By Linn Ann Huntington, FHSU
They came from all directions. All walks of life. Thousands upon thousands of them.

My Political Reporting class and I drove a Fort Hays State University van to Denver to cover the Democratic National Convention last week for the Hays Daily News.

But others took buses or drove—from all over Colorado and other states. Thousands took time off from work and flew to Denver—from New York and Chicago and Los Angeles and hundreds of little towns in-between. I also met individuals who had flown to Denver from Europe, Africa and Australia.

They all took the long road to see this man named Obama.

Sen. Barrack Obama’s acceptance speech was moved from the Pepsi Center to Invesco Field, where the Denver Brocos play football, because Obama wanted more than just the 5,000 state delegates to be able to attend his speech. The Democratic National Committee gave away 75,000 “community passes,” but you had to apply for them

My students and I didn’t find out until 3:30 p.m. Wednesday that we had indeed received them. After picking up the passes, we had until 5 p.m. to go online, type in our personal information and get security clearance. We all passed.

Official estimates put the crowd inside Invesco at more than 80,000 people. There were hundreds of others who didn’t have a ticket inside, but they came to Denver anyway—just to stand outside the stadium and listen to Obama’s speech.

The 46 members of the Kansas delegation were bused to the stadium where they joined the other state delegates on the grassy field. Hundreds of non-delegates, like us, took Denver’s light rail system to downtown Thursday.

Once we got there, we joined the long line, snaking its way through downtown streets. We were among the thousands who stood for three to four hours, in the hot sun, to see this man named Obama.

Once we all got inside Invesco Field, we climbed ramps, and then steep steps—all to see this man named Obama. All through that long afternoon and evening, as I gazed at the mass of sweat-soaked humanity around me, I kept wondering, why?

The gates to Invesco Field opened at 1 p.m. Thursday, but my students and I didn’t board the light rail car until 2 p.m. All week we stayed at Cherry Creek Presbyterian Church, about 20 miles from downtown, but only about three miles from the hotel where the Kansas delegation was staying in the south Denver Tech area.

We arrived downtown at the Auraria Station about 2:30 p.m. Thursday. The conductor told us we had to get off there. There were too many people already at the Invesco Field station, further down the line. We would have to walk the rest of the way.

We all looked at each other, wondering how far that would be. We soon found out.

As the crow flies, it was probably only about two miles. But we were shepherded down sidewalks, across streets and eventually up the entrance ramp to the I-25 Colfax Street Bridge. I-25 into the downtown area was closed to cars. In all, I’d say we walked about five miles.

In addition to the thousands of ticket holders who walked across the bridge, there were also dozens of protestors.

Gay rights advocates carried rainbow colored flags. Anti-war protestors in their 50’s with graying hair, wearing camouflage outfits, carried a huge orange banner that read, “End the war in Iraq.” Women on roller blades, wearing tank tops, kneepads and shorts, their bodies covered with phosphorescent paint, protested the distribution of water in plastic bottles to the hot, weary marchers. Plastic bottles remain in landfills forever.

The largest contingent of marchers I saw was a group carrying a large bullhorn demanding the legalization and strict control of marijuana for medical patients. A few of the walkers stopped to take pictures, but most ignored the protestors and went on—focused on their mission of reaching the other side of the bridge.

About a half hour later we finally caught sight of Invesco Field, still far off to the right. At the bottom of the exit ramp, we were pointed to a steep hill. The line led up the hill, down a street, and then back down the same hill. The crowd groaned.

There were no special accommodations for the young, elderly or handicapped. Many walkers didn’t make it up the hill and were attended to by paramedics. I didn’t even try. A large rock had fallen on my right foot the day before. It was 3:40 p.m. My students climbed the hill. I sat at the bottom and waited for them to come back down. It took 45 minutes. Then I rejoined them in line. A woman nearby angrily scolded all of us that rejoined friends and family at the bottom of the hill for cutting in line. We ignored her.

The line moved forward a few feet at a time. By 4:30 p.m. we had made it to the Invesco Field parking lot. The line snaked back and forth, as the heat radiated off the black asphalt.

Finally we reached two large, air-conditioned white tents. Inside the tent, the line divided into a half dozen security checkpoints now so common in airports. But outside the tent, we all had to form a single line again. It inched forward slowly. Finally we came to the one open gate into the stadium.

Then we hunted to find our section, 229. After we climbed the 33 rows to our seats, I glanced at my watch. It was 5:35 p.m. From the time we had exited the light rail car, it had taken us three hours to get to our seats in the stadium.

For another two and a half hours we sat waiting for Obama to appear. We listened to musical performers, to speeches by former Vice President Al Gore and former Obama rival Arizona Gov. Bill Richardson, and we heard testimonials from several average, everyday folks as to why they had decided to vote for Obama.

Finally, at 8 p.m. sharp MDT, Obama appeared to a standing ovation that lasted several minutes. And yes, his speech was electrifying.

But at the end of the evening, after the benediction and the fireworks had ended, I realized the most compelling moment for me had come hours earlier, as we stood in line along a chain link fence at the bottom of the Colfax Street Bridge.

There an older African-American couple stood in line in front of me. The woman wore six-inch black patent leather high heels, a straight black skirt and matching long-sleeve black jacket. The small red velvet hat on her head was held in place by a beautiful rhinestone pin.

The gentlemen holding her arm had short gray hair, and he too was wearing a black suit and long-sleeved white shirt. They both stood tall and calm, seemingly oblivious to the vendors around us loudly hawking T-shirts, rally towels and campaign buttons.

At one point the woman slipped her right foot out of her shoe and rubbed her foot against the other one. Another woman standing beside me, who had flown in that day from New Jersey, spoke to her: “You had better take off those high heels. Your feet are really going to hurt by the time you get to the stadium.”

“On no,” the woman said with a smile. I detected a distinct southern drawl in her soft voice. “We’ve waited 45 years for this. I wanted to dress appropriately for the occasion.”

Forty-five years.

On Aug. 28, 1963, a million Americans, both black and white, had stood on The Mall in Washington, D.C., to hear another African-American man talk about his dream for this country.

I never got the chance to ask that stately woman in Denver if she had been there—if she had heard the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. deliver his “I Have a Dream” speech in person. I lost her in the crowd.

But I suspect she was. I suspect she was among the hundreds of thousands who had journeyed to Washington that hot August day to hear King speak about his vision for this country. A vision of the day when any child, regardless of gender or color, could grow up to be president of the United States.

Finally I understood. For that tall, proud African-American woman in line in front of me—and for all the rest of us--the long road to Obama had started 45 years ago.