#128 Demonstration

Politics gives me the fidgets. All the knee-jerk rhetoric. The football weekend ambiance. The blatant sleaze of self-interest. At best the daily political news is a source of comic relief. But it’s hard to laugh at terrorism, racism, imperialism, or war. They make you want to stand up and spit.

Still, I’ve always felt queasy about political demonstrations. The mob effect. The simplistic sloganeering. The hippie tribalism. Is a crowd of platitudinous peaceniks that different from a racist mob? When solitary voices become a thunderous tumult, do the urgings of individual conscience get drowned in the din? Does chanting replace discourse?

Of course it does. So it’s difficult for a rabid individualist to run with the pack, no matter how noble the call. Which leads to our marginalization. Politicians are pack animals. With them, all our isolate whining falls on deaf ears. The only way to be heard is to howl together, regardless how reductionist the rhetoric.

In an egalitarian world, those who shout loudest get the least respect. They are getting big-headed. The pragmatic man in a small town keeps his head down and seeks consensus in individual conversation. That’s fine in our village. In a mass society, unfortunately, quiet discourse never gets a public hearing. Only the loudmouths get heard, and they end up bellowing banalities.

The current banal slogans are wonderfully Orwellian: Homeland Security, War on Terrorism, Weapons of Mass Destruction, Militant Fundamentalism. We are supposed to be afraid, angry, belligerent, and self-righteous. Fear, Anger, Violence, and Sanctimony: The Four Horsemen of the Hyperbole.

Our country isn’t at risk because of domestic insecurity, we are under attack because of our external policies. But, if Americans can be made afraid of one another, and another sneak attack, we might overlook the effects of our cultural imperialism. If an erosion of civil liberties in the name of security serves the political interests of the Republican right, all the better.

You can’t make total war against stateless terrorist cells. You can only seek them out and eradicate them piecemeal. But an undeclared war which mobilizes the armed forces, inflates the military budget, excites the media, and silences dissent, is a demagogue’s wet dream. Nothing covers up domestic incompetence like an external enemy.

September 11 and Oklahoma City proved that weapons of mass destruction can be as simple as box cutters and agricultural chemicals. Our infrastructure is a house of cards that can only be defended by mutual trust and goodwill, no matter how much we’d like to protect ourselves with closed borders, hightech intelligence, and armed guards. Terrorism has no respect for a civil society, but you don’t defend against it by making society uncivil.

Americans need a bogeyman to project their hostility and paranoia on. Yesterday it was the Commies, today it’s the Islamic Fundamentalists. When the religious impulse is manipulated for political ends democracy is at risk –– in the Middle East or at home. We are appalled at the injustices of theocratic regimes in the Islamic world. It feels noble to be liberating women in Afghanistan, bringing democratic capitalism to the great unwashed, and overthrowing a theocratic regime. Under God.

The old liberals know all this is pantomime, but they’ve been dumbstruck by events, and the shrewd maneuvering of this administration. Not to mention the Left’s mealy-mouthed co-option under Slick Willie. Americans were shocked by September 11, and armed belligerence in the face of personal attack is as American as the OK corral. It is party policy to keep us scared and angry, and hanging tough. Al Qaeda, Saddam’s WMDs, now the North Koreans. Looks like the world is ganging up on the US of A, but we’ll git ‘em.

Yet there are reasons to be ambivalent about the Bushite policies. The proliferation of WMDs is a scourge on the planet. Saddam Hussein is a totalitarian monster. International terrorism is a plague. Liberals have tried to address these problems in the past by calling for vigorous non-proliferation policies and agreements, economic sanctions and armed intervention against genocidal states and rogue dictatorships, and by restricting arms sales and political support to such noxious clients as Saddam and the Taliban. So when the Bush Administration embraces similar policies it takes the Left’s breath away.

And maybe the rush to a war in Iraq is a brilliant ploy. It has galvanized the UN arms inspections and forced our potential allies to address the issues of WMDs and terrorist enclaves. If Hussein goes into exile and Iraq is partitioned, and/or democratized, without military action, wouldn’t that be clever? Dream on.

So the loyal opposition stands mute. And while we stew in our juices, our government prepares for total war in Iraq, shakes its fist at North Korea, tips the wink to the Israelis, and tells the UN to put up or shut up. We are gearing up for a war economy, clamping down on civil liberty, and watching those ragheads for any false moves.

