A New Trier student reports from ‘the tunnel’ at the DNC

The Record North Shore granted the request of New Trier High School senior Jack Rosenthal to attend the Democratic National Convention at the United Center in Chicago with The Record’s press credential.

Jack covered the DNC from Monday-Thursday, Aug. 19-22, and, in the firsthand account below, recorded some of the sights, sounds and activity he saw during the event, primarily from a location he and others called “the tunnel.”

As I shook hands with President Bill Clinton, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. Becoming a reporter at the Democratic National Convention took nearly eight months of hard work, endless emails and tons of preparation, but now it was starting to pay off. 

In truth, I was really a fly on the wall, observing the inner workings of some of the most important people in the world. Where else could you share an elevator with actress Tiffany Haddish, sit next to filmmaker Spike Lee, fist-bump Gov. Gavin Newsom, and get a nod from iconic musician James Taylor?

The real action did not happen in front of the camera. It happened behind the scenes. While at the United Center, I had the privilege of being part of this environment, an experience so fascinating, that I knew I had to write about it rather than the actual proceedings going on above. 

As the days went on, I found myself spending more and more time in this badly lit sanctuary, essentially just the service level of the arena, an encompassing level below ground that the Secret Service lovingly called “the tunnel.” It was a place where persistent journalists mobbed delegates, security rushed around with presidents, and exhausted news teams went to score their next big interviews. 

I found that in a place like the tunnel it was better to observe everything in the moment and report on it later. The whirlwind never stopped and I often found myself frantically rewriting and adding new paragraphs of stories before the shock and vividness of them wore off and the next exciting thing happened. 

Despite its craziness, I still found the tunnel to be more calming than the rush of the floor. I was on the floor for 30 minutes and felt like I was in the New York Stock Exchange. The tunnel really was a magical place; though instead of a yellow brick road in Emerald City, it consisted of linoleum flooring and concrete walls. It was a place where I’d see someone that looked like Hillary Clinton, do a double take, and then actually see Hillary Clinton.

There were, though, moments when the energy flickered out. I was waiting by a guarded exit and hoping to score an interview with a delegate when Jon and Rachel Goldberg-Polin walked past. They just spoke to the convention about their son, who was taken hostage by Hamas the year prior. As reporters swarmed them with cameras, microphones and questions, all I could see were their hands tightened closer together as they walked on in heartbreaking silence. 

The tunnel allowed for moments of suspense and awe, as well as humorous observation, like Oprah Winfrey having more security than Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer. 

There were also some dangerous and scary moments as well. For example, I watched a fully armed Secret Service agent unknowingly spill his rifle’s cartridge on the floor and sat in disbelief as volunteers and press yelled at him to come back as they picked up the scattered bullets and equipment.

I found it all on accident the first night while trying to interview JB Pritzker. I was on the floor using a temporary credential and was in a rush before it expired. After finding him mid-interview, I was told by one of his assistants to wait over by an out-of-the-way doorway until he finished. It was there I overheard the guy manning the door talking about how Nancy Pelosi was about to pass through. After taking a picture with JB a few minutes later, I rushed back to the door and passed through, excited to try to add the former speak of the house to my “I’ve met them” list. Within the hour, I recruited a new friend and got a front-row seat to meet presidents, senators and other VIP. 

The next couple of nights were mostly a wash, as I mostly spent the time writing and unsuccessfully trying to score interviews. I also felt uncomfortable being there after I was palm-punched on Night 2 by a Secret Service agent while trying to meet Barack Obama. 

One particular highlight of the evening happened a couple of hours before Tim Walz spoke. I was writing about the Polin family when I heard the frenzied shutters of cameras — a sound I grew very familiar with over the course of the week. The weather vanes inside of my head started to spin as I popped out of my seat, waiting for a storm to hit. That’s when I saw the crowd of people push themselves and everything near them around the corner toward me. As I was shoved up against a wall, I peered into the shell of Secret Service and saw the familiar face of President Bill Clinton grinning back at me. We shook hands again as he walked off to make his speech. 

By the time I arrived on the final night, the fire marshal had already been called in. I spent a long time trying to slip into an open seat but could not find one, as they were all packed with desperate Beyoncé fans. With nowhere else to go but down, I found an open seat in front of a monitor and watched everything unfold.

By that time, I was an expert at all things DNC. I knew where the food was, where the parties were, and how to get up close to practically whomever I wanted. I was tired though. The course of the week drained me of my curiosity and courage, so I spent the majority of my time working on this article rather than finding new stories to add to it. After a few hours, I was considering leaving when all of a sudden, Kamala Harris accepted her nomination. I soon felt the arena rumble with the applauding force of 50,000 delegates, guests, reporters and volunteers; however, after the balloons dropped minutes later, the rumble grew louder and louder, something I wasn’t expecting. 

An excited Chuck Schumer was rushed by me first. A pensive Gavin Newsom came shortly after. By the time Nancy Pelosi got off the floor, the avalanche of leaving delegates had already caught up to her, nearly causing her to trip over herself as she was practically shoved into a safer area. 

That’s when the Secret Service started to sweep everyone out, acting upon a plan I saw them preparing earlier in the evening. It was at that point I knew I had to leave. As I ran full speed past a confused Ben Stiller, my last moments in the tunnel consisted of me pushing through a sea of attendees and out into the open ocean of protesters. It was all a rush at that point as the streets were blocked off amid the garble of various chants and shouts.

Even as I write this, it’s difficult knowing that I won’t be able to do anything like this again for at least four years. I would like to thank The Record for letting me have this amazing once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and giving me the creative control and freedom I needed to kick down a heavily guarded door of opportunity and experience one of the coolest weeks of my life. 

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