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Photo
by: Miriam Axel-Lute
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From
New York, With Outrage
Peaceful, Plentiful,
Powerful
First-timers
and veteran activists from the Capital Region join the huge
turnout for Sunday’s historic march, and help send the RNC
a pointed message: We have had enough
‘I’m
going in the deep water,” says Nicola with a small laugh.
“It’s not like a little small-town thing.”
It’s nearly 8 AM, and Nicola has been ensconced in her seat
toward the front of the Yankee Trails bus for well over an
hour. One of the many first-time protesters on the bus, she
didn’t sleep so well last night. At 3 AM she got up and turned
to her Bible for reassurance. It opened to a passage in which
Paul is imprisoned “for speaking out against the leaders of
the time,” and God tells him to be brave. Taking that message
to heart, Nicola was able to get a few hours of shut-eye before
making the trip from her Glenville home to Albany where she
got on the bus for the ride to United for Peace and Justice’s
massive anti-Bush and antiwar march on the eve of the Republican
National Convention.
Nicola has a hard time picking out which issues are the most
pressing, but she wants money redirected from tax breaks for
the rich to education, and says we need new strategies to
deal with terrorism beyond traditional warfare. Her motivations
for going to Manhattan today include knowing she’s not alone
in her views, wanting to be counted, and hoping she may “inspire
someone who may have been teetering about who to vote for.”
Stylishly dressed and soft-spoken, she doesn’t look like a
stereotypical protester, and neither do a majority of the
people on bus 240. There are more polo shirts than T-shirts,
lots of sensible shoes and baseball caps, and one man in the
front of the bus wearing a shirt with a flag pattern superimposed
on a deer head and the words “Hunting: An American Tradition.”
The atmosphere is not exactly tense, but it is a little grim.
Unlike at the massive direct actions of 1999 and 2000, the
feeling is not one of pushing necessary change forward, but
rather of holding back encroaching disaster. Few people are
here because they expect it to be fun.
“I
just feel sort of desperate,” says Sherry Marty, who drove
into Albany this morning from western Massachusetts with her
daughter. “I hope that enough people come, that someone else
will pay attention who hasn’t been paying attention.”
“I
consider myself to be a patriot and what I’m seeing now has
nothing to do with democracy. It’s almost enough to make me
physically ill,” says Mike, from Minerva, also traveling with
his daughter.
“I
very much felt an onus to come out to do something because
I write letters to editors and sign petitions and at some
point you have to get on your feet and do something,” explains
Chicago transplant Brady G’sell.
“[Bush]
hides behind the flag and he hides behind Christianity,” says
Bill Brooks of Scotia. “I’m a Christian, and I resent the
fact that he thinks he’s serving this country by divine right.”
Brooks isn’t worried about police harassment, but he is concerned
that the demonstration be peaceful so it won’t “hurt Kerry’s
chances.”
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Photo
by: Miriam Axel-Lute
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The
issues that brought out the newbies and the veteran activists
are pretty much the same—the war in Iraq, loss of civil liberties,
constitutional rights and democratic integrity, environmental
degradation, economic fairness. So are their hopes for the
march, which are modest and realistic: They want honest and
fair media coverage, to feel among like-minded people, and
to demonstrate to fellow Americans and the rest of the world
that there is active, and most importantly diverse, dissent
against what is summarized as “the Bush agenda.”
The issue of being able to protest at all is also alive, with
the fight over a rally permit [“Orange, Smorange,” FYI, Aug.
19] fresh in everyone’s minds. “It’s disappointing that the
Republicans seem to be so welcomed, but folks that are thinking
critically and trying to express their views are not welcomed
in the same way,” says Louise McNeilly.
Students for Peaceful Alternatives, down from SUNY Potsdam,
felt it a little more personally; they were stopped at 3 AM
by the border patrol and asked if they had terrorists in their
trunks.
“I
feel that if George W. Bush is reelected this’ll be my last
ever chance to exercise my constitutional rights,” says Jason
Chapman, another first-time protester.
As important as the diversity of the march is, it is still
the longtime activists who have made it possible for so many
people to get there. The Monday before, the usual suspects—core
antiwar/progressive activists who likely couldn’t tell you
how many protests of this nature they’ve been to—are on their
own in the Social Justice Center on Central Avenue. The group
of eight, simultaneously weary and wired, struggle under the
gaze of Martin Luther King Jr. posters and a rack of colorful
political postcards to stick to an agenda as they tackle the
daunting task of coordinating the transportation to the protest.
They have five buses reserved, but after the mailed-in checks
and reports from various stores selling the tickets are painstakingly
tabulated (“No you can’t put it on the computer and alphabetize
it,” says the Ashcroft-era-minded woman opening the mail.
