Anti-War Protest, June 5 2004, By Ian Roberts
From MemoryArchive
Who: Ian Roberts What: Anti-War Protest When: June 5, 2004 Where: Washington, DC
It was an unseasonably cool and rainy early June day. For most, it might have been unfortunate weather. But, as usually proves to be the case, I showed that I was too determined to let a little rain keep me from making a nuisance of myself. That day there was a protest being sponsored by the international organization, A.N.S.W.E.R. (Act Now to Stop War and End Racism) in various U.S. cities. The biggest protest was to take place in Washington, D.C., and I was going to be there.
At around nine that morning, my friend Liz picked me up to go meet up with the rest of our group. There were a few other people going with us; the first was our friend Lauren. Liz, Lauren and I had a connection of which I think many can relate; we were social outcasts. We lived in a very conservative, rural area, where people were proud of the fact that whole decades could go by without much changing. We were all transplants to the area; none of us were natives. In school we hung out with the same, small group of no more than eight people. We had asked a few of them to go, but they declined for one reason or another. We were liberal, city kids who couldn’t stand our backwoods teachers and classmates.
The next member of our group was Lauren’s dad. I found out he had taken part in a number of Vietnam protests during the sixties. He talked about being at the Pentagon and getting tear gas thrown at him, leaving permanent damage in one eye. This caught my attention because I have always dreamed about taking part in one of the radical protests of the hippie era. That time just seemed so romantic to me; something I would do anything to be a part of. There was undoubtedly a passion that once existed in him. But somehow, over the years it began to manifest itself as a slight bitterness, evident in his sardonic remarks about the Bush Administration and the state of the nation. The more I got to know him, the more I saw him as kind of a “veteran outcast,” who, like us, didn’t entirely understand what he was doing in that area. But unlike us, his past experiences had given him a good idea of who he was, a benefit the three of us did not have.
The last member of our caravan was Lauren’s older brother, Jared. He was, to say the very least, strange. He was always talking and never seemed to be out of nonsensical, albeit enormously funny, points to make about life, such as how his the local Chinese Restaurant was “filled with the dreams of wild chipmunks,” and how “snow tires are the dastardly plot of the Canadian Naval Reserve.” He wore an old green cloak that looked like he had just stitched a couple pieces of fabric together; a worn pair of jeans; a pair of old brown sandals; a t-shirt that looked like he had been wearing for maybe a week straight; and a beret with the anarchy symbol, the only item where any effort seem to have been placed. He had very “Kramer-esqe” tendencies in both his build and his mannerisms; very tall and lean and always using exaggerated body language to emphasize what he was saying. He wasn’t someone who fit in with a lot of norms in society, particularly in our part of the small part of the universe. What’s more, he knew this, and just didn’t care. That is what, at the time, set him apart from us. And so, with our group set, we were off on our ninety minute journey to D.C.
The protest met just outside the White House front lawn. The protest was against, what we viewed as, the worldwide spread of U.S. imperialism. There were speeches given by a number of A.N.S.W.E.R. volunteers, as well as local social and religious leaders. The speakers all detested U.S. intervention in Haiti, Palestine and, most notably, Iraq. They spoke of the massive spending on an unjust war while millions in our own country starved. They spoke of a mismanaged war in which thousands were dieing needlessly. And they spoke from the outrage of millions within the country who did not support the war, and were shut out. While listening to these speakers, something began to stir in me.
To that point I had always held very liberal political viewpoints and was not afraid to express my opinions. I knew my politics and was completely free about making them known. But, to be honest, I wasn’t always comfortable in my skin. I knew I was an outcast and hated it. I had so long been in the minority and it was a minority that wasn’t as distressed about that status as I was. All of a sudden, I didn’t seem so strange; there were others like me. I was finally among my own. There was no reason for me to be reticent or even ashamed about what I believed. I felt like I, too, could be, and should be, up there at that podium giving an impassioned speech in front of my brothers and sisters.
While we were standing there, a man with a tape recorder approached us. He said he was a freelance journalist who was profiling random members of the crowd to see why they had come. He started with Lauren’s dad who made reference to his past protest days and said he had decided to come with his daughter. Pretty soon, Jared broke in on a lengthy admonition of the actions of the Bush administration. Before I knew what was going on, I myself was ranting to this journalist, who I didn’t even know, about various atrocities committed by the U.S. dating all the way back to Vietnam. This was a fieriness that was altogether new to me, and I liked it.
After recording all he needed from us, the reporter left and the last speaker announced that the march would be starting soon. We were to be marching from where we stood in front of the White House, all the way to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld’s private residence. It was a nearly 4 and a half mile trek. Through piercing cold and stinging rain we marched; though we barely noticed the conditions at the time. Many came out of their homes, restaurants and cafes to cheer us on and offer support. There was a man at the front banging a steel drum, helping to further brew the crowd into frenzy. Thousands of signs created a rainbow of color and anger. Dozens of different chants were repeated by nearly 5,000 people, with our small group of five toward the front of the march.
