Rough Trade
In Way Deep with the Duval County Greens
by Shelton Hull
Jacksonville, Nov. 21, 2003, 9:47 p.m.
“You’ll have to excuse me – I’m a little under the weather. Too much pepper
spray can make a brother congested, if you know what I mean.”
The voice of Michael Franti, whose work as frontman for Spearhead and the
Disposable Heroes of Hipoprisy is self-evident, echoes in the darkened cabin of
a brown Chevy Astrovan. Inside, eight members of the Duval County Green Party
stir for the first time in hours, having mostly slept through the last leg of
the trip home. But now everyone was wide awake, staring out at the familiar
terrain of Interstate 10. After 1,373 miles in three days, they were home.
The Duval Greens weren’t the only Northeast Florida residents to hit the road
the weekend of Nov. 20th. Members of the local AFL-CIO chartered a bus, and
several groups of individuals hopped in their cars for an historic weekend of
dissent: South to the 14th round of negotiations for the Free Trade Area of the
Americas (FTAA) agreement in Miami, and north to the annual protest at the
School of the Americas at Fort Benning, GA.
The Greens (http://www.duvalgreens.org) chose to attend both, so for three days,
the group ate, drove, slept, screamed and sweat as a unit. I went along for
the ride.
[The World Trade Organization’s 1999 inaugural meeting in Seattle set a new
standard for dissent in the United States. For a generation unaccustomed to
violent protest, the smashed storefronts and black-hooded protesters that marked
the week-long meetings were a visceral reminder that rebellion can be a bloody
business. Although other countries – particularly in Asia and Africa, as well
as several in the so-called “Lower Americas” – have seen large public protests
(see also SOA, below), America saw little civil disobedience in the past 20
years, and what little occurred was given little publicity.
The emergence of cable news outlets and the Internet created a new media order,
however, one that demanded more information to fill airtime. This coincided with
the “neoliberal” era of trade policy that kicked off with the North American Free
Trade Agreement (NAFTA) in 1994, an agreement that foreshadowed the events of
five years later.
Since Seattle, virtually every public meeting about international monetary and
trade policy – including summits by the World Bank, the International Monetary
Fund, the World Trade Organization, the G-7 and G-8 – has been marked by
protests and violence. The demonstrations have become so intrusive, many events
have been shifted to far-off locales – like Qatar, the United Arab Emirates
(hardly a hub for free trade), even exclusive Sea Island, Georgia, (site of the
2004 G-8 Summit) – where neither media nor malcontents can reach.
Security has been increased too, as in Genoa, Italy, where barricades
effectively sealed off the meeting area from pesky protesters. But the effort to
engage in public spectacle hasn’t slowed. The buildup to war in Iraq occasioned
simultaneous protests that drew over a million people to sites around the world.
And so the movement went to Miami, where 34 countries from Canada to Chile came
to hash out trade agreements designed to expand the NAFTA model across the
entire Western hemisphere– except, of course, for Cuba.
Miami policemen have been killed in broad daylight in past years. The state of
Florida is a known transit point for all manner of whatnot, and the front-line
forces have paid their share in blood and notoriety. Officials of the Miami-Dade
Police Department, led by Chief John Timoney, have consulted with pretty much
everyone who’d know anything useful about the job at hand, including the
federales and other cities that have hosted such gatherings, and placed initial
estimates at $16.5 million for the week. The only problem they will have is
suppressing the violence in a way that doesn’t bring too much bad press.
With great strength comes vulnerability, and vice versa. A certain percentage
won’t be satisfied one way or another unless the talks themselves break down,
which is essentially a matter of which way the US delegation will bend. They are correct,
but must be pacified gently. The goal should be maximizing tourist revenues. As
for security, the Miami police are better-armed and trained than most of the 34
FTAA nations.
The New York Times Magazine of Nov. 16 featured an article about Lisa Fithian,
who’s made a career out of organizing demonstrations– a sort of Martha Stewart
for activists. Her presence alone was depicted as a guarantee for News. And 2003
has been the year of meet-ups, flash-mobs, Paris Hilton and War. Florida is
Florida. Everyone was ready.]
Thursday, Nov. 19, 12:15 a.m.
Dellwood Street, Jacksonville
Twenty-five-year old Crystal Stafford climbs in the van she chartered using
money raised at Green Aid earlier this year. She asked each passenger to pay $15
for gas money, and the van is full. There are eight others besides myself,
ranging in age from 19 to 47. All white, except for Naomi Kouri, 21, who came at
the behest of her friend Erin Dupree, 20. Erin’s father, Dan, was also part of
the tour group.
