As the block became crowded, the high points and available make-shift seating were occupied, and the crowd chanted “Let us in” and other slogans. And about this time, some of the apparent anarchists occupied the top of a bus stop shelter on the corner overlooking the checkpoint.
In the sequel developed the most inept burning of the American flag that I have ever witnessed. There has been much fuss about how poorly American students perform in various academic disciplines such as math and geography, relative to those of other nations, but I have seen malnourished illiterate people from impoverished countries ruled by oppressive and brutal dictatorial regimes burn the American flag over and over. They know how to do it, with lighter fluid, the American made Zippo lighter, and the flag.
Not these privileged children of liberty, though. They did not come prepared to burn the flag. Some wag in the crowd probably shouted the idea to them, and they tried to run with it, hampered by the cheap material of the flags and their own feck- and bic-less ineptness.It may have lasted up to fifteen minutes. They started with matches and flags taken from the ornamental coffins, which were made of something more plastic than cloth, that did not burn so much as shrink, blacken, and float off. The industrious crowd rapidly acquired more flags, presumably the Willard’s decorations, but the activists could not get them lit.
Among the crowded line a group of people chanted “Don’t Burn the Flag,” but it did not last long. Everyone was watching, and surprisingly quiet. Several people shouted out “Why are you burning that flag?” But they weren’t burning that flag, simply trying to burn it. They tore up anti-bush signs and lit the shreds for kindling, all to no avail.
Somebody handed an activist a pint of liquor, and somebody else threw a Bic lighter. This finally got one of the flags burning, a little bit, but they did not hold it right to keep it lit. At the same time, the flag burner’s trousers caught flame. He dropped the flag and swatted at his pants.
(centricle got something more compelling than i witnessed.)
Shortly thereafter, these demonstrators abandoned their perch and their several mangled flags to merge again with the crowd.It was not long before the industrious protesters in front of the Willard commenced making forays at the fence. With the right combination of lifting and shaking, sections of the fence could be removed. Several were; each time, as it came loose, the crowd of protestors surged toward the opening while the crowd of police on the other side surged forward to close the fence. Pepper spray was used to drive the crowd back.
After the first such altercation, in which someone was injured, there were calls for “Medic!” just like in the war movies. At this point the red crosses made sense as something other than perfidy, and yet all the apparent anarchists near myself and the injured person did not look to other anarchists, but to the police. “What the hell are you standing there for. This man needs medical attention. You unprintable fascists, and compassionless censored pigs! Get this man some help!” A red-faced man bellowed at and was ignored by the riot police behind the checkpoint gate. Some of the red cross anarchists rendered first aid.
There is a novel by Steinbeck about a communist organizer among migrant laborers, who knows how to work a crowd into frenzy and set them off with the scent of blood. After the fire, when the pepper spray came out, those incendiary elements among the protesters were ready to go. They threw whatever came to hand. Mostly minimally offensive snowballs were thrown; but also bottles, sticks and landscaping elements from the Willard’s façade: shrubbery and lights. But they could do little in the face of the pepper spray, which filled most of the area between the Willard and Pennsylvania Avenue at times. Many were incapacitated, and tended by others with cloths, water and milk.
One of the cardboard coffins was thrown, but did not make it over. It was burned where it landed by protesters, who were then driven away by the spray. Shortly later, two women held up a flag while a third lit it on fire in front of the barricade, but each time the flame caught, the police would douse it and them again with pepper spray.
There was a shouting match at the doorway of the Willard, where management and Secret Service personnel stood like bouncers. An early victim of the capsicum, and some supporters, walked up, and through streaming eyes said “Excuse me Sir, I would like to buy a beverage in your hotel bar.” Nobody said no, nobody moved out of his way. Some of his supporters tried “I’d like to speak to your manager” and inquired the guards’ names and the name of the hotel – which, incidentally, was printed on the awning under which he was standing – all to no response.
Among the melee, it was nearly impossible to tell when the President’s motorcade passed. Eventually the sound of a band from the Ellipse and the emptying observer stands made it clear that the procession had passed. Before long the protesters dispersed.
That evening I went to see a documentary on the life of Bayard Rustin, a leader of the civil rights movement and passive resistance visionary forming the link between Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., and of whom I must not have heard before because of his open homosexuality. I have heard of him now.
Nonviolence provides a stark contrast to the wanton destructiveness of the contemporary anti-authoritarian festival protest.
Some press:
http://www.alternet.org/story/21051/
http://www.commondreams.org/headlines05/0121-06.htm
http://dc.indymedia.org/