My Day In Court, Practicing Nonviolence

Too many names, outside the Alameda County Courthouse

“Appear in court on December 26,” they said. So I cut my family’s Christmas short to be back in Oakland, security-screened by 9:00 this morning. I try not to predict the future, but I was eager to hear the consequence of my peaceful protest. Dismissed? Fined? Charged?

The grumpus behind the glass pushed the words through her frown: “We haven’t received your paperwork yet. Go to the DA’s office to be rescheduled.” No resolution. My three guesses were all wrong. Instead, I have to call in every week for a year, to find out if they’ve charged me. I told the clerk I was going to be out of the country for the next couple weeks. “If we charge you and you do not appear, a warrant may be issued for your arrest,” and she went back to her desk.

Not an ideal arrangement for a traveler, especially one who plans to work abroad for weeks at a time. But also, I find myself reluctant to participate in any more demonstrations. They are pushing me away from the exercise of my Constitutional rights, and into...let’s call it trepidation. My government is engaging in Trepidationism against me.

Trepidationism for me, but make no mistake, the system engages in Terrorism against black people. Or perhaps people of color. Or perhaps the not-rich. When the police, George Zimmerman, and who knows who else, are allowed to kill black people with impunity? It’s time travel.

Because this is what Martin Luther King achieved. He took away the terror of being black in America, in a time when they could be charged with assault just for looking “recklessly” at a white person, or not taking off their hat. (Read this.) I’m reluctant to cite MLK, since I have lived with white privilege my whole life, and despite my best attempts at empathy, have never felt for myself the terror of living in a society that oppresses you this way, but when I see our country sinking backwards into a time of systemic terrorism, I am willing to reach for any heroes I can find.

The list of heroes includes all the civil rights leaders, from Dorothy Height to Claudette Colvin. Does it include Malcolm X? The man whose legacy is clear in our civil religion, the violent alternative to King’s nonviolence? Absolutely.

Some say King’s message only got as far as it did because the establishment looked at Malcolm X and saw the very real possibility of rage released in violence, so took the offered path of peace. I don’t know if that’s true (and though it’s inherently flawed to compare wildly different circumstances, I can’t help but notice that Gandhi had no violent counterpart...or did he? And Mandela?), but either way, the frustration and anger of those who have been too-long abused by this system are very real, and very strong. Undeniable.

The danger is that this possibility of violence, for all its rational origins, ends up being another face of the Terrorism that I denounce. When the system, through police or vigilantes, threatens violence, it’s Terrorism. But when they force those opposed to present the same threat..? That feels like a loss, understandable as it may be.

And then there’s the bloodsoaked example of the French Revolution punching us in the face. Violence to end oppression, that betrayed itself, consumed itself, and only led to another form of oppression.

So, I’ll spend the next year in trepidation, with the looming threat of a misdemeanor (oh my!) and people of color will live under the constant menace of assault, humiliation, exploitation, and outright murder. I don’t need any help with my vague discomfort, but the racial Terrorism in our system has to change. We just have to figure out how.

Oakland Protest, Night Four: What now?

I had my perception of the Oakland protests.

Night One: people upset over the state of race relations in our country, and police impunity in reflecting it, demonstrated in the streets with signs, chants, compassion and anger. It was the purest form of democracy left in our plutocracy.

By the end of the night, things got out of hand, understandable with that much emotion and the way crowds work. The police showed admirable restraint at first, and I thanked them for it. People were wrong to throw bottles, and the police didn’t need to respond with tear gas, rubber bullets, and flash grenades against a civilian demonstration. I was disappointed to see the night end that way.

Night Two: perhaps a result of the prior mayhem, the crowd was smaller, and more militant, the message diluted in petty vandalism and burning garbage, faces hidden behind masks to enable counterproductive hooliganism. I’d seen enough, left the contested street and was waiting until I could reach my bike when one cop, maybe looking to make an example, maybe filling a quota, or scariest of all: having lost control and lashing out, had me arrested. I spent the next few hours with my hands zip-tied behind my back, seeing a side of the law that I thought was reserved for those who deserved it.

Night Three? I stayed home, angry at those I felt were damaging our desire for change. I felt I had my understanding.

But last Thursday the rhythms of a protest drifted in my window. I’ll go look, real quick, real careful, to see how things are going. I found a march, resolute and disciplined in the statement of their message, no mayhem, no excuse for police action, demonstrators I’m proud to have as countrymen. It felt good to see.

Then I looked left to a line of face-shielded police blocking a street, ready to arrest us...if we blocked a street? A cold feeling took root in my core, with cracks of anger and flecks of fear. Instead of cops doing their best, they seemed like ominous soldiers of suppression.

And every nauseous cell of my skin felt my white privilege. I had been inconvenienced for a few hours, my shoulders stiff and achy from being pinned behind me, and have to show up in court, once, for what I feel are unjust reasons. So many deal with so much worse, yet there I was, disturbed by the sight of the police.

What is it like for those who live under constant threat of police abuse? How the hell do we expect people to remain calm who have watched their brothers beaten, their fathers humiliated, their whole demographic thrown in prison (while the real criminals go marching on)?