“I’m buying a ticket and I refuse to have my name on a computer.”),
they have only enough people to fill two buses. They agree
to cancel two of the five they had reserved, figuring last-minute
types will fill the third.
The logistics are so overwhelming there is hardly time to
be disappointed at the ticket sales so far. At one point two
different people are on cell phones trying to reach people
who have critical information while two other conversations
are going on and the facilitator is trying heroically to get
the discussion back on track. Radio stations need to be called,
fliers of emergency phone numbers compiled, plans for getting
from where the buses are parking in New Jersey in to the march
figured out. Most people in the room have multiple responsibilities
for the week, leading more than once to the silence familiar
to any overtaxed group where everyone is hoping someone else
will break down and volunteer for a given task.
At one point someone volunteers people who aren’t present
to be bus captains, and there’s a momentary pause of relief
before the room realizes that’s not OK, and someone insists
on calling the people in question to see if they’re actually
willing.
And yet, on Sunday morning at 6:30 AM, there are four buses
waiting outside the Madison and Eagle streets parking garages
and another on its way filled with members of Bethlehem Neighbors
for Peace. Joe Seeman, who has been the phone contact for
the buses, still looks frazzled as he tries to account for
people who have paid for seats and determine how many, if
any, are free, but overall those who were at the organizing
meeting look like a weight has been lifted from their shoulders.
A swell of people had made their decisions at the last minute,
nearly filling another two buses, and thanks to Albany’s status
as a Southwest Airlines hub, others had flown in from Dallas,
Chicago, and Florida to fill up the remaining seats. The hard
work and scrambling was paying off, and the Capital Region
was on its way to represent at the RNC.
Sunday afternoon, from the middle of a wall-to-wall packed
and sweltering Seventh Avenue, it is easy to believe you are
in the middle of the largest protest the city has seen in
decades, but also completely impossible to get a real sense
of the scale—400,000 according to organizers, 250,000 according
to mainstream radio reports that day, and 100,000 according
to a surprising number of newspapers. In the hours it takes
to move a dozen blocks, not losing your companions in the
press of bodies, staying hydrated, and avoiding being offered
your 20th socialist newspaper compete with taking in the swirl
of different people represented, bouncy drum rhythms, and
creative signs.
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Photo
by: Miriam Axel-Lute
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For
most of the Capital Region folks, the day passes without incident,
aside from sore feet. They inch their way up to Madison Square
Garden, chant “Go Home” at the cordoned off convention area,
boo the hotels draped with red-white-and-blue bunting and
“Welcome RNC” banners, and shout “Change the channel” at the
huge Fox News screen at the corner of 34th street. After the
rubbernecking at the Garden, the march thins out considerably,
and groups of people drop by the wayside to rest their feet
and eat some lunch before heading down the u-shaped march
route to Union Square.
It might be partially exhaustion and relief, but the group
that trickles into bus 240 around 6 PM is a considerably more
relaxed one than the one that had headed out to negotiate
the PATH trains eight hours earlier. They speak more softly,
but more happily, pleased with the diversity of what they
saw, the absence of violence or police harassment, and the
overall turnout. They have been counted, done what they can
for now.
“I
was impressed, given the size of the crowd, how pretty much
respectful people were,” says Mike. “The energy was terrific.”
Kerry Brooks is even pleased with the counterprotesters. “Good
for them,” she says. “They knew not everyone agreed with them
and they would be in the vast minority.” She had a little
more trouble, actually, with the communists. “You have the
right to do that, that’s what our country’s all about,” she
says, “but it’s kind of ironic that they were doing that while
we’re all trying to exercise our democratic rights.”
For those like Greg from New Lebanon and Jim from Albany,
who were expecting a historic event, there’s hope at least
for now that this was indeed one for the textbooks.
And Nicola made it through her deep water. In fact, she says,
seeing all the children there “made me wish I’d brought my
son.”
maxel-lute@metroland.net
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Photo
by: Rick Marshall
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Down
and Out at the RNC
In
which a Metroland reporter strides confidently into
the Republicans’ midst, and is forced to toast George W. Bush
in order to make it out alive
I’m
in a bar on 33rd Street with Beverly and Hannah, operations
assistants for the Republican National Convention, and I just
toasted the notion of electing George W. Bush for another
four years.
We’ve spent the last hour discussing the choice of New York
City as host for the Grand Old Party’s bash, and the two ladies
from Arkansas have let their matching white cowboy hats slip
way back on their heads while they drink vodka tonics. This
is the closest I’ve come to the actual convention in 48 hours,
and I’m getting desperate.
“I’ve
always loved Manhattan,” Beverly tells me, “and now I can
do two of my favorite things—do some great shopping and help
George W. Bush get the four more years he deserves!”
“To
four more years!” echoes Hannah, raising an arm of her red
dress to repeat the toast. They look over at me expectantly,
so I shrug and raise my glass again.
