We Mean It
Reflections on No Kings III
The morning of No Kings dawned cold. Even by 8 a.m, it was only 40 degrees. But 40 or not, my husband and I were getting on our bikes to help at one of the satellite No Kings rallies. I layered up, doubled my face scarves, and we set off.
At the site, countless people milled around, setting up sound stage, displays, tables, medic and information sites, stuff I had no idea about. Our safety meeting started at 8:30. We gathered as far from the action as we could, but even then, we still strained to hear team assignments, route details, intricacies of radio operation above the growing bustle.
To some, I suspect events like NK3 seem like spontaneous uprisings of communities large and small: a date gets announced, then people just show up. You know, antifa. Domestic terrorist cells.
Except the people who organize every action, from sign waving on a week night to No Kings 3 are mothers of young children and retirees and vets who vowed to protect the constitution and parents trying to explain why some kids have stopped coming to school and religious leaders and young people who are just fed up. Actually, everyone is just fed up. That’s why a growing number marches.
And why countless volunteers show up on a chilly morning or spend evenings planning. Volunteers like me go to trainings in nonviolent action, safety planning. We cycle the march routes beforehand with an eye toward crowd safety. We understand we might need to put our bikes between an angry driver, their car and the march. We strive to keep us safe as we seek to prevent irrevocable damage to the Constitution.
The morning of No Kings, the meeting felt long, yes, but it calmed some of my jitters-- for better or worse, the rally would start somewhere around 10:30, and then we’d be off. With my bicycle locked up and speeches beginning, I sidled through the crowd, offering whistles. I passed out hundreds.
Even after all the media coverage of ICE raids, some needed to have whistles explained to them. Others shrugged as they took one. Perhaps they were wondering, “Why now? ICE has been slowing down; surely we’re beyond the need for warning systems.” But not long ago, I saw a plea for support from an immigrant’s rights support network. They said their rapid response phone line has gone from 1 call per day in January to 400 per day in March. ICE isn’t slowing down, they’re just changing tactics. Small teams, moving in for quick strikes, on targets like drivers on the way to a job, for example, the empty cars abandoned on busy streets.
A Chicago resistance training group doesn’t think ICE is slowing down, either. They’re offering training in how to respond to ICE’s changing tactics. They describe it as a neighborhood defense program, where every neighbor reaches out to another until entire areas are blanketed with those who want to help the people they live next to. In a city as spread out and stratified as ours, I think we also need to start imagining the entire city as our neighborhood so that no matter where we are during any time of the day, we are prepared to support any one of our half-million neighbors.
The afternoon of the big No Kings march, my energy flagged. I stood at the top of a long hill, directing marchers to bear left. It took more than an hour for the whole march to pass. People thanked me for being there and I thanked them. A young man stepped close to earnestly comment on the difference between the way I directed the crowd with smiles and a few dance moves, versus police on motorcycles with batons and guns. “That’s because I’m not an asshole,” I joked. And we laughed and thanked each other for being there. One woman gave me a teeny green frog.
Chants, drums, laughing all lifted me up.
Still, I was glad when we headed for home. Radios and neon vests turned in at the Ops table, our small crew chatted. One said she was thinking of heading to the march on ICE later that night. You could hear a gasp-- maybe it was me. “The rally that says ‘Bring all your rage’ on the poster?” someone asked. “Did you bring your gas mask?” She looked surprised. “Really?” Then she shrugged, smiling. “Hey, I just want to go check it out,” she said. “I can leave if it gets spicy.”
I shook my head at the thought-- all I wanted was a quiet room and about 700 hours to myself.
I felt worn out Sunday evening, when I joined the safety team debrief that went on for 2 hours.
Sometime that night, I found myself wondering what had happened at the rally. I didn’t have to look too hard to find an indie-news video report. Here’s the link:
Maybe you’ll see a person, dressed as an inflatable pink frog, standing near the infamous blue line marking federal property. You might be caught off guard when they’re rushed by ICE. Keep looking as the swarm of armed men in camouflage and black riot gear chase the pink frog across the street, ripping at the costume as they jockey for their chance to get their hands on her. Perhaps you’ll wince as you see all the men pile on, obliterating any sign of pink, or gasp as you watch them drag the person in the shredded costume back across the street toward the building. And, maybe, while men brutalized the person in the inflatable costume, you noticed the agent pulling his gun on the crowd, waving it recklessly as he screamed at the pink frog’s supporters to “Back the fuck up.”
Screen captures from video:
Tying up the loose ends from No Kings has been at such a brisk pace it’s been almost impossible to process events. I didn’t realize what I was carrying until I sat down to write this.
I was tired Monday when I made a cake for the following day’s whistle kit meeting. The week before, the idea of a No Kings celebration cake had raised a few giddy exclamations, so I made the cake. As I did, I realized we all need a little frosting these days, but even more, we, a group with a fluctuating membership, who, on a good day, can turn out more than 800 whistle kits, we need to celebrate our small community.
Community is why I packed hundreds of whistle kits for a woman who stopped by Tuesday as I was making dinner. Her neighbor’s husband was snatched last fall and held for three months; she wants the entire neighborhood to be prepared. She’s asked for 400 whistles so far.
On Wednesday, when the Hispanic young man with a cheeky smile dropped off groceries, I offered him whistles. He asked for two, his smile turning as shy as a younger brother’s as he thanked me.
The great darkness piles on, day after day, incidents large and small, in my backyard and across the globe. It makes me so tired.
I don’t know if I always believe in what the people at the ICE protests are doing, I just know that none of it justifies such brutality. It’s probably why I’m going to bake a pink frog cake to bring to a prayer and support supper happening at ICE Saturday evening. I have no time for it, but standing with that group feels right. Because resistance is compassion and cake. It’s a neighborhood where we don’t know everyone. And because when resistance says No, we mean it.