The early talk is far-off from politics; mostly chit-chat, the sound of friends
catching up on their week. The bags take up every square inch of cargo-room; you
can’t see out the back window. Crystal made sure to get a van with a CD player.
Sara’s hair is as long as Erin’s was until she cut it, hip-length.
Melbourne, 3:30 a.m.
There are 11 different types of Trojan condoms at the Chevron in Eau Glade, but
there were no other brands for sale. Not that I have any particular interest in
their product this weekend. But I did see the rack as a metaphor for American
politics. In a world whose other democracies allow for people like Natan
Sharansky and Jean-Marie Le Pen to have a seat at the table, there is a notable
lack of diversity in our country.
Six of nine smoked, but the van was a no-smoking ride, so there were plenty of
stops. Plenty of time to shop batteries. $3.99 for a two-pack of AAs; that was
more than the condoms. I’d rather have cheap batteries and expensive condoms
than the obverse. None of it’s made in America, anyway.
Three hours in, and we’ve traveled most of it in near-silence (except for the
voice of former Green Party presidential candidate Jello Biafra, in full flight
against the Patriot Act, the War on Terror and other Bush Administration
policies post-9/11). There is rhetoric to spare in Green Party quarters, but
substantive action is harder to find. The national party has been virtually
silent since the 2000 elections, cowed by claims that Ralph Nader gave the
election to George W. Bush – a poison meme dropped by Democrats in need of a
scapegoat.
Miami, Dolphin Blvd. Nov. 20, 6 a.m.
By the time we arrive on the outskirts of the city, rush hour has begun. The
skyline unfolds against a coral sky: several dry storage facilities, a mosque,
two large porn shops, a long wall of native graffiti and a place called Mr.
Bidet. Elevated train lines. Raunchy tenements like the ones you see in every
metropolis, though here they are pinks, teal and sea-foam green. Only four
helicopters overhead, but it’s still early. The exits from I-95 to Biscayne Blvd
and Miami Avenue will soon be closed, but not this far up yet.
95 South to 395/Dolphin Blvd, then out onto Biscayne. We stop for breakfast at
an empty IHOP on Biscayne Boulevard with an absentee Cuban waitstaff. I wander
outside to escape the smell of eggs and swine. Biscayne Blvd, northeast. Many of
the larger buildings near here are abandoned. We are staying at the home of
Miami-Dade Greens Kathy and Steve, who are letting seven of us sleep in their
extra space (the van could hold only two). Teeth are brushed, clothes changed,
and soon it’s time to head downtown.
If anyone is nervous, it’s impossible to tell. They look like students on a
field trip– which is pretty much what they are. The street unfolds slowly into a
basin of bodies and sound, like a carnival with fewer animals. I can already
hear people on the street complaining about the tightness of the security. The
duty-free store is closed!
In Miami the avenues run from north to south, and the streets from west to east.
Miami Ave. and Flagler St. are the axes. The streets number up (1st, 2nd, 3rd,
etc.) going out from Flagler east and west; ditto the avenues north and south.
Biscayne’s the last street east before the parks and water, and I-95 runs over
3rd Ave. Not a fun layout to walk the first time, especially with half of it
locked-down, but it’s really very precise and sensible. You wouldn’t even need
to speak English to get around downtown Miami.
The parks district begins near NE 13th St with Bicentennial Park, which is
divided from Bayfront by the American Airlines Arena. The Hotel Intercontinental
is south of Bayfront, bordered by water except for a two-block strip south of SE
2nd.
The plan is to meet up with other Greens at the corner of NE 1st Avenue and NE
5th Street, then walk down to E. Flagler Street to Bayfront Park, where the
formal rally is taking place. Thirteen checkpoints mark 24 square blocks from NE
3rd to SE 3rd. Anyone who isn’t walking is sure to have a miserable day, unless
they have flashing lights atop their ride.
Steve arms us with information. He hands out pieces of paper with numbers to
call in case of trouble: the Miami Activist Defense Hotline, the “Green field
phone,” Indymedia Miami and the Convergence Center on N. Miami Avenue. Another
slip of paper has numbers for medical assistance, public transit, the ACLU.
Also, the Welcome Center.
There are ominous signs in today’s Miami Herald. Officer Suberto Hernandez, of
the Miami Strike Force (not to be confused with the Miami Sound Machine), was
quoted as saying that “Something will happen . . . It’s like the end of the
movie when nothing is happening and the guy turns around and something happens.”
