Orangeburg, S.C. — The invasion is nearly over.
After three long weeks of being poked and prodded by political doctors, the residents of the Palmetto State will soon be able to resume their normal, quiet lives. They’re all holding their breath for Saturday night’s primary, where someone – anyone – will get a thumbs up from the state’s democrats. And then, only then will the hordes of reporters and volunteers and movie stars and old-head politicos leave sweet South Carolina.
This means that parents visiting their children at the University of South Carolina will be able to book a hotel room again. And South Carolina State University students will travel to Atlanta to see superstars like Usher in person, instead of seeing them on campus for a candidate. Old men sitting on street corners in Orangeburg will no longer interrupt their conversations to respond to random questions delivered by random White reporters hailing from the BBC, the Wall Street Journal and CNN.
Even the Black newspaper here can go back to normal after its managing editor endured the following, ridiculous question (posed by another newspaper reporter she was reluctant to name): “Where can I find some Black women to quote for my story?”
Something about all this hoopla over a state full of very tiny, very poor towns feels a bit disingeniuous and manufactured. The Obama headquarters here buzzed with excitement, overflowed with cars and certainly kept many pizza delivery guys happy. But as one Clinton worker noted: “Well, I got a job until January 26th. Then I’ll get fired. That’s what they don’t tell you when they sign you up.”
Pretty soon the all-seeing presidential eye will leave this land of mustard-colored barbecue and Gulf oysters- trading it all for the deserts of California and the uncertainty of Midwest swing states.
Then what?
The cluster of old men and young men who sift through the ancient gas station on Magnolia Street in Orangeburg say they’ve been here before. Their town and their county is the pinnacle of the Black vote here in South Kakalacki. After their votes are taken, as has happened in decades of elections past, the politicians will fade away and the residents won’t see another superstar again unless it’s at the movie theatre. And that seems unlikely in a town where person after person streams into the old gas station to buy one, single, solitary cigarette. It’s only 30 cents. No one here buys the whole pack.
“They’ve been flooding us, it’s true,” says William Hickson, 71, sitting on a stool inside the College Corner All-American Gas station, where nothing is digital and the coffee is free. It’s a place that has the feel of a barbershop, yet sells penny candy, Colt 45, Trojans and Little Debbie snacks for the students who come by with the munchies.
For the old-heads who collect here everyday to talk, the memories run deep. Obama isn’t the only one who tried to catch the attention of the college students at nearby SCSU and Clafin University. Jesse Jackson did it too, back in 1984. Jackson signed up plenty of students.
“They registered like the devil,” remembers Hickson, a ward leader in those days. “But after it was over you could tell who registered with Jesse because they didn’t show up.”
This is not to say that Obama’s kids won’t come through. It is to say that these seasoned gentlemen have seen it all and they know that, though many among them live in tiny, two bedroom shacks, no one running for office can afford to skip them over. No one would dare, they say, since O-burg’s ace in the hole is not the president, but the majority whip, Senator James E. Clyburn.
“In this town, they know their power,” says Ulysses S. Jarvis Jr., 78, dressed smartly in Sunday pants and a pony hair, wide-brimmed hat. “We have a good reputation.” — A .P. S.
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