By Neil Harper of the Maine Wire
I drive into the Fighting Oligarchy Tour at Thompson’s Point featuring Bernie Sanders, Graham Platner, and Troy Jackson.
I park next to a man in a truck I had seen before at a previous Graham rally. He’s eating a sandwich. Meat and mustard fall from his mouth into his lap. Quick eye contact.
Suspicion is radiating from the man…
There’s always a low-grade tension when you’re working adjacent to conservative media at a Democratic rally.
Nobody was sure the Maine Wire was getting in.
Days prior, Jon and I had conspired a stealth operation: pretend we did not know each other. If Jon got denied access, I could still slip in and, at the very least, take photos.
I walk toward the building.
Jon is standing out front. He whips around and smiles.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
He walks toward me, shakes my hand, half laughing—
And then he moves on, continuing to report, asking locals questions.
By 4:00 p.m. the line starts to build.
I get in line with my camera, pretending not to be affiliated with Jon.
Jon is on a live stream with Maine Wire TV, getting flipped off by an elderly woman as I try to contain my smile “undercover.”
Then Hat Girl appears.
Every political rally has one. Clipboard. Liberal eyes. Possibly high on some pharmaceutical upper or downer.
She looks at me like a lower life form.
Hat Girl had a somewhat viral interaction with Jon in the past. As Jon attempted to enter a rally, she was there to stop him. She repeated some chant—possibly a dark, demonic invocation—to keep the Maine Wire at bay.
Hat Girl, I assume, is a volunteer or staffer with Graham Platner.
“Are you with press?” she asked.
“No, I’m independent, just here to take photos.”
“If you want, you can take your chances at the press door.”
“I’m okay. I’m independent.”
I stay in line, pretending to be civilian.
Hat Girl walks off.
But the real problem isn’t the press door. The real problem is Hat Girl suspects I’m with the Wire.
Cover likely blown.
After standing in line for ten or so minutes, private security approaches. A short bald man with an earpiece tells me I can’t bring my camera in.
Beautiful words for a photographer to hear.
“No problem,” I say, smiling while biting my teeth.
I step out of line and begin shooting the crowd of supporters entering the facility, not sure if I’m getting into the event.
Across the street, a family protests Graham with signs quoting old Reddit posts.
One of the signs reads:
“DUMB MOTHER F—
DIDN’T DESERVE TO LIVE” — Graham
A quote pulled from recent allegations.
A girl, maybe six years old, pushes an American flag into the dirt beside her family across the street from the Democratic convention.
Somehow the action, unplanned and innocent, feels symbolic.
A few minutes later, I watch Jon try to stop Troy Jackson in the parking lot for conversation. Troy acknowledges Jon but keeps walking.
I’m at a distance, but I try to take the shot.
I raise the camera. The protester’s American flag swings directly into frame.
“Damn it.”
Flag. Again. Flag. Again.
The universe conspiring against sharp composition.
I miss the shot.
After shooting as much as I possibly could, I sit and wait for Jon Fetherston’s next move.
A huddle of Troy Jackson volunteers stands nearby gossiping.
“Yeah, I think it’s funny…” one woman says. “Graham has so many bodyguards. Troy’s just moseying through. No protection.”
And she’s right.
Before the rally, Troy moves through the parking lot toward Bissell Brothers, probably for a pre-game drink before his speech.
Troy was still unknown, hadn’t reached the level of fame where one must worry about some lunatic trying to make a name for himself.
I turn my head. No Jon anywhere.
I check the Maine Wire live stream.
Jon made it inside.
I walk to the press door with my camera.
No argument, confrontation, or dramatic expulsion into the Portland streets.
Considering all the times Jon has been shoved away from press events in the past, getting waved into a Platner rally feels less political and more biblical.
I pass through the metal detector.
For one brief moment, I’m convinced the machine will erupt into sirens—a trespasser with not enough institutional credibility.
Nothing. The guard waves me through.
It’s a miracle.
I’m greeted by Graham’s press secretary, pleasant and happy to take me to the press box.
“I wasn’t sure you would let us in,” I tell her.
“We want to include everyone,” she says diplomatically.
I greet Jon.
“You made it,” he says.
Then, while talking into his phone during a live Maine Wire session:
“We found our guy.”
Inside, the room is filling in, vibrating, over-amplified.
Overpriced craft beer is being poured. Volunteers buzz around.
Aging progressives in fleece L.L. Bean jackets stare toward the stage, awaiting the words of a prophet.
An army had gathered to fight against the “oligarchy”—whatever that meant.
“Fight Oligarchy” started sounding less like a movement and more like corporate branding.
A few local bands open the show. Veterans and campaign staff rotate across the stage.
The campaign leans heavily into using American flags after the unearthed Reddit posts involving veterans.
Troy Jackson walks the stage and works the room.
“I’ll pass those god damn bills,” he says.
The crowd erupts.
Then the speeches sharpen into blood sport.
“Corrupt politicians like Susan Collins sold us out,” Troy says.
The audience roars louder now—not because they haven’t heard it before, but because they have heard it before. Over and over again.
Then the torch is handed to Platner.
He walks on stage.
Platner lands the line everyone came for:
“We will defeat the oligarchy.”
“We will defeat corrupt politicians like Susan Collins…”
The crowd reacts like this is brand-new information.
In the middle of shooting in the press box, a beautiful woman walks up to me and offers her hand.
There’s a split second where professionalism collapses.
She’s tall, black-haired, composed in a way that immediately makes me forget how language works.
“Hi, what’s your name?” she asks.
We shake hands. I stumble over my words.
“Who are you with?” I ask, assuming she is affiliated with Fox or one of the other news groups.
“Where do I live?” she responds, confused, mishearing my question.
Instantly, I feel a shroud of stupidity hover over me.
“No,” I say quickly. “Who do you work with?”
Jon Fetherston watches the entire interaction—my attempt to speak to a woman going up in smoke.
“I’m one of the managers with Graham’s campaign,” she says.
“Oh… very cool… very nice to meet you.”
She walks off.
I look at Jon. He seems amused. It’s possible I will have nightmares about the interaction for days to come.
Platner finishes his speech and Bernie takes the stage.
Platner embraces Bernie like a disciple greeting a prophet.
They look into the crowd—signs frantically waving, a sea of converts.
Bernie begins speaking.
Jon looks at me.
“Let’s get out of here.”
As we leave, Jon is confronted by a tall liberal man.
“Not harassing homeless people today?”
Jon shrugs it off.
Depending on the room, Jon was famous or infamous.
In a den of Bernie supporters, Jon is public enemy number one.
– Neil Harper
What? Is that a NAZI salute?