June 7, 2020 - Watching a March -

There have been protests in Portland every night for over a week. We live close in, and have heard helicopters beating overhead until way past midnight, but until Friday, I had stuck to my avoid-gatherings-of-any-kind policy, and I hadn’t witnessed anything. 

Okay, actually I tried, on my birthday, to find an outdoor, prayerful, small protest organized by Ecumenical Ministries of Oregon, at the north precinct. I wanted to wear my mask and stand on the outermost edge of a gathering of earnest folks, outside, in a socially-distanced way, on a Sunday afternoon - even though I knew there was a possibility I’d have to withstand multiple verses of This Little Light of Mine. (I was also hoping to spy the dean of my church, who I knew would be there.)

I figured I’d show up, add to the sparse crowd for a minute or two, and go back home to a birthday feast. (I love to play “guess the religion from the get-up.” Episcopal clergy sport a lot of rainbow stoles and blue hair, still, and the bishop has his raspberry-colored robe (which he also wears in the Pride Parade), and there are nuns and rabbis in appropriate garb, and plenty of rainbow yarmulkes, too, and various Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh and Muslim outfits, and some Native American folks, and then there are men in sheer white, puff-sleeved voile under copper tabards of some sort. Someday I’ll ask.)

But they moved that protest to a different venue, and I didn’t get the memo, so I found myself all alone at the north precinct with a dozen policemen and one blonde woman who asked if I was looking for graffiti. I said Nope and went home. It had been nice to get out of the house.

As for the nightly protests downtown, I’d seen some Facebook posts, and news clips, but nothing with my own eyes.  Last night I just wanted to get one glimpse of history in the making. I thought I could do that without encountering a big crowd, maybe walking up onto the Hawthorne Bridge around seven, long before sunset, and getting a faraway glimpse of the masses in Waterfront Park, on the other side of the river.

I did the same thing three and a half years ago, at the Women’s March. There was no way I wanted to be packed into a giant mass of people, even back then, but I wanted to have seen it.

But once again, I didn’t get the memo, and when I got down near the bridge, I discovered that Friday was the night that the East side marchers were going across the Hawthorne, not the Burnside or the Morrison, as on previous nights. Ha.

So I found a vantage point far from the marchers and used the zoom on my phone, and took some photos, and just watched. I was very mindful of a moment in an interview I’d seen between Stephen Colbert and Chris Hayes, where Hayes talks about reporting on Trump’s inaugural, and a scene where a garbage can was on fire, and 50 reporters were standing in a ring getting that photo for their stories. One garbage can, fifty stories.

A friend from far overseas sometimes reads these posts and says how nice it is to hear the voice of an ordinary American, and then I wonder what reaches her otherwise. But it’s the same closer to home, as we all know – ten thousand thoughtful, heartfelt protesters, and one or two terrifying pictures of mayhem. Mayhem is not the only story or the whole story, but it’s a burning garbage can.

So here’s my eyewitness report, for those near and far who can’t go, or don’t want to go, or who just wonder what it’s like.

People were lined up loosely, maybe eight abreast, for blocks and blocks and blocks (not going past me in my little spot – coming from the other direction). Lots of masks, but no social distancing, really. There was some call and response chanting, Say her name, Say his name. There were all the signs you would expect, and almost none were off topic – many wished Breonna Taylor a happy birthday, because Friday would have been her 27^th birthday. There were folks available for assistance, should assistance be needed.

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The crowd was much younger and sadder than the women’s march – very few of the old lefties that showed up for that (and for the protests that followed back then, about immigration policy and racism and Steve Bannon’s doings, and all the rest), and there weren’t any funny signs – because none of this is funny. There were no policemen visible from where I was standing. The Hawthorne was closed to traffic, but Grand Ave was open, and people drove by honking and fist-pumping. A whole lot of motorcyclists revved their engines and squealed past and even did wheelies in the intersection. It wasn’t clear to me at first that screeching tires meant somebody was supporting the marchers, but it turned out they were.

Most of the marchers were wearing all black, with black face masks. I had read a post saying “bring earplugs, wear your mask, bring water, bring a pouch of milk, wear black.”  (Earplugs because the police have used acoustic devices as well as tear gas, water and milk for tear gas antidotes, masks for COVID protection.) Only when I saw the marchers in black did I grasp that everyone was sporting the Antifa look. Because we are all, actually, against Fascism! Yes, we are. Or all of us there were.  (I’m sorry to learn that the legend of the Danes all wearing yellow stars to help protect their Jewish citizens in WWI is not true. Bummer.)

I tried to take photos without showing anyone’s face, as a Facebook courtesy, but it wasn’t easy. I barely got the sign that read, “How many weren’t filmed?” I saw the helicopters way above us, and spent some time staring at a drone that was only a few feet above the crowd. The drone seemed to be staring back.

There was exactly one incident of excitement. In general, the marchers were coming in my direction, before veering off one street away, to cross the bridge. I was in a wide pedestrian alley on the opposite side of the bridge from where the line turned. I was all by myself, clicking away, and only a couple of folks who wanted to take a shortcut came up that alley, saying “excuse me” and giving me a wide berth  as they hurried past. (These details are provided for the benefit of my pal who sent me a message once he saw the photos, saying that I am over 65 and in the high risk group, and need to find a different way to show my support. I’m not disagreeing with him. I just had to go once, and I tried to be safe, and if you believe in what another friend calls the “talismanic power” of being outdoors and staying away from others, and if you must pass them, passing them quickly, and sticking around for about ten or fifteen minutes total, then I think I was safe.)

I was one of a very few older people, and I was sporting my N95 mask, my white hair and my red raincoat, giving off the “entirely harmless little old lady bystander” vibes I emanate so well, but nobody cared at all.

And then! My one exciting interlude!

I looked down the alley a ways, and two remarkably grubby people were doing something to the wall of a building. They were adorning it with graffiti! But I couldn’t see any sign of a change to the building façade, and I wondered for a minute if they had some super-fancy paint that only appeared as it dried or something? Because they would stop and do their thing, and then go a few feet and do their thing again, but absolutely nothing was visible. I squinted a little harder and realized they were writing in pencil on a brown building.  Super grubby, and also not highly effective.

Then one of them turned towards me and started running and shouting, “I saw that, I saw you taking pictures of us!” and other excited things, and I kindof squeaked and threw my hands up, but he ran right past me, headed for a grey-haired gentleman about fifteen feet behind me, who was also bystanding. Grey-hair very calmly held his phone out to Grubby and said, “No, here, look. Here, look at the pictures I took.” And Grubby took the phone and handed it back, and that was that.

So that’s my burning garbage can, all I’ve got. I’m glad I went.