Late one night, a woman knocked on the door of my grandparents’ farm in desperation. She had been beaten badly, once again, by her husband, and feared for her life and the life of her small child.

According to my mom, my grandfather turned her away, saying something like… “A man has a right to do as he sees fit in his own home… A good neighbor wouldn’t interfere.”

My grandmother pleaded with him to make an exception, to allow the woman to stay at least one night… But Granddad’s “no” was absolute.

My grandmother laid siege to her own battlefield with silence. She didn’t speak to Granddad for months.

Mom never told me what happened to the woman, but in the mid 1930’s, in rural Kansas, the woman’s options for refuge beyond the walls of her neighbor were most likely nonexistent.

Last week, the Obama administration opened a path for asylum for foreign women who are victims of severe domestic abuse. This reverses the stance of the Bush administration which has been central to a legal battle over whether or not abused women can be considered refugees.

Suspicion rules the ivory tower, where cynicism reigns.
The bold hopes of tomorrow cast as artifacts of shame.

Fear becomes the god of all, his white hot eyes ablaze.
It’s midnight on the precipice of dreams of bright new days.

Below the edge lie pit bulls, bedecked with luscious lips,
A smattering of winks and nods amid steaming piles of shit.

Why must we question policy, why do we want to know?
Up means down, right means wrong, and change means status quo.

How dare we dream that poverty is not God’s punishment
For being born of poor folks whose existence gives offense.

Much easier to dream of wealth that trickles down a corporate leg
Blessing those with opportunity who have the fortitude to beg.

Leave us now, oh messenger of fear, cast out your evil ways.
Leave us on the precipice of dreams of bright new days.

I got the chance to hear Dan Rather speak on Wednesday of the Democratic Convention. “Journalists should be skeptical, not cynical," said Rather.

Those words were ringing in my head most of Thursday evening at Invesco Field. I had retained a pretty good dose of skepticism, if not cynicism. The careful harmonization of speeches, music, cheering and flag waving of the previous three nights had left me wondering if any of this convention was real.

Sitting in the stands with a clan of media, the skepticism was palpable throughout the evening. Crowds would begin “the wave” .... and it would somehow flatten as it hit the media section, only to surge again once more as it hit the next section.

Bill Clinton rocked the crowd at the Democratic convention last night. His presence on stage set the crowd wild.

I would never have thought that would be possible nine years ago when he was impeached, and became somewhat of an embarrassment to the Democratic party.

This is a testament to the disillusionment of the last eight years. Democrats are nostalgic for the prosperity of the 1990’s and are pinning their hopes on the fact that Bill and Hillary have undeniably lent their support to Barack Obama.

As one who’s only been blogging for a little over two weeks, it’s an overwhelming experience for me to be rubbing elbows with some of the biggest and most prolific bloggers in the country here at the DNC.

I’ve spent the last 18 years selling print media advertising, and touting the stellar attributes of a community newspaper. The last few years, I had struggled as an ad rep to bring my advertisers online.

Traditional media has been my life, so the idea of self-publication through blogging has been an idea that I’ve approached with some level of fear. Like many, I envisioned bloggers as trolls that enjoyed slinging mud from the comfort of their mother’s basement.

Convention Day One:

From inside the tent, all that can be heard is the steady chatter of bloggers connecting with their bloggees. What are they all writing? I want to stand over their shoulders and check out their innermost thoughts on the convention or whatever they’re writing about.

Traditional media members are here, too. Videotaping, photographing and interviewing bloggers..... while the bloggers blog about traditional media. The hunter has become the hunted.

There are sofas available here for bloggers that don’t want to leave the comforts of home. Tables are lined up for more focused and deadline-driven bloggers.