The police have already busted squatters with weapons and human-shaped targets.
We board an unmarked white van (ironically) for a ride to the park. We only make
it a few blocks before the traffic is snarled with an ornery dog, at which point
we jump out and walk the rest of the way. There is a certain sort of nervous
energy in the air. People’s heads are moving in all directions as mental notes
are made of street signs and other landmarks. There won’t be time to consult the
map if it gets heavy, and in all the running you could end up somewhere you
really don’t want to be– like the hoose-gow.
NE 1st Ave., 10:08 a.m.
By 10 a.m. the clubbin’ had commenced. We aren’t quite there yet. There aren’t
any other Greens at the Convergence Center when we get there, but there is a
steady line of people walking south on both sides of the street. None of us have
any idea what to expect. Crystal and Erin had attended an antiwar protest in
Washington, DC earlier in this year, but this protest was different. They’re all
different, yes, but differently.
In the distance, I can see steam rising off bodies, and I can smell them from
where I stand. The protest vibe is infectious, very kinetic. I want to run right
into the throng and jam my tape recorder into people’s faces, but first we have
to find a way down there. At every intersection, police stand arm-to-arm,
dressed to the nines in riot gear. Their clubs are longer than baseball bats,
and their shields cover them from eyebrow to kneecap. Most wear sunglasses and
moustaches. They don’t look receptive to bribery, or daisies in the barrel.
11 a.m. Biscayne Blvd. and NE 2nd St.
Half the crowd is walking toward Bayfront Park, and the other half is walking
away. I was walking toward it, hoping the cops would let me pass; they did not.
Eight helicopters above, circling, hovering. A line of about a dozen bike
cops– the only ones I saw that say who weren’t in riot gear– rode by, away from
the park before turning onto SE 2nd Ave. One of them takes a moment to yell
“White Power!” several times while offering the Nazi salute to the civilians on
the sidewalk. They were gone before anyone could respond or take their picture.
Noon, Biscayne Blvd and SE 1st St.
Lots of animal costumes. Dolphins, cows, bears. A giant swan puppet. A Mayan god
in effigy. The Grim Reaper. Orange-vested unionists, cute young women singing
anti-capitalist slogans (DIY cheerleaders?). “Black Bloc” anarchists, masked and
stealthy, like American ninjas. Some of them are probably agents of law enforcement
– infiltrators, rat finks, agitators or saboteurs. But there is plenty of
police presence: Miami-Dade police, private security, FBI agents. Even the
National Guard is on alert, just in case. Horseshit in the streets.
Some people have encamped themselves mere feet away from the line of police,
playing drums and trying to start conversations that rarely take place. I see
April Kurzban, 20, handing out flyers as her Green flag flies. She seems calm
but conscious of the negative potential. She moved into Steve and Kathy’s with
her mom, a veteran of protests past who frankly admitted that she was afraid of
the police. April’s a new Green, and FTAA is her introduction to this sort of
thing. She asks what to do in case of stampede. I tell her, without irony, to go
hug a tree; no one else will run into a tree, and no combination of humans can
knock one down without equipment. Unlike a hurricane, the odds of being killed
by flying objects in a mad rush away from charging cops are slim– unless you
deserve it.
Behind the protesters are a few fenced-off vacant lots. A TV crew makes its way
through people hanging out on the sidewalk, climbs over the fence and sets up.
The reporter cuts a promo saying that they had been confined to this fenced-off
area – a lie that absolves him of having to do what everyone else is doing:
mingling. If anything, the crew is trespassing. Bystanders protest by reciting
the seven words banned from broadcast TV – an episode that highlights the major
difference between mainstream and alternative media: proximity, influenced
(perhaps) by ideology.
A line of riot cops ring the perimeter of Bayfront Park, from Port Blvd to SE
2nd St. I only saw one tank. Over a thousand people standing, sitting, agitating
just outside the entrance. Some hold cameras; one asks me to smile. I do.
Patrick Tilford of St. Augustine had driven down alone, arriving Wednesday
afternoon. “I’ve been out here today since six this morning,” he says. His most
profound memory to that point was “the cops hitting somebody when he was down,
after he had already been hit, right when they first started trying to take over
sections of the street.” Was he ready for that? “I have no idea . . . I’m having
moments of great cowardice, followed immediately by self-consciousness.”
