pepper spray

January 20, 2005
Washington, DC
Inauguration day

How big? How many of us are there? Will we be enough?

We've arrived at Malcom X Park, propelled by the flow of protesters emerging from the subway. The snow is slushy, not too cold. Traction is available.

The park, filling with multicolored people and signs is alive with resistance, speakers, rap and response circles, and the center of the park is being filled with cardboard caskets covered with our sad flags and black cloths. Hundreds of them. In long lines. Awaiting transit to the inauguration. This is our best use. Bringing these caskets to the coronation of our criminal king. This is my most basic reason for being here. The dead. The dying. The head wounds. The living. And our children.

Dorothy and I decide this is our mission, to carry the dead. Leaving the park, we are silent witnesses to our connection to, what? The terrible wreckage of our human connections to our loved ones? To the destruction of civilized behavior? The planet? The crowd, once small has become larger. Is it enough? Who is here?

Inside the chanting, outraged, buoyant and determined sea of people, Dorothy and I are silent, carrying our dead, and our convictions. From the big hotels, few people look down on us. But look! There is a father with 2 children! There is hope! What do they see? What is he telling tehm? Around us, people wave up to hope, in the window. Dorothy and I carry our casket.

Many street corners have something going on: the Abu Graib Fraternity Party, for instance. Why, there is Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Wolfowitz, and the guy wired in black, partying down, with music and dancing. Our beloved weapons of mass destruction.

It reminds me of a previous scene: two kids, maybe 18, at the rally, with signs "HELP GET JEN AND BRAD BACK TOGETHER! OUR COUNTRY IS SO SAD!' They pleaded with the people "You don't understand, this is so IMPORTANT!" I loved seeing these young men. So astute. So clever. The next Jon Stewarts.

And then there were the bullhorn chanters: the drumbeats of the march. The rawness of youth. And the familiar overlap of the old antiwar chants and the new rap chants.
Hey, y'all, HUNH!
What are we fighting for?
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Not my President
Not my War

I can't really remember the new rap chants, the old ones rise to memory so fast. How many times do we come to the same place in history, in fact, with events intersecting in time. The caskets hold my focus. We walk.

Approaching a tunnel now, this could be dangerous. Narrowing down, I sense unease, and the crowd becomes quieter with apprehension. What are we getting into? Or maybe it is just me. I hear the screaming mountain echoing off the walls: we are inside, and here it comes, everything I need at this very moment is in this scream--the deep release of frustration, terror, pain, rage, releasing, joining the air of outrage, conviction and positive energy. A deafening, pre-cataclysmic roar, coming out of the tunnel.

Past the institutions of our great land, we process. Past the guards. The people of Planned Parenthood, bless their hearts, pass out condoms. This is our only "institutional" greeting. Planned Parenthood is guarded by security guards and fences: probably the only institution "for the people" that presently HAS some protection.

We arrive at our destination: a park? Where are we? Instructed to lay our caskets down, with reverence and some reluctance, we part from our casket. We meander, aimlessly: what will become of the caskets?

Looking for an entrance the the "Inaugural Parade" we happen on a thick line set up for the "people" without tickets. This is a much thicker line than the entrances for the "ticketed." I join the line from the side, not realizing that I am butting in line: it feels more like the blending that was the modus of the march. But Dorothy is uncomfortable, and we part ways. Alone, I am not patient enough to wait for entry. I walk down the hill to the barricades set up in front of the Wilbur and Intercontinental Hotels. I find myself facing the White House, and a special entrance set up for the VIPs who are staying in these grand hotels. Interesting.

There are few people on hand, on a plaza, with grand steps up to the guard entries of the hotels. A couple people holding a banner are shouting at the VIPs, who ignore them. I try a different tack.

I am nicely dressed, easily mistaken for what I am not, a Republican. I walk quietly up to the VIPs. I am welcomed. I make eye contact. And I whisper. "Bush supporters are war criminals." This is the best I can do at this moment, try to divide them from their conviction.