At some point, Jared had stumbled into a flower shop where the cashier gave him about five dozen roses for just a few bucks so that he could hand them out to people, which he gladly did. I imagined Jared just walking in and saying something like, “Hey, dude, can I have some flowers?” He took the flowers and without hesitation starting giving them to any random people, whether they were part of the march or not. It was something that I imagine few other people would pull off so easily.
I had never before been in an atmosphere like that. It felt good to be with people who shared my views and wanted to do what they thought was right, just like I did. It was absolutely invigorating. I knew that that particular protest probably would not go down in history like some of the Vietnam ones, but to me it was a defining moment for who I was, and that was all that mattered.
Soon, after marching through some of the poorest sections of working class D.C., we entered into a very posh section of northwest Washington. We were approaching Rumsfeld’s neighborhood, and his 3.5 million dollar home.
It was here that something interesting happened. While walking down the block toward Rumsfeld’s house, a coalition of D.C. police and federal agents blocked off the street to our final destination. Actually, they allowed a few to go through (probably about the first 200 people) and then blocked off the rest; they said something about a capacity issue. This was awkward and, frankly, kind of scary because the other four members of my group had gotten through, and I had been left behind. I knew immediately that this was probably a bad thing.
I assessed the situation; there were three rows of policemen blocking the street: a row of district police facing us, a row of federal agents behind them, and then another row of district police facing the people who had been let through. All the protesters, on both sides, were booing and taunting the officers. One guy standing next to me was in the face of an officer who seemed to be in charge of the situation. I tried to look through to see my friends, but to no avail. I had to get through if I was going to see them, or even get a ride back home.
I can’t recall all of what I was thinking at the time, but I do remember figuring that if I was going to really demonstrate who I was, then I might as well do it now. The person I was stood on that side of the barricade. The person I was wanted to become stood on the other. It had to be here; it had to be now. If I passed this up, I might regret it forever. And without thinking about it too much more, I made my move.
I don’t remember seeing much, but I ran into several people. From what I remember, only one person tried to pull me back, with no luck. Considering there were a number of people that could have effectively held me back, it made me think that the officers might not have cared all that much. But I kept pushing anyway and eventually got through and met up with Liz, who was laughing pretty hard, apparently at my accomplishment. A handful of others who had also seen were doing the same. I was more proud of myself then than I can ever remember being. Altogether the moment couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds; but five seconds was all I needed to complete the metamorphosis from the old me to the new me. Within moments, the officers dispersed, more or less proving my theory that they hadn’t really cared, anyway. But I was still proud; it was, and still is, among the greatest thrills of my life. Where once I had felt an outcast, I had finally found some measure of acceptance.
From there we continued a few yards down, right up to Rumsfeld’s front lawn. Liz, Lauren and I shouted at the house: “Can Donald come out to play?” We never got this kind of chance when were at home. Sure, we could taunt government officials on TV, but that could never have been the same. This was real; this was as close as we were ever going to get to really getting in the Secretary’s face. Lauren’s dad seemed a bit taken aback by a mix of nostalgia and gratitude; nostalgia for his youth, when events such as these were common occurrence; gratitude to us, for dragging him along. Jared continued to run back and forth across the street, whipping the tiring crowd into further frenzy. He never seemed to tire; he was in his own environment. We were all having a great time, mocking the house of the man who we would have mocked had he actually been there.
That was, until we saw a group of “anti-protest protesters” off to the side. They held signs declaring us “Anti-American” and shouted at us that we were communists and that we should leave the country. This is where an ideologue such as myself gets his/her greatest pleasure: in the angry cries of opponents. I held a shouting bout with someone on the other side of the barricade; I didn’t know him, but he had been baiting me, so what choice did I really have? He was irate and his face was beet-red, but I was having fun and even laughing to his face. It wasn’t what could actually be called an argument. In an argument, two or more people take a firm stand and they listen to each other before launching into their own argument. We weren’t discussing policy; we simply vaulted insults back and forth: “Liberal Pussy!” “Conservative Idiot!” It was one of the most asinine discussions I have ever had. But it was fun because, for some reason, it just fit me and who I was. While this guy seemed to be taking it rather seriously, it rolled off my back and I enjoyed it all the more because of that.
The five of us stood for about thirty or forty minutes arguing with the anti-protest protesters before we decided that it was a good time to leave. It was already about 5:00 and we had a long drive in front of us.
When I look back on that day, I still get a smile on my face. I still get goosebumps when I remember the chants and speeches that piqued my political side. And my rebellious side still beams when I remember the way I busted through the police barrier; the metaphorical barrier between who I was and who I am. I can’t say whether it affected my political side or my rebellious side more, because it did both; they went hand in hand. There is no question in my mind that I would do it again, if given the chance; if for nothing else then just for the fun of it. That day made me into a more complete person. I know that without that day, I would never have found out who I was, and would not have become who I am now.
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