“I’ve been to quite a lot of these, maybe 15 or so, just in the past two years,”
says Andres Thomas Conteris, co-producer of the anti-SOA documentary Hidden In
Plain Sight. “This demonstration is a lot more militarized. I was in Quebec and
that was a city of tear gas, really, but they didn’t even have police
helicopters like they do here. What do you need four police helicopters for?” (I
didn’t want to say it made sense to me, given the clearly announced agenda of
the government.) “It’s crazy, it’s a state of siege and it’s inexcusable. We’ve
already had a very violent arrest over there. It just shows that militarism is
the force behind the neoliberal free-trade they’re trying to shove down our
throats. . . . For the US to implement these trade policies, they’re going to
have to be more and more militaristic, and force is the way it’s being exerted.”
He is showing his film at Ft. Benning tomorrow, “and we are going to continue to
make the connection between economic justice and the need for peace and
demilitarization.”
A few blocks away, cops lay out under trees and alcoves near the police station.
Officers are being rotated out to keep them fresh. The first thing they do upon
returning from the Eastern Front is remove their helmets/masks, then gloves and
sometimes shoes. The squad you send out to handle thousands of people in varying
state of agitation is not what the public sees every day. If so, it would
quickly become a major problem for all involved.
I talk to several of them; none were overtly hostile. Most were polite but firm
about their unwillingness to speak at all, and the few who did would not allow
themselves to be taped. Nor would I, in their position. I learn that they are
hoping to stick to non-lethal weapons for crowd-control. Most of the rifles we
saw were rigged to shoot metal bullets encased in rubber. There were also
various kinds of tasers, sprays and gasses.
Millions have been spent in the public and private sector on the development of
such devices, which range from the comedic (sticky foam, bean bags, nets) to
the– well, lethal. I was disappointed that none of the officers I spoke to
admitted to wearing Sok Gloves. It was impossible to tell without taking a
punch, because Sok Gloves (arguably the first widely-distributed non-lethal law
enforcement option) are gloves with powered lead packed in along the backs of
the hands; when clenched, the hands become like bricks.
Lethality, it seems, is mostly a matter of placement.
E. Flagler St. and NE 1st St., 2:30 p.m.
A crying woman explains in Spanish to her boyfriend that the buses aren’t
running and she doesn’t know how to get home. The consensus among locals I speak
with, cops included, is that Miami was made to accommodate a situation that was
not of its making.
A homeless man, Thomas, has been in Miami for five years. He didn’t come to
protest, but he’s down with the cause. He sits in front of one of the many
downtown business shuttered for the occasion; normal folks pass by with smirks
of amusement at the sight of two “wild-looking” dudes engaged in serious
conversation about trade policy. “What we gon’ do?” he says. We can’t compete
with them. Everything’s made overseas now– 37 cents an hour and shit. How can we
compete and live? How we gon’ compete and look like men to our families?” Thomas
has no idea where his family was; he is sure they wouldn’t want to be found.
Lunch at Mediterranean Café on NE 2nd. I’m the fifth customer inside, but within
20 minutes it will be standing-room only. The handful of restaurants that stayed
open up the streets running west from Bayfront are getting all the business they
can handle. I order a pita stuffed with pesto “humus” and three kinds of
cheeses, a Turkish Coffee (extra strong). A large bottle of Zephyrhills, as
well. I am drawn into a debate on– what else– US policy and the 2004 election that
lasts about an hour. Reporters from an Orlando station leave.
I am given a “Deception Dollar,” the latest and greatest attempt to synthesize
the visual appeal of modern currency design as a critique of Bush Administration
policy. A truly stunning piece of propaganda. (http://www.deceptiondollar.com)
The bill contains at least 67 references to things that are mostly beyond the
pale, though tanning rather fast. 21 are websites, 5 the names of intelligence
agencies, 5 mentions of Skull and Bones and 18 to various corporations. The
whole thing is summarized by a mantra repeated on the reverse side that I, for
one, refuse to say in print. Maybe Graham will, or Hillary, or Jay Rockefeller,
but not me.
One mistake, though: Bush should be smiling!
The parade is scheduled for 12-6 p.m. The route runs west along NE 3rd St. to NE
1st Ave., then north up 1st to NW 6th St., then south on NW 2nd Ave., back east
on NW 3rd St., cutting down to NW 2nd Ave. down to Biscayne, where it goes south
to Flagler, then north up Biscayne to the park, where the rally includes those
who’ve run the gauntlet already. Various groups– labor, immigrants, Greens,
anarchists, socialists, etc.– bring their own interpretation of what’s at stake
with signs, songs, chants and slogans. Every participant must have walked past
each of the cops stationed along Biscayne.
