala” signs, shouting, screaming, panting, roaring. Music is pounding.
It was like this last night, and the night before, and the night before that: a 96-hour psycho war dance.