When I took my son to the Democratic Convention in Chicago Robert Reich Aug 20 Friends, I thought the most powerful speaker last night was Shawn Fein, president of the United Autoworkers, who electrified the crowd by calling Trump a “scab.” Hillary Clinton’s speech was more moving than rousing, as she reminded everyone of her fight to smash the glass ceiling and envisioned Kamala on the other side of it. But the most emotional point of the evening for me was Joe Biden’s intense summation of what he has accomplished and what the nation is up against. It was a fitting and sad goodbye. It all reminded me of the last time I was in Chicago’s United Center, for the Democratic national convention of 1996. I had brought along my elder son, Adam, then 15 years old. Adam followed me around as I addressed state caucuses over breakfast (Adam: “How many breakfasts are we supposed to eat, Dad?” Me: “None. We don’t have the time.”). He trailed me as I spoke to the Black and Hispanic and women’s caucuses over lunch (Adam: “Can we eat now?” Me: “No time. We’ll eat back at the hotel.”). And when I spoke to delegates during late-afternoon receptions (Adam: “What are these weird little things?” Me: “They’re called hors d’oeuvres.”). In the evenings, he traipsed after me on the crowded convention floor. (Adam: Why are these people here if they already know the ticket is Clinton-Gore?” Me: “To have a big party.” Adam: “So that’s what they mean by a political party?” Me: “Exactly.”) He even learned how to elbow his way to news reporters and their cameras (Adam asked them: “Would you like an interview with the Secretary of Labor? He’s right here. They often responded: “No thanks.”) Adam wanted to know about the inner-workings of the convention. I explained that there were really three conventions happening simultaneously. It’s much the same, today. The first was the Democratic convention, which he and I attended. It occurred in the caucuses and delegate meetings in the mornings and early afternoons and on the convention floor for four hours or so each night — involving a boisterous crowd of delegates along with several thousand activists: teachers, trade unionists, and local Democratic pols from around the country. They all loved politics and most cared about America. The second was the financial convention, of which Adam and I would get only a glimpse. It met in the skyboxes — amid sober groups of corporate executives, partners in major law firms, Hollywood celebrities, and Wall Street investment bankers. They loved influence and cared mostly about their bottom lines. They allowed a cabinet member and his teenage son in for a few moments but they really wanted face time with Bill, Al, and Hillary. And then there was the prime-time convention, which Adam and I could have watched on television from our hotel room — or from home. It usually occurred between 9 and 10 pm and featured a few celebrities and political big-wigs speaking from the stage of the convention center, reading from teleprompters, who were beamed into millions of homes across America. I told him that the three conventions had almost nothing to do with each another. They occurred simultaneously but they occupied different slices of American politics. When the stars of the prime-time convention spoke their lines, thousands of delegates and attendees at the Democratic convention would listen to the biggest names (as they did last night) but spent most of the time greeting each other and trading gossip. Meanwhile, at the financial convention in the skyboxes, the big donors feasted on shrimp, lobster tails, and caviar. The Democratic convention was the least important of the three. After all, Bill and Al were already the nominees. The purpose of the prime-time convention was to give Bill and Al free airtime to advertise their campaign, and the financial convention was meant to ensure they’d have ample paid airtime between then and Election Day. After a day of listening to my afternoon speeches to various caucuses, Adam knew my lines by heart. He stood unobtrusively in the back of the rooms where I spoke, lip-synching my words. My most important role at the convention was doing what those people who wear Mickey Mouse and Goofy costumes do at Disneyland — pose for snapshots with my arm around attendees. “Mr. Secretary, would you mind if I took a quick shot of you and Edith?” I was a character in the costume of a Clinton cabinet member. Adam took it all in with patience and good humor. I was grateful to him. It was a heavy load for a fifteen-year-old; he lightened the load for me. I loved showing him that bit of how American politics worked. He hasn’t forgotten. Adam is now the father of a fifteen-year-old — my granddaughter — a feisty young woman with strong political convictions of her own, who’s all in for Kamala.