The scene inside the rally-space was almost bucolic. “Inside the park was like
the Warped Tour between bands; outside the park was like the Warped Tour when
everybody’s favorite band is playing,” says Elliott. Bayfront Park bears more
than a passing resemblance to our Metropolitan Park. It may be that
disinformation formed a part of the crowd-control strategy; I was constantly
told by the protesters outside not to enter the park, because the cops would not
let anyone out. This was not true; in fact, they wanted people out. Out was
where aspersions could be cast on their motives, where cameras were not trained.
Convergence Center, 4 p.m.
The Duval Greens members agreed to meet at the gaudy red-and-yellow metal
sculpture in front of Miami-Dade CC at 4:20 if we got separated, which of course
I did. By the time I arrived, everyone was there. Some of the group had been
rousted by the fuzz inside the park, made to lay prone on the ground. Walking
back we notice a cop with the “Punisher” skull logo affixed to his
walkie-talkie.
Elliott Roschuni, 20, was kicked in the back: “Before they told us all to get
down, and they were on top of the one guy that they had, all of them with their
pellet-gun rifles, like this guy’s going to suddenly jump up and have some crazy
magical machine gun under his ass or something. I’m like ‘There’s eight of you,
one of him and he weighs as much as me,’ and that’s when they said ‘Everybody on
the ground!” and I’m like, ‘Okay.’”
“They pointed a gun at me, they pointed a gun at my daughter,” says Dan, whose
signs was built too strongly to be broken by multiple throws from officers. “The
cops in the back were saying ‘You can’t pass, you can’t go any further.’ They
did that on purpose, just to stop people from coming in. They should have kept
people going. One guy with a bullhorn would have made that whole thing work.”
The full extent of the violence that occurred Thursday may never be known. Legal
advisers to Indymedia estimated that 273 people had been arrested, some of whom
were treated very harshly by their captors. No reports of kidnappings made the
media, so we can’t be sure they really happened. One freelance medic died from
something he caught while treating people. The folks with whom I traveled got
the least of it. None of us shed blood or were hauled into the pokey.
NE 1st Avenue, 5:18 p.m.
The walk back to Kathy and Steve’s is about a dozen blocks straight up Biscayne
Boulevard, but the detours made it twice as long. Lots of fences, debris and
concrete dust from construction. When we arrive, the duplex is locked, empty,
with the van keys locked inside. Coronas are fetched from a bodega ‘round the
way. A man at the counter translates the Spanish-language news of the day
(sample: “They wylin’, yo!”) while another restocks a beer case. Nobody has any
limes. Feet are sore, but beer helps.
The apparently unstoppable collapse of the Democratic party in Florida, which
has been poorly-concealed from the rest of America, means that a leadership
vacuum is opening up among progressives; but it remains to be seen if that
vacuum will be filled by serious alternatives or more mind-games from the DLC.
The Duval Greens, with a very low membership right now, has vastly outperformed
the Duval Democrats in 2003, in terms of maintaining a visible presence in the
political scene, relative to membership, but it’s unclear how that momentum will
be carried into 2004.
“Initially I was thinking that it wasn’t a very effective march, because we
didn’t even get to go by the building where they were, and they never saw us.
But then, [after] talking to people, knowing that countries that were in the
talks found out about how we’re protesting . . . made me feel a little better,”
says Stafford. “They’re letting us have our ‘free speech’ but at the same time,
they’re confining it to one certain area and time, more and more, to where it’s
not really getting our point across anymore. We didn’t want those talks to go on
at all, and they went on without any interruption.
“The last protest I went to was for the Asian Development Bank in Hawaii. We
went up to the building, and one of them came out and talked to us; they were
all supposed to, but they didn’t. Even then I felt like that was lame, and this
was even less than that was. But . . . seeing everyday people out there, I
learned that there are a lot more of us than of them out there– a lot more than I
ever thought there was, and we’re making headway.”
NE 6th Ave and NE 23rd Ter, 6:28 p.m.
Our hosts return with unhappy news. A couple of their friends were arrested at
the protests. Naomi is exhausted; we leave her asleep to go eat. Erin expresses
concern about three men who are also staying there; “She’s my best friend,” and
Erin is naturally worried about the danger that could await a deliriously tired
young woman alone with a bunch of strangers that none of us had met yet. Dan
reassures her that he’d already vetted them.
