Reflection: The Man in the Arena

"What is the value of going?"

"What are you hoping to gain from that?"

"Do you really have to go?"

I heard the question over and over again from family members, friends and first-in-the-nation voters and usually stumbled through an answer about how it was important to hear from both sides. I had pledged, after all, to see all the candidates for president during my summer in New Hampshire.

But I had not expected one particular candidate for president — the candidate who is the current occupant of the White House — to visit the Granite State over my eight-week stay. He had not held one of his signature rallies in the state since the night before the 2016 election, when he packed SNHU Arena in Manchester, New Hampshire in between an afternoon event in Scranton, Pennsylvania and a midnight stop in Grand Rapids, Michigan. 

The line extended several blocks back from the teal-colored SNHU Arena in Manchester, New Hampshire hours before the doors opened. Vendors sold Make America Great Again hats and Trump-themed merchandise.

Of course, he won the two Rust Belt states en route to a historic upset of former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, but in a footnote on the night, lost New Hampshire by several thousand votes. Since then, the state, which has long been noted for its brand of moderate politics and has experienced an influx of new arrivals from nearby states as well as foreign countries in recent years, has delivered him some of his worst approval ratings of any battleground. In all honesty, I thought his reelection campaign had probably given up on the tiny state and its four electoral votes.

So when President Donald Trump announced plans to return to SNHU Arena, I knew I had to be there. I expected him first and foremost to weigh into Democratic primary, taking shots at the leading contenders that would echo far beyond the stadium and in some cases, even affect how Democratic voters think about electability. I thought he might endorse his former campaign manager, Corey Lewandowski, who is mulling a bid against New Hampshire Senator Jeanne Shaheen but first must secure the Republican nomination. And I also figured he or his supporters would start some national controversy, as he has done many times before.

But couldn't I have read about all of that the next day? Or just watched on television? What was the advantage to actually being there? 

The question became more difficult to answer two nights before the rally, when my request for a media credential was denied by the Trump campaign. While I admit that I am not a member of the media, I am a student receiving money for research from a fully accredited college and I have not had a problem from any other campaign this summer. The Biden campaign and the Sanders campaign accepted my documentation for admission to ticketed events and among others, the Weld campaign allowed me to ask their candidate a question.

Without a media credential, I would have to enter as a member of the general public, a double-edged sword of sorts. I would have easier access to Trump supporters because I would not have to stand in the roped-off media section, but I would also have to ditch my usual routine of walking around, carrying my notepad and interviewing people. I feared that otherwise, I would draw attention to myself and somehow get turned away from the arena at the last second.

The large media section, which Trump supporters on the floor turned around and directed boos at after the President mentioned "the fake news media," was separated from the crowd by a fence and security guards.

In retrospect, I probably could have milled about and talked to people (and maybe even carried my notepad!) but I wanted to be safe. Especially after waiting on line for three hours, I really wanted to make sure I would get in and get to stay. I resolved to be a fly on the wall, a first-time voter listening to all the candidates, an American going to see the President. I told myself that I had every right to be there.

And even under the less-than-perfect circumstances, I still thought that I would learn something, far beyond any value of just listening to both sides. I figured I would take something away about how Trump communicates with his voters in the particular setting of the arena, about how the rallies are staged by his campaign and about what his supporters in the long lines and the nosebleed sections are thinking and feeling ahead of the 2020 election.

I was not disappointed. Seven hours after I took my place on line and four hours after I entered the arena, I left with at least one new insight as I raced through downtown Manchester to beat the crowd back to my parking garage and sped off into the night.

It was incredibly difficult to hear from second level, where I sat midway up around center ice at the end of a long row. The section was packed as Trump came to the microphone, but almost completely cleared out by the end of the night.

The first sign of trouble arrived earlier in the evening, when two women Republican state legislators delivered speeches that almost no one in the nosebleed seats deciphered. A middle-aged man sitting next to me asked if I, as a young person, understood them and said that he and his wife did not. They hoped that Trump, as a man, would project better. There was a wave of murmuring during the two short speeches and soon enough, most ignored them.

The view from my seat in the upper level looked out upon the whole arena, as a long walkway led to a small stage in the middle of a sea of red hats.

Yet the problem did not abate when Trump finally walked out and jumped into his remarks. There was a roar of audible shouts of "Louder!" and "Microphone!" from across the upper level that grew increasingly frustrated as the rest of the arena quieted down. Over the sound system, Trump's words sounded muffled and muddied, as well as unexpectedly high-pitched, as they bounced around the rafters. His voice rose and fell, with only the crests of each sentence detectable. Eventually, the trickle of supporters heading for the exits turned into a parade. My seat neighbors got up and left.

Where exactly everyone went was unclear. The lower bowl was at capacity and security guards prevented more supporters from entering the floor area. Most seemed to stand around the entrances to each section. Some might have watched in the concourse or gone home. As the second-deck section emptied, only then did Trump become easier to hear, with fewer sound-absorbing bodies and chattering mouths in the area.

Still, I struggled to hear at times, and I was one of the youngest people in the audience. I also can't imagine that the problem is unique to the SNHU Arena. Many of the minor league arenas and regional airports that Trump barnstorms across the country likely have the same problem, whether because of the sound systems or the large audiences.

With that realization, I began to understand that Trump relies on buzzwords and shortcuts out of necessity in his rallies. His supporters might not have heard everything, but when they heard "fake news media" or "witch hunt," they booed. When they heard "Make America Great Again," they cheered. When they heard "sleepy Joe" or "China," they laughed.

My section in the second deck was packed with supporters before Trump appeared on stage, although other sections in the upper level never filled because of the building capacity.

My section and others nearby cleared out soon after Trump started talking, as supporters complained about the audio and relocated to find a better to hear the President.

It's all part of the experience, but it's also the easiest way to communicate with larger crowds. It's instinctive, almost visceral, and it's reinforced with each rally as the audience registers its approval or disapproval. As the 2020 campaign heats up and Trump holds more rallies closer and closer to election day, it's something that every Democratic candidate should understand.

Along with the sequence of classic rock songs accompanied by a light show before his entrance and the gleeful rather than angry mood of his supporters — a woman in line told me she was "so glad to be among so many deplorables" and the whole arena bobbed up and down during the gay pride anthem "Y.M.C.A." — that was what I took away. 

Whether it was worth the trouble, I will leave to you.

This work is made possible by the Russell H. Bostert Memorial Fellowship at Williams College.