I love going to protests. They're so heartening, and soul-warming. I've been going to protests and demonstrations for various causes for fifteen years (pro-choice, violence against women, WTO, labor, anti-war, etc.), and the first 15 minutes of the demonstration is always the best. Everyone's energized, checking out each other's witty homemade signs, and the vibe is jubilant and hopeful; individuals who in their everyday lives feel isolated and angry come together and see, conceretely, that hundreds of people in their own community feel like they do. And for every person that takes the time and/or is able to show up, there are lots more who couldn't make it.
I approached yesterday's counter-inaugural protest on the Congress Ave. bridge with a bit less enthusiasm than usual, because lately I have not been feeling much about anything -- I have been tired of caring, tired of being mad, and my lack of emotion has been worrying me a little to tell you the truth. But in the first fifteen minutes of the protest I got the inoculation I needed. It doesn't matter how hokey or quaint a protest might seem to the majority of Americans -- when you're participating in one you are looking straight into the eye of this country. It's a beautiful thing. I decided to wait by the bridge for the marchers to arrive from the state capitol building, preferring to watch them appear in the distance and descend upon the bridge - more dramatic that way. The smallish Austin-sized contingent was led by 10 or 12 people on bikes, which is what I love about Austin protest marches -- the BMXers doing tricks, 20-somethings on their beach cruisers and rickety three-speeds, plus a couple mountain bikers all riding real slow in front of the walkers. Their presence makes an environmental statement all on its own, separate from the cause at hand, and it lends an Austin signature to the event.
After the cyclists, a big papier-mache head of George Bush on the body of a snake headed up the group of marchers. The obligatory drums were pounding, and as they approached the bridge the motorcycle cops began megaphoning their instructions to stay on the sidewalks (the marchers had managed to use one side of Congress Ave. as they made their way south to the bridge, even though they didn't have a city permit). Of course, this set up an immediate power struggle once on the bridge, because the crowd wants to step into the street and police want the crowd to stay on the narrow sidewalk. At this point I was in the middle section of the bridge and it was getting pretty crowdy because there were too many people for the narrow sidewalk. Cars were driving by honking approvals, except for one SUV whose passenger yelled "four more years" as it sped by. I felt the bridge moving a little from the weight of all the people, and having grown up in earthquake country I got a little nervous. Next I saw out of the corner of my eye some police in white helmets at the start of the bridge taking a few people down to the ground. This, combined with the crowd pressing ever closer, triggered some panic in me as I recalled the 1999 WTO protest in Seattle. I had ended up in some situations with large crowds where I couldn't escape and I was a sitting duck for police with pepper spray. Now I always follow my instincts and get the hell out. Call it post-traumatic stress if you want.
On solid ground at the start of the bridge, I actually had a better view of the police - they arrested three people, one of which they tasered unnecessarily. After the police van took them away, the energy level was sustained by the drums, several of which were stowed on the back of a pedi-cab by a guy wearing what looked like a dirty rabbit suit. It's usually at this point in a protest when people sort of wonder what to do next or what's going to happen next, and after awhile it starts to peter out. There was no one "leading" this event, so it really was an organically evolving situation. The police were commiserating over what to do with the crowds who clearly were not staying on the sidewalk, and they wisely decided to block off the bridge and let the people use the whole bridge. At this point everyone cheered, rushed out into the middle of street, and began jumping up and down, hands in the air, celebrating the apparent victory: "Whose streets? Our streets!"
I milled around taking pictures (sorry no digital camera so pics will have to wait) and observing as any sociologist would - heh heh. I admired the silver-haired whippet that a man had brought along with two other dogs, and wondered for the millioneth time why the hell do people bring their dogs who are afraid of the loud drumming? This poor whippet (think: small greyhound) was so petrified his tail couldn't get any more between his legs. A few frustrated after-work joggers tried to get through the crowd. Austin protests are small enough where it's possible to run into people you know, see people you recognize - and now that they had the roomy street people were socializing, some were dancing, and others straggled off to the sides or began to go home. My favorite thing I overheard: a teenage girl, her face sharpied with anti-Bush commentary, commented to her friend after she read a sign alluding to the fascism of our government, "it IS fascism -- my minister said so."
The most indelible image was the fifteen-foot tall rendering of the infamous Abu Ghraib prisoner in the black robe and hood, arms outstretched with electrical wires attached to his hands. It was fastened to the back of another pedi-cab, whose owner slowly pedaled through the crowd. On my way back up to Second St. I saw a few folks with signs standing at the intersection of Cesar Chavez and Congress, where the traffic was being diverted from the bridge. I overheard one say, "Well, we thought at least someone should see us." It seems the joke was on us, because giving us the street also meant that the 1,500 or so of us were quarantined off on the bridge where none of the downtown rush hour traffic would be able to see us. Oh well. I still left with lifted spirits, my step a little lighter, and hope for the future. And that is the real goal of a protest, I think, to rejuvenate a community and renew our commitment to action.