We’re off to Churchill’s, where the doorman does a fake British accent he drops
because the girls are pretty. Churchill’s features Irish balladry with political
flavor, but not everyone buys into the sentiment of the day. A man walks by
wearing a shirt that says “I date sluts because that’s all there is.” April goes
out with us and drank her first beer. Easy-E’s on number three, more than me,
but he got started before me and I drink slow.
“I don’t think it was effective,” goes Erin’s appraisal of the security
apparatus. “I think they wasted a lot of money. I think they intimidated a lot
of people and made the vibe very uncomfortable . . . After you put that
[‘Something will happen’] in the main paper, there has to be a climax. That’s
blue balls. You can’t just leave the entire public with blue balls. That’s not
what the media does. They don’t build things up to a climax and say ‘Nevermind.
I’m walking out,’ and nothing happens. There has to be some terrorist, some
activist that causes some violence, so three people with slingshots is going to
be the center-page tomorrow.”
A large-screen TV at the back of the club is showing CNN’s coverage of the Bush
protests in London. It looked a fair bit like Miami, but no one was smiling.
Based on the way coverage of FTAA has been slanted, I’m sure London’s drama will
be milked as well. Labour MP Tom Dalyell (a liberal to the left of Tony Blair)
had gone on Fox News and literally begged Bush not to come, citing his
disinterest in seeing an American President assassinated on British soil. Some
neo-conservative pundits have urged Bush to visit Baghdad like some conquering
hero, yet his presence in London created an almost untenable security crisis for
a police force much hyped for not carrying guns. An employee of the
Murdoch-owned Daily Mirror used fake credentials to get a job with Buckingham
Palace security, having scandalous amounts of access to food and accommodations
as late as the day Bush arrived.
Dalyell was half-right, but it wasn’t that bad here. There was excess machismo
in Miami, but nothing that could have turned into a national tragedy unless the
chaos had been used to conceal a terrorist attack, which is a very real
possibility for the future.
I leave the club with the half that didn’t stay later (who caught a cab back
around 3 am), and head to a spot I’d staked out in the kitchenette, beneath a
dusty glass table. I put a towel over Crystal’s yoga-mat, a jacket under my
head, and slip off promptly at 1 am. My last thoughts are of William Burroughs,
who once suggested that by playing audio of riots at an otherwise peaceful
gathering, you can stimulate riots. Who can say?
Friday, Nov. 21, 10:48 am.
I awaken Friday morning to the sound of Edward Kilty looking for his wallet. Of
all the people in Miami that Thursday, he is the last person who deserves to
lose a wallet. Kilty, 45, is one of the very first members of the Duval County
Green Party. He’s attended meetings no one else had, raised funds when there was
no money to be had. Elliott nicknamed him “Easy-E” for his relaxed demeanor.
Kilty is the spiritual core of the tour group, capable of saying things like
“Violence is not the way of the Greens” without a hint of sarcasm.
11 a.m.
The first reports of police mistreatment of activists have begun appearing on
the Internet. One man posts photos of a woman being shot in the back of the head
with a rubber bullet as she runs from police; perhaps they were aiming at the
photographer. There was gas, there were clubs, there were tasers in play. The
fate of those arrested is still unknown, but rumors are rife. Some say there
have been several rapes, that six or seven people have been killed, that a cop
was jumped and beaten senseless by unknown assailants. A few people in the
anarchist scene have yet to resurface.
(The Miami Herald’s Susannah Nesmith reports that “More than 40 federal, state
and local law enforcement agencies, led by the city of Miami police, stockpiled
weapons and riot gear, drilled officers in crowd-control tactics and monitored
protester Internet traffic.” The cost of security was estimated to be $16.5
million before the event. There were “at least 2,500” cops; estimates of
protesters ranged from 7,000, according to Police Chief John Timoney, to 25,000,
according to the AFL-CIO. About 1,000 students at downtown schools were
corralled into others. On a lighter note, Herald columnist Andres Oppenheimer
reports that many of the promotional items at the ministerial meeting were made
in China, which is not part of the FTAA– including 3,000 sporty FTAA totebags. 34
nations, and none of them make totebags?)
One of the rooms at Kathy and Steve’s is occupied by a trio from Free Speech TV
in Boulder, CO. Yesterday, photojournalist Tony Shawcross managed to penetrate
tight security and get inside the FTAA proceedings (attended by 747 delegates
and 1,205 credentialed media) at the Hotel Intercontinental. That footage, along
with the rest of his gear and a rare draft copy of the resolution, was stolen at
gunpoint Thursday night in Overland Park, a seedy area to which police later
diverted sundown stragglers from Bayfront. Shawcross is the only member of the
media willing to speak with me on the record; over a dozen others insist on
relating their tidbits without attribution.