I’m not one to grind my teeth in quiet desperation, but the political options all seem ineffectual. We lost at the polls. My representatives are either Republicans or chickenshit, or both. The national Democratic party is brain dead. I’m registered Green, but that’s just a grand gesture. Letters to the editor are so much air. Sign a petition? Is the only sensible choice to turn off the radio, forget about politics, and focus on my work? That’s been my strategy for a long time. Don’t agonize over what you can’t change.

Then along comes a stupid letter from the mayor of Lewiston to the Somali immigrants in that city. 1500 or more Somalis have moved to Lewiston in the last year, and they are stressing social services –– and shaking up the locals. The mayor asked the Somali community leaders to tell others not to come, his letter was published, and the whole issue became a big brouhaha. Peggy has friends in Lewiston, and she turned out for the first protest march against the mayor in December.

The racist Church of the Creator saw Lewiston as a good place to foment race hatred, and scheduled a mass gathering on January 11. When Peggy decided to attend the Diversity Rally in Lewiston that same day, I went along for the ride. I haven’t been to a political rally since the 60’s, and I wasn’t real eager. But maybe it was time for me to give witness –– and watch out for Peggy.

The rally was carefully choreographed. It took place in the Bates College field house, across town from the skinhead event, and security was heavy. No sign sticks allowed, no packs, no cameras, no, no, no. There was a metal detector at the door, and an officious young woman in a security T-shirt asked me to take off my hat after I was seated(?) The brothers in the row weren’t asked to show their dreds, though. Old white guys in fedoras are obviously more dangerous.

Ostensibly we were there to show solidarity with the Somali community, but I only saw four people in traditional Somali costume in the crowd of 4000. Still it was a love fest. The place was packed with old Liberals. The speeches went on and on about how good we were to be there, aren’t we loving and wonderful, I’m so proud, etc. Every major politician in Maine turned out, of course –– along with representatives of every oppressed minority group under heaven. Gays, Blacks, Hispanics, Women, the Developmentally Disabled, Teenagers, and Folk Musicians.

The only discordant note was sounded by a Somali organizer from Minneapolis, who said all this love talk was nice, but what were we going to DO!? He challenged the crowd to gather on the steps of City Hall that evening to demand the mayor’s resignation. (The mayor was, and is still, in Florida on “vacation.”) The challenge met with lukewarm applause. The rest of the love proclamations were greeted with cheers. It was so sweet my teeth ached. By the time we got into the fresh air, I was ready for some slam dancing just to get my sour juices flowing again.

But –– surprise, surprise –– I was glad I’d gone. I hadn’t stayed home and ignored a racist rally in our state. We didn’t accomplish any policy changes, or even make the Somali’s lives any easier (perhaps). But we gave witness to our best intentions, and shared a political solidarity –– at least on one issue. We were against hate. And I heard the man from Minneapolis’ question: what am I going to do?

So, when we got a call from an old friend in Washington, inviting Jim and me to the Anti-War Rally there last weekend, I wondered if it wasn’t time to do that, too. I was convinced the gesture was politically futile, ambivalent how I felt about the overthrow of Saddam Hussein, and uneager to schlep to DC in the dead of winter. There’s nothing like contrary impulses to fire my jets. Jim and I booked tickets on AMTRAK.

It’s been 35 years since I took the train, and I expected some rickety coaches full of wild-eyed college students passing joints and singing Kumbaya. Instead the Acela was sleek and modern and fast, full of polite middleclass travelers, and grossly overheated. I was dressed for the IRT circa 1964, and was half suffocated before we got out of Massachusetts.

Racing down the backside of the BosWash corridor is surreal. The SUVs on the interstate are rolling backwards. The industrial decay is silent and odorless. You catch glimpses of familiar city centers and the suburban streets of a forgotten childhood. New York’s truncated skyline rises up out of the Bronx, you are swallowed by tunnels, and then the towers reappear across the Jersey meadows. All the cold self-importance of New Yorkers, all the impersonal jostle of the city, all the anticipated hostility of America, none of them make it aboard the Acela. People are courteous and friendly and helpful. Where’s all that fear and belligerence we are suppose to display? Doesn’t America ride the train?

DC was cold as a nun’s buns. The deep tunnels of the Metro look like the stage set for an apocalypse, and the downdrafts are arctic. We slipslid uphill to Steve’s house, and plunged into discourse. The question: what should our protest signs say? Steve had laid in art materials, and we began roughing out placards.

It would be easy to espouse pure pacifism and simply proclaim NO WAR.! We wrestled with that in the 60s, however, and I find myself unable to rise to such purity. I would go to war to protect my family, or our free society. My objections to this Iraqi adventure aren’t just about bombing innocent civilians –– war in general –– I object to making war for imperial hegemony, to control the flow of oil, and for domestic political ends.