Make no mistake—the Republicans knew exactly what they were
getting into by bringing their party to the Big Apple. In
fact, in the last 48 hours it’s become increasingly apparent
that not only did they know what they were getting into, but
that I, in fact, didn’t have a clue.
Now, just a few blocks away, the Republicans’ master plan
is taking a clearer form. The bullies are winning, and I’ve
been seeing it all go down.
I arrived in Manhattan a day ago to report on the counterconvention
scene—that is, the various protest activities going on around
the city in response to the Republicans’ visit. Some were
permitted, some negotiated, some planned as peaceful civil
disobediance, some just cultural events. It seemed like an
easy enough task, as demonstrations were scheduled throughout
the four-day affair. By most accounts, the choice of New York
City was anticipated to be a monumental mistake by Republican
decision makers, an ill-timed and overconfident slip-up that
would cost them the election.
But it quickly became apparent how far from the truth that
assessment was. The city had quickly become a police state,
and with a heightened terror alert and the presence of high-ranking
officials—including Vice President Dick Cheney, who arrived
in town that day—nearly 32,000 officers were locking down
the proceedings. No day off, overtime rule or vacation was
going to stand in the way of the Republicans’ party.
“We’ve
only had two years to prepare for this,” a friend of mine
in the NYPD laughed, “and we still haven’t decided how to
handle most of it. Today was supposed to be my day off—tomorrow,
too—but instead we’re working 16-hour days, seven days a week.
Hell, I think we’ve got more police than protesters.”
Set to coincide with Monday’s convention kickoff was the Still
We Rise march, a joint effort by various social action groups
around the state. Event organizers had mapped out a route
that would take them within sight of Madison Square Garden,
the convention headquarters, but a glaring inconsistency quickly
revealed itself in the city’s policy toward the demonstrations.
While many of the city’s streets were closed whenever a delegate
was traveling from place to place, there was no such kindness
extended to the masses protesting the event. As was the case
for the rest of the marches occurring during the convention
(except for the one mass permitted march on Sunday, before
most of the delegates arrived), police forced the Still We
Rise masses to navigate a circuitous route that took them
far away from the convention—and out of sight of their intended
audience, the delegates.
Despite an oppressive heat, participants in the march were
generally good-natured about the redirection, and the squads
of security that lined their path—nearly one policeman for
every marcher—were given little reason for concern. (Earlier
that day, however, I was resting on a bench in Union Square
when I overheard a nearby policemen’s walkie-talkie refer
to the Still We Rise march as “anarchist activity,” and a
warning went out to look for more of the same.)
More direct results of the heightened security were clear
later on, as several events—including a massive rally sponsored
by rap mogul Russell Simmons—were rumored to have been canceled
due to insurance problems. Apparently, it costs a significant
amount of money to hold a rally when the city’s on Orange
Alert.
Monday, which had once appeared to be a busy day for protest-related
events, soon dwindled to only two major actions: the Still
We Rise march and a similar procession that started at the
United Nations and worked its way toward the convention, only
to be turned away when it approached Madison Square Garden.
In hindsight, I should have expected the chaos of A31, Tuesday’s
collection of protests, as everyone seemed a bit too gracious
during the previous day’s actions. For the second day in a
row, the sun was relentless, and tempers were beginning to
flare. Police were tense, as another group of protesters had
been arrested Monday night for attempting to approach the
convention center and hindering nearby traffic.
This police presence was certainly hard to ignore. The streets
around Madison Square Garden and delegates’ hotels had already
been shut off to the public, with wartime-style checkpoints
erected at each end—complete with vehicle-stopping barriers
and sharpshooters positioned on nearby rooftops. On the streets,
helicopters would pass overhead every few minutes, and soldiers
armed with automatic rifles supplemented the NYPD’s ranks.
Officers lugged radiation detectors and bomb-squad equipment
around the convention site as K-9 units stood guard on the
fringes. New York City, it seemed, had been invaded.
But who were the invaders and who were the invaded? By most
accounts, those who worked in the city were afforded the same
consideration as protesters by much of the police force, herded
from corner to corner and subject to aggressive questioning
upon approaching the convention or delegates’ hotels.
In order to approach the convention site, a set of color-coded
passes determined how much access was available to an individual,
some allowing entrance only if the bearer was accompanied
by a delegate. Throughout the day, crowds of Young Republicans
in badly fitting suits could be found hovering near a checkpoint,
hoping to earn a delegate’s blessing. Any delegates who wished
to travel around the city received VIP treatment, with lanes
of traffic halted for their passage and streets shut down
when they traveled by foot. Manhattan was their playground,
and for those of us deprived of the Republican-approved press
credentials, opportunities to interact with attending Republicans,
let alone the delegates, were few and far between.
