In honor of the Democratic National Convention, which starts today, here’s my story about the time I got punched in the face by a Senator. It’s a heartwarming tale for the whole family, so gather round, homechickens.

The summer of the 2000 Democratic Convention was hot and muggy. We descended upon the city of Los Angeles, largely without any major discernible purpose other than to experience the convention, and flooded the house of my movie-actress aunt with our unwashed bodies and ripe enthusiasm. The subway there had just opened up (I guess “reopened” is more accurate), and the cars were still clean and shiny with that faint scent of plastic, so every day we’d drive to the nearest station, dump the car, and then take the subway downtown to the convention area. The subway was so disorganized we didn’t even have to pay for tickets, half the time.

Los Angeles had prepared for the convention sort of like you organize for mass rioting. This was in the heady days before 11 September, so I don’t think terrorism was on anyone’s brain, but rampant hippies certainly were. We were cordoned to particular “protest zones” in front of the convention center, and the daily marches followed specific routes. The LAPD lined the routes, glowering and rattling their billy clubs in the store gratings, and most of us remembered that RAMPART wasn’t that long ago.

I had, needless to say, a blast. Indymedia had set up a temporary command post near the convention center, so we were in and out of that building all day, and I went to events at the Shadow Convention, and one of our party managed to score a press pass to actually get inside, instead of milling around outside. We marched in the heat and talked to police and waved at the citizens of Los Angeles as they leaned out their windows to stare down at the invasion. We ate weird food, pounded the sidewalk, and met all sorts of interesting people.

I still remember that I was wearing a hanky with strawberries on it to protect my scalp from the sun, but the rest of me was largely burnt to a crisp, as was everyone else. I found a picture from the convention the other day, actually, and there we all are, sunburned under a tree in my aunt’s yard.

At any rate, on one of the days of the convention, the protesters decided to try and block access for the delegates. This was actually pretty easy to do, because the system of protest zones and various inner circles made the number of entrances and exits rather limited; find the gaps, plug them, and no one gets in or out.

I somehow managed to get separated from everyone else, and I ended up linking arms with a massive Teamster on one side, and a tall history major with glasses on the other. This, I think, is why the Senator approached me, because I probably looked like a weak point in the line, weighing around 110 pounds soaking wet at the time as I did.

First, he tried remonstrating with me, and occasionally gesturing. His convention pass had slipped inside his suit, so all I could see were the top of the letters reading “SENATOR,” and his Aide next to him kept calling him “Senator” which was also a pretty good tip off. I held my ground, as did everyone else in the line (at least before the LAPD started hosing us from the fire hydrants, which was actually appreciated, because it was so hot), and finally, the Senator, irritated from the prickly heat and the unwashed masses, hauled back and decked me in the face.

I would have staggered backwards, but the Teamster and the history major had a firm grip, so instead my head bowed back from a moment, and then snapped forwards again. The Senator seemed sort of startled that I was still standing, although honestly he hadn’t hit me that hard, so I don’t know what I expected.

The Aide was aghast, and a little bubble of silence settled on our section of the line for a moment.It was the Teamster who broke it.

“You did not,” he said “just hit a woman. I could not possibly have just seen that, Senator.”

The Senator looked at the Teamster, and realized that there was a whole lot to look at, mostly muscle, and he started to back away slowly.

“Do it again,” said the Teamster, “and I’ll hit you so hard your liver will come out your asshole.”

With that, the Senator and the Aide melted back into the crowd, and sound seemed to rush back in. I peered up at the Teamster and shouted “thanks,” and he replied “for what?” And that was that.

Until the next morning, anyway, when I had the beginnings of a shiner and a story for the ages.