Ocean Drive, Nov. 21, noon.
On Thursday, activism; on Friday, tourism. The Duval Greens have the run of
South Beach, and are alone among the politically conscious. There are more
flyers for Reebok’s new G-Unit sneakers strewn about the area than anything
related to FTAA. Lunch at Finnegan’s Way brings stealthy stares from the urban
elite. Men hold their Cohibas like blunts, and their women gaze blankly ahead.
The water is so clean in Miami. At least, it looks clean. The grainy South
Beach sand doesn’t stick to hands or shoes, but erosion and development has
liberated much of the original turf, perhaps to Cuba.
Lake Worth, 9:02 p.m.
Supper at a Cracker Barrel in Lake Worth. Our waiter is George: a real
class-act. The whole crew, really, is on their game like I’ve never seen in a
restaurant. But George! The man has four golden stars sewn onto his
double-stitched burgundy apron, making him the Wesley Clark of the CB set.
Literally. He is under consideration to be the new manager here, according to a
man so high-up he wears a headset, perhaps to track fluctuations in the global
price of gravy. And the savings are passed on to us. I can only hope his cause
was enhanced by my ringing endorsement: “George has something special . . . that
vision thing . . . He’s the man to lead your franchise into the 21st century.” I
was serious, but that comes later.
Right now Easy-E is filling in the oral history of COINTELPRO (or is it
MK-ULTRA?) between bites of chicken-fried steak on my immediate left. Dan is to
my immediate right having macaroni and cheese, Sarah to his, Jeff having fried
shrimp to her right, Crystal to her right, Naomi to her right, Erin to hers and
Elliott is to the left of Easy-E. Crystal does not like the sound of a spoon
hitting a cup as it stirs, nor does the man at the other table. There are rolls
piled up strategically. It was so southern, in a way the metropolitan parts of
Florida aren’t too much.
This Cracker Barrel had hosted a cadre of Alabama steelworkers earlier. Bush was
at that very moment in Europe being lobbied to drop protectionist tariffs
imposed last year on imported steel to benefit domestic steel producers who
complained of “dumping” (selling large amounts at heavy losses to lower steel’s
market value) by China and the EU. Trade issues have made strange bedfellows of
people like Nader and Pat Buchanan, who’ve both called the last decade’s
economic performance for what it was: class warfare.
Howard Dean’s controversial remarks about “guys with Confederate Flags” was a
crude approximation of a reality that adds a dimension to events like FTAA. The
presence of many big, burly, organized white men among the protesters probably
saved some a few lives because no one wants to be photographed beating up Real
Folks, as opposed to hippies, journalists and miscellaneous malcontents.
Many of the union men had heard tales from their fathers and grandfathers of how
private security forces like Pinkerton had been used to break strikes and other
labor activity in the 20th century. These men saved their harshest words for
Wackenhut personnel on the scene. They were ostensibly there to protect the
interests of the buildings themselves, in case of looting. In the absence of
looting, however, they served as the official representatives of corporate
America, the very element that drives these trade policies that have bled dry
the family farms, the mom and pop stores, the factory towns of America. “Fuck
those motherfuckers,” said a man back on Biscayne with a Confederate flag
t-shirt under his fluorescent vest. “They’re a lot more dangerous than anybody
knows about. The police are one thing– they’re here for a reason– but Wackenhut’s
here to hurt people.”
Elliott had a different view of the unionists: “The whole protest was about
unity and whatnot, but every time we got close, the union people [would say]
‘Our union’s coming through, you stop, don’t go anywhere, our union’s coming.’
We’re all doing this for the same reason– if anything, help us get in. Just help
the eight of us slide in your union, since your union [fills] three buses.”
Riverside Avenue, Jacksonville, Midnight
The sky would be completely dark, if not for humans. Erin and Elliott discuss
Dan Savage’s definition of “Santorum.” Jeff and Sarah are using each other as
flesh-cushions to sleep upright. Edward stares out the window, like he was
counting the reflective tiles on the highway. Naomi dozes behind Elvis shades.
Crystal drove before switching with Erin, who got up to 90 mph on the last leg.
It turns out that Jacksonville is just about halfway between Miami and Ft.
Benning, so we’ll spend Friday night at home. The van drops me in Five Points
and stops at Crystal’s; everyone else crashes at Elliott’s house on the
Westside. I’ll be up until five a.m. or so writing about Michael Jackson (who
should have just left the country ten years ago and saved himself all this
trouble), asleep until 6:30 and back at Crystal’s at seven.