NO BLOOD FOR OIL! touches a nerve. But is it a red herring? So much of this administration’s policy is convenient for the corporate plutocrats who fund our politics, but is that the central issue? Some made that cry in 1990, and in the end, there was little American blood shed, and the oil fields of Kuwait were torched.

Steve opened with: NO UNILATERALISM! If we are going to stifle international terrorism, we can’t do it alone. If American imperialism is a fundamental cause of anti-American terrorism, then multi-national methods are a step back from the brink. The Lone Ranger paradigm is as dangerous as what they teach in the madrassas. We collaborated on an image of half a cowboy riding on a missile and wearing a lone star.

I proposed: GLUTTONS FOR PUNISHMENT! Illustrated with GWB in a fat SUV, waving a baseball bat out the window. Cultural imperialism incarnate. Corporate eco-terrorism run amok. And a nicely ambivalent phrase. Our protest, after all, is futile enough to make us gluttons for punishment.

Sara suggested: LET THE UN WORK! She turned the L into the UN building –– a nice counterpoint to the fallen towers –– and had an eye in the sky looking into a box with a bomb in it. Certainly our sentiment of the moment. But is this the ultimate solution? Are we hoping for world government? Some structure out there to order our behavior? Or are we yearning for a change of heart? Something within to reorder our priorities? For now, however, let the UN work.

We conjugated: EMPIRE = TYRANNY! Jim suggested an imperial eagle, juxtaposed to a gagged and manacled civilian. This cuts to the heart. The tyranny of the armed occupation on the West Bank is one root cause of anti-Americanism. Tyrannical regimes around the world are breeding grounds for terrorists. Saddam’s Iraq included. Since September 11 we have been systematically terrorized by this administration, which seem hell bent on imperial hegemony.

At the end of the evening we could agree on one more slogan: ALLIANCES NOT EMPIRES! Co-operative internationalism. If war can be avoided by diplomacy, let’s try it. If there will be war, let it be with international accord. Let’s stop playing the Texas Ranger.

Saturday we marshaled the troops, put on our signs, and Metro-ed to the Capitol District, a cadre of eight. My expectation of excited and rowdy hooligans jamming the subway was dashed. Just polite and smiling Americans carrying sings and wearing stickers, mashed together with middleclass Washingtonians going about their business.

As we approached the Mall on foot, bands of protestors flowed together. The side streets were clogged with busses –– from Texas and Chicago, Maine and Ohio. We began to hear the echo of loud speakers bouncing off the buildings, and our forward progress slowed to a crawl as we merged with hundreds of people wearing buttons and stickers, carrying placards, banners, drums and great big grins. The RAGING GRANNIES of ROCHESTER crossed our path, led by geriatric protestors in motor wheelchairs wearing knitted peace sweaters. Old rads handed out red rags we hadn’t seen since the 60s, while fresh-faced co-eds passed out stickers quoting Frederick Douglas. Families with babes in strollers navigated between face-painted teens and dreded Rastamen. The whole American circus.

The speakers were barely audible above the hubbub, and the atmosphere was more carnival than putsch. No stadium waves, no goose-stepping unison, no electrifying rhetoric. Vendors hawked hotdogs and coffee and pretzels. The temperature was below freezing, with a light breeze, and everyone milled about to keep warm, reading all the signs. The Mall was a sea of slogans

NURTURE NOT MURDER! on a grandmotherly lady. WAR IS BAD FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER SMALL CREATURES! carried by a child with peace-signs painted on both cheeks. Labor was well represented, with cadres from rust belt industries handing out lit and exhorting us through bullhorns. MONEY FOR SCHOOLS, NOT FOR BOMBS! A pair of scholarly types in lawn chairs holding up: WAR IS GOD’S WAY OF TEACHING AMERICANS GEOGRAPHY! and G.W.BUSH IS PRO LIFE (OFFER INVALID IN SOME CASES)! Bewhiskered Nam Vets Against the War in fatigues advertising WAR DOESN”T SOLVE THE PROBLEM, IT IS THE PROBLEM!

Anti-war slogans barely outnumbered anti-Bush signs. A middleclass gent in LLBeanery held up one reading THE EMPEROR HAS NO BRAIN! While Ramsey Clark demanded the impeachment of Dubya, chanting tribesmen and women snake-danced with slogans: DROP BUSH NOT BOMBS!, SAVE THE TREES, PRUNE THE BUSHES!, and EMPTY WARHEADS FOUND IN WASHINGTON! One peacenik marched back and forth in front of the stage holding high an 8-foot-square orange banner that just said FUCK BUSH! The farther down the Mall we wandered, the more it stood out. TV crews were assiduously aiming away from it.