A friend told me of his police ride-alongs where procedure is to stop (black) men on the sidewalk, handcuff them and sit them on the curb, THEN start to talk to them, ask what’s going on today. That has never happened to me, not in my white skin, in my relatively affluent neighborhood, where, despite being racially mixed, every driver I’ve seen pulled over since moving here was black or latino. Every single one. A few hours being treated like a dangerous criminal when I hadn’t done anything wrong and I was sickened; what’s it like when that’s your everyday reality?

So what do we do about it? Politicians are clearly not going to lead, and the police aren’t going to break the cycle of aggression by themselves. And the courts? In 2010, out of 162,000 grand juries, 11 did not result in indictments. 11 out of 162,000. Yet now we have two out of two deciding there’s no need to even have a trial. I see that as the courts declaring that it is not a crime for a cop to kill a black man. This cannot go on.

So again, what do we do about it? Smash Starbucks? Shake our heads and go back to watching Jersey Shore? Or maybe we, those of us with hearts and souls and self control, should spend some time in the street. Do you think it’s a crime to kill a black person? Do you want some punk smashing a window to speak for you?

So how do we affect change? Protest responsibly? Burn shit? Run for office? Do nothing? Vote on the vagabondurges.com version, here.

Oakland Protest Night 2; I wasn't expecting that.

Always with the fire, but it seemed lackluster

Helicopter buzzards hung above Oakland tonight, again. I barely slept last night, was dead on my feet at 5:00 this afternoon, was freezing, and still kind of hungry after finishing my leftovers. I didn’t really feel like going out to monitor the protest again tonight. But I believe something important is going on in America right now, a nation crying out for change, for hope, for progress, so I added a thicker layer and rode downtown.

Hipsters sipping cocktails where last night wafted clouds of tear gas, but those rotary buzzards drew me to Telegraph Ave, where crowds stood around, calmer than last night. It just felt like a lot of spectators. Fine with me, I wanted a short night.

Why did they need guns
like that out?

The police seemed edgier, with some rushing around with guns leveled at people, the way the military guys on TV said one should never do. But things seemed to calm down. The police cleared Telegraph, and I let them, moving to a cross street, 40th Ave.

Then I saw it. Some jackass had brought a circular saw blade. I’d been surreptitiously kicking chunks of asphalt into the bushes all night, lest some hothead be tempted to throw them through a cruiser’s window, or worse yet, at a cop. But this? Best case scenario: someone would blow out a tire tomorrow. Worst case scenario: someone lost in anger and mayhem might throw it at a cop. But if I picked it up, touched it, might they bust me for possession of a weapon? That quantity of police presence makes you think about such things.

I thought twice before picking it up.

I took of photo of it in situ, just in case, then picked it up, two steps, and tossed it into the burned-out wreckage of a dumpster. Phwew, that was as intense as the night was going to get.

The cops decided to move us further down 40th, and I complied, walking when they walked, then when they cried “double time!” I jogged ahead of them to stay out of the way. We reached a crosswalk and the order to “hold up” rang out. I crossed over to my side and slowed to a walk.

I was only a couple blocks from my most famous friend, a travel writer who inspired me to the craft. I considered texting to see if he wanted to come out, but was exhausted and wanted to go home, so was considering how to loop around to reclaim my bicycle.

That’s when they arrested me.

My last exposure, moments before my arrest

A deputy chief, scalp shiny as the skinheads of nightmare, charged towards me shouting “YOU! You’re under arrest! You are under arrest!” I thought he was talking about the teenager behind me, who had been sandbagging a bit when the cops pushed us down the street, which seemed unfair, but no, he was talking about me, charging at me. I was under arrest for being in the area of an unlawful assembly, penal code 409.

Two officers stepped forward and pinned my arms at my sides. Took me to a van, hands against it, thorough search, zip-corded my hands behind my back. I spoke with them respectfully, letting them know I was not going to cause any trouble, just as I had not all night. They marched me to a shattered bus stop where half a dozen kids sat with hands pinned behind their backs.

They were going to take us to the prisoner bus. Except no one knew where it was. They loaded us in a van at 10:28, and at 10:57 we had circled back to our original location. My shoulders were hurting, hands going numb, and, of course, I had to pee.

I didn't have a chance to ask his permission
to post his photo. In real life he has a face.

My comrades seemed like good guys. Former pacifists, conscientious objectors to facets of our culture, but I got the feeling that over the years, they’ve seen their protests ignored, brushed aside, and now arrested. The guy next to me had committed the same crime I had: walking. He’d gotten off BART, and was trying to figure out how to get to his house when the same deputy chief arrested him.

I’d spent the night, the day, the next night, defending the police, reminding people that they are not all the racist, violent, aggressive caricatures of pop lore. The assholes, basically. Sure, there are some among them who are inherent bullies, who were going to be on one side of a police altercation if not the other, bad seeds, just as there were bad seeds among the protesters. But all it takes is one…

Eventually they gave up on the bus and drove us to a processing station across Oakland. Took my photo against the van, and I signed my form on the hood of a cruiser. I am due to appear in court on December 26. Merry Christmas, America.

Thoughts are overflowing my brain, but the whole thing is buzzing like a fluorescent lightbulb, so I’m going to bed. I hope that’s still legal.