And maybe that’s where the genius of it all lies. Maybe that’s
where Beverly and Hannah have got the right idea—New York
City just might be the best place in the world for the Republican
Convention. In a state that consistently votes on the Democrat
line, there was no reason to believe that any of the chaos
accompanying the Republicans’ arrival would cost a single
electoral vote. In a post-Sept. 11 world, full of NYPD hats
and terrorist scares, who could question the men with the
badges?
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Photo
by: Rick Marshall
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The
few delegates I encountered seemed well aware of their favored
position, and had the sort of swagger that 32,000 trained
bodyguards on someone else’s payroll tends to provide. And,
as one of the president’s campaign advisors put it on the
day before the event, the angry crowds were simply considered
“Democrat sympathizers.”
Of course, that a significant portion of the protesters called
for an alternative to Kerry and Bush went unnoticed and unreported
by most media outlets with access to the event. For some,
though, there were other reasons to be indifferent about the
counterconvention activities.
“I’m
just waiting for a celebrity to show up,” explained a reporter
for People magazine who had taken up a post near me
during a demonstration along Fashion Avenue. And strangely
enough, despite the recent outpouring of anti-Republican sentiment
from the nation’s household names, there wasn’t a celebrity
to be seen in any of the crowds that gathered during the convention’s
first two days—not even in Times Square. The absence of these
“Rock the Vote” champions was almost eerie.
And without a voice in counterpoint, the Republicans pulled
off in the first two days of the convention what no one deemed
possible in the days leading up to the event. They marginalized
the thousands of people in the street—turning them into a
group that, according to Beverly, was “just a bunch of Kerry
supporters.”
So, on the second night, I set out to cover a loosely organized
march from the site of the World Trade Center to the arrival
points for Republican delegates. From the start of the march,
it was clear that the police had no intention of letting this
event get underway: Hordes of protesters were corralled on
each of the corners near Ground Zero and prevented from joining
into one cohesive unit. Only those who had arrived early by
subway were able to set out, and that they did—along a route
that had them marching dozens of city blocks away from their
intended path.
In Union Square, the groups were able to marshal their forces
and set out for the convention center, but things turned sour
as the march neared the intersection of 33rd Street and Broadway.
It was evening by the time they reached 33rd Street, and the
police forces had already massed in anticipation of their
arrival—planning to ensure that the groups remained far from
delegates’ sight. When they arrived, the massive assembly,
numbering in the thousands, mixed with the normal sidewalk
population and spilled out into the streets, edging into the
lane specifically reserved for convention vehicles.
New York’s finest reacted with cold efficiency, quickly fracturing
the massive, unified body of dissent into small, disorganized
clusters. Those who weren’t forced onto blocks far away from
the delegates’ travel route were rounded up and arrested.
“It’s
the photographers’ faults,” policemen shouted as they closed
down after block. “It’s all the people who are stopping to
write things down that are making us do this.”
And there we were, the journalists who fell outside of the
convention’s approved press corps, stuck among the masses
and targeted by the powers that be. Pedestrians caught up
in the protest’s surge quickly turned on anyone carrying a
camera or a notebook. The legal observers brought in for the
action had already been sectioned off from the rest of the
crowd, leaving us there to report from the inside in the midst
of a suddenly hostile crowd.
Nearby, a cop knocked a camera out of a dreadlocked girl’s
hands, telling her to, “Go get a job.” It was carefully orchestrated
chaos, and many of us were forced to flee, licking our wounds
in the nearest doorway. This was the Republican Convention
the way the Grand Old Party intended—angry protesters turning
on each other, group arrests and a ratings boon for the convention-approved
media conveniently posted behind police lines.
And that’s how I came to be in the bar with Beverly and Hannah,
surrounded by Republicans and toasting the president.
“So
what is it that you do again?” asks Hannah.
“I’m
in the media,” I tell her, and the flinch is unmistakable.
The question is a test, just like the initial toast, but it’s
been a long day—my last one in the city—and I’m looking forward
to getting back to a place where there’s a little more sanity.
There are two days left of the Republican convention, and
I have already had my camera swatted by police officers, been
threatened with jail time for taking notes and been attacked
by irate fashionistas.
“Not
the regular media,” I lie—it’s a white lie, a lie of self-preservation
in a hostile city. “I do publicity for the police department
and soldiers and all that troop-supporting sort of thing.
It’s all very patriotic.”
“The
police need publicity people?” Hannah asks incredulously.
“In
this city,” I tell her, “everybody needs publicity.”
“Well,
let’s hope the good publicity goes to the right people,” she
winks at me and raises her glass again. “To George W. Bush?”
“Let’s
hope so,” I shrug, and raise my glass. “To George W. Bush!”
rmarshall@metroland.net
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Columns
& Opinions