Dellwood St., Nov. 22, 7:00 a.m.
The van is late because a brief power outage hit the area during the night,
disappearing the alarm clock. We are united in our desire for coffee, but Fuel
is closed. The UPS Store on Margaret St. had lost the glass in its front-door;
Elliott attributed the senseless carnage to poor aim by riled-up locals aiming
for Starbucks.
The School of the Americas was founded in Panama in 1946; it was recently
renamed the Western Hemispheric Institute for Security Cooperation. SOA Watch,
which organizes the resistance, was founded in 1990, staging yearly protests
since then; they keep the issue active year-round. SOA is best known for its
counter-insurgency training of military officials throughout the Lower Americas,
including Manuel Noriega of Panama. Between the persistent Zapatista threat in
Mexico, the escalating narco-terror war in Colombia and a wave of flaky
neo-Marxist regimes in Brazil and Venezuela, the SOA has a full plate before it.
Columbus, GA, 2:30 pm.
It takes a while to find parking. Locals sold spots for between seven and 20
dollars each, and even most of those were filled. We parked in front of an ATM
and walked a quarter-mile to the site. There was a checkpoint erected at which
all bags and persons were searched. A woman stood a few yards ahead imploring
folks to sign a piece of paper declaring their non-consent to the search.
The search took about 39 seconds.
The stage was set up just a few yards away from the front gates of Fort Benning.
Fifteen people sat and stood atop the “Welcome to Ft. Benning” edifice, smoking,
posing. Others were on their knees in silent prayer. I put my cigarette out on
the “Do Not Enter” sign and got a couple of cheers. Soldiers stood about a
hundred feet back, placid but on alert. Still and video cameras crowded in a
half-circle around the stage-front.
In look, sound and vibe, the SOA rally was the polar opposite of FTAA. The police,
being used to the action, were hilariously mellow. One car, parked in the
intersection, with its driver sitting out front in a lawn chair, summarized the
mood. The right side of the street was lined with tables and booths; the left
with locals and portable toilets. Several houses on the right had been
commandeered for the feeding and maintenance of the activists, but no one knew
who actually owned the buildings. A large green armored box with windows hung
from atop a crane; its ominous purpose was not addressed, but I assume it was
for surveillance.
A few people are walking around in shirts saying “Free Charity!” Charity Ryerson
is serving six months in the Muscogee County Jail for “direct action” climbing
over the gates of Ft. Benning at last year’s rally, and she was still in jail.
Modern activists will need to find a benefactor, some wealthy person or NGO
willing to post bail for anyone arrested in the course of civil disobedience or
direct action. (Obviously, George Soros’ Open Society Fund should be contacted.)
This year’s fence-climb is scheduled for Sunday morning, but we’ll be gone by
sundown since the van must be back by midnight.
There is a strong religious component to the anti-SOA scene. It’s been noted
that SOA graduates were responsible for multiple murders of Catholic and Jesuit
parishoners, priests and nuns throughout the 1980s, including Nobel Peace
Prize-winning Archbishop Oscar Romero, whose legacy as the primary marytr for
this movement bears fruit today, over 20 years since he predicted his own death
on the pulpit and got it. There are also veterans’ groups, angered by further
cutbacks in VA benefits at a time where non-lethal casualties in Iraq have
doubled in a single bloody month. These people are serious!
Edgewood Avenue, 10:30 p.m.
After the high-energy debacle that was FTAA, SOA was like an day-trip, a cool,
calm situation to cleanse the psyche before re-immersion in normal life.
Everything was a lot more casual, from the relaxed pace of our exit to the
presence of children, the elderly, even blind people– none of which was possible
in Miami.
SOA Watch claims that “over 10,000” people attended during the rally, with 51
being arrested for climbing the fence on Sunday and 1 for refusing to be
searched; three of them have refused to have a bond paid for them and are making
a point.
The ride back is filled with talk of politics, and then the sound of sleep. We
arrive at Crystal’s, where the dog is already waiting for his owner, and unload
the van. Hugs, handshakes, the exchanging of phone numbers and e-mail addresses,
a few final pictures. Those who’d parked there drifted to their cars and left.
Crystal and her boyfriend take the van back to Jacksonville International
Airport. As the last round of cigarettes are turned to mulch under our heels,
smiles of satisfaction.
And then, a shriek of joy! Easy-E had found his wallet. Truly a perfect trip.