I notice that some caskets have been placed near the barricades, but they have no one attending them. Concerned. I wonder how to respond. I see a bicyclist with a helmet take a casket, and turn it over, and start stacking them. A young man, clearly upset, walks over and asks "What are you doing?" The bicyclist is angry. Now I see he is a cop. I walk over and ask "Why do you need to do this?" He says "There could be ANYTHING under these things!" So I say "OH, okay, how about if we hold them up?" "That would be okay."

So the young man and I take a casket, and stand in the plaza at the base of the steps leading from the hotel to the VIP entrance. I am relieved to have a reason for standing in full view of the partygoers. I make eye contact, pleading for empathy. Here I stand.

I contact women with children, men in cowboy hats in boots, agents in eyeglasses, kids in business suits, millionaires in furs, Chinese high rollers with disregard in their eyes: the responses are nonverbal, except from the most crude. I am shaking conviction. I am demonstrating the best way I know how. Soon we, the young man and I, are joined by other mourners. There are now five caskets in the way of this entrance. Silent. Standing as the furs walk by.

One woman with black leather gloves, walks up to me and gives me the thumbs up. I mutter: Join us. She mouths, "I can't, but thank you, you are doing the right thing." This I will always remember.

Eventually, the guard at the Wilbur, speaking for the management, asks us to move off the private property. I come out of my vigil. "From where to where is your property?" WE move, as slowly as we can, to a location between the Intercontinental and the Wilbur. The vigil continues. The crowd thickens. More Republicans press by as the big moment approaches. And the plaza is filling with people whom the security guards did not let through. Are there too many of us?

Someone breaks open a barricade. The police in riot gear, now lined up on the other side, scoop him up, talk to him, replace the barricade fence, and calm is restored. The protesters begin to push on the barricades, chanting "Whose streets? OUR STREETS!"

I have been standing in the cold now for maybe three hours, pleading with my heart for people to see what has become of our country. An old beautiful bearded man with a Veterans for Peace hat asks to relieve me. I am relieved.

Going to sit by a tree, I see two untended caskets. One has a flag. The other has a black cloth. On the ground. They have been stumbled on by people running towards the barricades, and they are crushed. This distresses me. I am in deep mourning now, unable to really hear what is going on around me. There is some ruckus, but I need to restore the shape of the caskets. They must not be desecrated. This is my need. Someone helps me restore their shape, and I have determined to stand, guard, and protect the dead. My back is to the barricade, and the king beyond. I don't care about him. There are people all around, and a roar goes up. Suddenly I am alone with my caskets. I turn around. The barricade is open, and I am facing the police, alone. Their guns are pointed at me. The mask shields the eyes of the gunner pointing at me, but I try to see him anyway. I am just standing here. I am a woman. I am with the dead. You cannot harm me. You see what I am doing. I am tending the dead. And I am mouthing, no. no. no. It is all very slow. I am in an altered state.

Someone roars and throws a snowball. something silent comes out of a gun. A white stream of spray. I think maybe tear gas but nothing happens at first. Then people start coughing and rushing past me. I am still standing guard. Another roar, another barricade is breached, and now I am confused, so sad. I need to go now, it seems: what will become of the dead? Pepper gas is now entering my nose: oh I get it, it's pepper gas. Feels like pepper. This is no longer the right place to be.

I round the corner. More snow balls and roaring. People calmly walk away. I am with them.

Bush is approaching, it seems. A roar like in the tunnel passes down the street: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. And it is over. The king has passed. But it's not quite over.

People coming out of the parade route, are heading towards the subway stations. Suddenly the police, maybe 60 of them, in full riot gear run down the middle of the street, against the flow of the crowd. They position themselves down the center of the street in two rows, facing outward, guns trained.

Protesters chant: "What does a police state look like? This is what a police state looks like!"

I find myself up the street, looking back on the scene. Basically, nothing is happening that threatens the status quo. But, here are the riot police. Next to me is a large Republican wearing a W pin and a cowboy hat and boots. I recognize him from the hotel entrance. I have encountered his power before. I walk up to him. "So, what do you think of this?" "I LOVE IT!" he says. I am amazed. "You LOVE it? Is this the America you envision?" "Oh yea" he says, "This is GREAT!" "Okay" I say, "Breathe deep, buddy, the pepper gas is coming your way, too." I make eye contact. And I walk away.