And the media presence was thick (for all the lack of coverage the event received). Interviewers with sound crews coaching demonstrators to give the perfect sound-bite. Cameramen scrambling onto perches to get wide-angled views. Print hacks scribbling.

The police were out in force as well, but very low-key and helpful. The Capitol cops do this all the time. We were told the Mall was now completely monitored by surveillance cameras, and our faces would be checked by image recognition software, but I never felt Big Brothered. They’re welcome to my face. Say PEACE!

At one point a police mount dropped a fragrant pile on the street, and a protestor with a bullhorn immediately began warning the minglers to watch their step, Dubya had just lost his brain, and it was steaming on the pavement. DRUNK FRATBOY DRIVES COUNTRY INTO DITCH, STARTS WAR TO COVER UP! bumped into THERE’S A TERRORIST BEHIND EVERY BUSH!

Drum circles shuddered the air, competing with bullhorn sloganeering. A troupe of Korean dancers performed evolutions to their own drumming, while cameras clicked. Every other person seemed to be taking pictures, as though recording the ritual was necessary to being there.

It did feel like a grand, incoherent, unrehearsed, democratic ritual. Despite the rhetoric booming from speakers, there was no visible anger, no random violence, just a happy mob of dissidents banded together to witness opposition to this administration’s war policy. CONFORMITY IS A SOCIAL DISEASE!

After two hours of celebrity bombast, we were directed to converge on the march route toward the Naval Depot. Like a vast bathtub starting to drain, the sea of protestors funneled together, cheering and chanting and laughing at the slogans. IMPEACH THE OILIGARCY! marched alongside STOP RUMMY AND THE DUMMY! A towering tableau stood beside the route –– THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCLYPSE –– huge eyeless heads of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Ashcroft, held aloft by figures dressed in black.

We inched along in a cacophonous conga line. Chanting would swell on one side, and you’d fall into the rhythm, calling the responses, then a drum cadre would punctuate behind you in a cross rhythm, and you’d shift your steps. Where there were natural obstacles to the flow, activists with megaphones were staked out barking riffs. The beat kept changing as the crowd twined together. Although we all appeared to be moving at the same pace, every time you looked up there were different signs. BOMB TEXAS, THEY HAVE OIL TOO! and HOW DID OUR OIL GET UNDER THEIR SANDS? And my favorites: SEX TOYS NOT BOMBS! next to FIGHTING FOR PEACE IS LIKE FUCKING FOR VIRGINITY!

As we finally began to step out and head uphill, we looked back, and for the first time had a sense of how many of us there were. The Mall was still jammed behind us and the flood of humanity mixed with festive signage was a great joyful hoorah. Later the press gave various estimates of the numbers. At first 30-100 thousand. Then the Capitol police said there were 250-500 thousand. There was no way of telling in mid mosh.

Jim’s knee was hurting, Sara’s feet were cold, and my hips were stiffening up. The three of us had gotten separated from the others, and we took a vote. Yup. Time to pack it in. We edged out through the thin police cordon, stuffed our signs in a tip, and dove into the Metro. We came, we saw, we protested. Nobody’s mind had been changed, I suspected –– except mine.

I’d gone to DC with tremendous ambivalence. Depressed by the headlong military imperialism of the Bushites, but no fan of Saddam Hussein. Incensed by a policy of domestic fear-mongering, but distrustful of the peace movement’s absolute certainties. I remembered the protests of the Viet Nam era, when I was in the Navy, and how virulent the militancy of the activists was. Was I willing to join shock troops for peace, become a true believer? I was disgusted with the Bushites’ plutocratic cronyism, anti-environmental policies, Christian fundamentalist bias, and disregard of civil liberties, but I was unconvinced that marching in an anti-war protest would address any of those issues. I didn’t want to be just another yahoo in war paint.

I came away invigorated. Hundreds of thousands of Americans, coming together to celebrate our right to dissent, was thrilling to see. All kinds of citizens, banded together to question the wisdom of a unilateral rush to war, could still laugh and dance and be joyful –– for peace. I had gone to Washington feeling marginalized, politically impotent, and alone. I no longer feel alone.

If you feel out in the cold in the American political system, I recommend you go to the next public protest. You might discover that solidarity in dissent is a great cure for anxiety, and ambivalence, and being alone.

Whadda we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!