Away from the inquisitive views of the cameras, the press and the politicos at both the Republican and Democratic National Conventions was a veritable army of workers toiling tireless hours at cash registers, in utility rooms and in kitchens at both Cleveland's Quicken Loans Arena and Philadelphia's Wells Fargo Center.
While attendees enjoyed air-conditioning, open bars and complimentary meals at restaurants rented out for brand awareness by media companies, these workers put in overtime hours, toiled through double-shifts and went without sleep.
For them, the conventions were not about nominating the next president of the United States. Nor were they about unifying an American political party, developing an articulate party platform or networking with others to call in favors over the next four years.
For the working people of Ohio and Pennsylvania, the conventions were merely another large event. The security was tighter and the people were better dressed. But ultimately, the national political conventions were little different than a convention of stamp collectors or used-car salesmen.
"They're all a bunch of liars and crooks as far as I care," said Derek Johnson, a black man in his early fifties from North Philly who jumped at the chance to earn a few extra dollars as a cook during the DNC. "I like Obama, he gets it. I even voted for him. But these guys, all of them, are something else."
Johnson works for a national staff-contracting company, coincidentally headquartered in Philadelphia. His job consists of shuttling his body around to various commercial kitchens in and around the Philadelphia metropolitan area, where he typically works 12-hour shifts for $7.25 an hour, Pennsylvania's minimum wage.
For Johnson, the DNC was "a good gig."
"It's easy for me to get to," he said, referencing Philadelphia's Broad Street Subway, on which most of our conversation took place. "You know, sometimes I gotta take two or three buses to get to a job. This time it's right off the train. There's a stop, Erie it's called, about 10 minutes of walking from my house."
Aside from himself, Johnson supports his aging and diabetic mother, helps out his daughter and granddaughter when he can, and babysits his neighbor's children on Sundays, usually the only day he doesn't work. Seventy-hour workweeks are just the norm. If the boss asks him to do overtime, he does it. He doesn't want to lose his job.
"I mean, it's not that bad, you know? I'm a cook. I never have to worry about going hungry since I can always eat at work," Johnson said. "It's the facilities people who have it rough."
"Facilities people" means, more or less, the janitors and the cleanup crews. At the party conventions, many of these people worked at night, clocking in at 10 p.m. and sweeping, mopping and collecting garbage until daybreak.
Shermame Jackson, a 27-year-old black woman who moved to Cleveland from Dayton, Ohio, five years ago, is one of these people. Jackson lives in an aging and decrepit part of Cleveland known as Kinsman. We first met while waiting for Cleveland's "Health Line," a bus rapid transit line that is anything but rapid, at close to 11 p.m. on the second-to-last day of the Republican National Convention. As she walked up the platform and saw the "time till next departure" listed, she all but exploded: "Nineteen fucking minutes?!"
Jackson works two jobs in downtown Cleveland. As a cleaning woman in a hotel, she works the owl shift — a time filled with people she called "inconsiderate white people."
On Wednesdays, Jackson's day begins at 3:00 a.m. She walks 15 minutes through desolate streets to board a "usually packed" night bus into the city center. Her shift at the hotel begins at 4 a.m. and runs until 1 p.m. Then she showers and changes into more presentable clothes for her next job, a part-time gig as a cashier in a downtown drugstore that runs from 2 p.m. until 10 p.m. At both of these jobs, Jackson earns $8.10 hourly.
"I hate Wednesdays. I work late on Tuesdays also, so I usually have to go do this whole day on three hours of sleep, four if I'm lucky," she said. "Sometimes I can get in a nap between jobs."
Asked about the Republican convention, Jackson just rolled her eyes.
"Those people don't get it. It's not like a race thing either," she said, anticipating my next question. "There's this white lady at [the hotel] who's got it even harder than me. She's got this disabled daughter. But those people, they don't get it. Any of it."
On whether or not she's voted before, Jackson said she hasn't, somewhat ashamedly.
"I mean, I wanted to vote for Obama," Jackson said. "I registered, took time off from work and everything. But I remember that day [in 2012] I couldn't find the place to vote. It wasn't at the place it said it was on the slip that they mailed to me."
Jackson is married and has two young daughters, ages 6 and 4. She and her husband used to have two steady — albeit minimum wage — incomes and hours that allowed them to trade-off care for their children. But Jackson says her husband was injured in an accident that prevented him from working. He lost his job, and though he is almost healed, he hasn't succeeded in finding another.
"I mean, the silver lining in all this is that we don't have to worry about the kids right now. Money is tight, but he can take care of them," Jackson said. "I'm scared of what'll happen if our hours don't work out as good as they did before when he gets another job. I don't wanna leave them alone [after school]."
For Johnson and Jackson, the rhetoric about American unity and economic development at the two conventions is nothing but the same political mantra that's been uttered for generations. Their lives, by their own admission, are plagued by the same long hours and low pay that their parents experienced. The same "system" that "punished" their grandparents for being poor and black exists today, with only marginal gains.
Asked if she would rather have Clinton or Trump as president, Jackson replied bluntly, "What's the difference? It's not gonna change for me."
Reach Contributor Matt Tinoco here, or follow him on Twitter.
Annenberg Media