This is the last entry of the journal I kept traveling to the Democratic and Republican National Conventions last August and September. It is transcribed as is from the journal with no revision or editing aside from spelling and typos. Now that all of the entries are transcribed onto my computer I will be beginning on the real work on the book. Ideas are welcome.

Thanks,
Diam0nds

September 4, 2008

The schedule of events printed the RNC Welcoming committee paper says there's a student walk-out rally and then permitted march against the war. Jonah, Andrew, and I arrive at the capitol lawn and see that most of the kids there are high schoolers, which is fucking awesome! I hated high school, but I didn't have the balls to do a walkout. I've been told that it's the first day of school in the twin cities too.

There's a ska band playing on stage, but no one is dancing. I feel like going there and starting something, but it looks like no one wants to come with.

It's chilly today, and I have on my black long sleeve shirt and cap. The holes in my jeans get bigger each day. Still haven't had time to shower. We came here in Chuck's car, and man did it reek of anarchist by the time we got out.

The march we're here for leaves at four, so we dick around for a while and try to find a post office for Andrew. God knows what the hell he needs a post office for in the middle of this mess, but we try not to ask each other a lot of questions about things that don't matter. A bunch of cases of lukewarm coke sit on the pavement and Andrew swipes one, drinks half and gives me the rest after he reminds himself that he doesn't like soda.

We head down Marion street, over the bridge as we try to navigate our way to Jackson St, which leads to the post office. There's no march going on but the intersection ahead of us is blocked by a line of storm troopers and a sergeant with his helmet off. We need to go left, but it's blocked as well, so we walk up to the guy and ask him how we can get to the post office. He's annoyed.

“I want you to go that way.” He points to our right.

“Yeah, but the post office is to the left, Andrew says. One of the guys I can count on to not back down.

“I want you to go that way. Go around and turn back towards Jackson.” We're not going to win this one, so we go around.

Crossing Marion again we hear drumming and see a small (couple hundred) students marching down the street with big yellow anti-war flags and banners. It's two something and we decide to fuck the post office for now and see where this is going.

It's a permitted march. There's a good vibe to this one-decidedly anti-war. One of the most important messages as I see it is the general consensus that military recruiters should be kicked out of high schools. An Iranian American woman wants to interview me on why I'm here and the answer rolls off my tongue, telling her that I oppose the military industrial complex entirely, and that if the state wanted to recruit lower class high school students to, “serve their country,” there are plenty of government programs, such as Americorps, that don't involve participating in killing people. She asks where I'm from, and I tell her DC. She tells me she is too and asks if I'm involved with SDS there, and I say no, but I was thinking about it. She thanks me and moves on to interview Andrew.

We cross the bridge over the river and out of St. Paul into an abandoned dirt lot where Seeds of Peace is handing out food. Some good vegan food.

It's 3:30 or so. Time to get to the main march back at the capitol lawn. It doesn't seem like most of the kids here really know what is going on today, so we stand up and make an announcement that if people leave now, they can make the main march.

It's a long walk through downtown back to the park, and there's a common feeling of subtle disdain for the police, but also a common feeling of excitement over the final day's protest.

The crowd at the park is a good size and growing. Another show is going on and Jonah, Andrew and I are idling together until the march starts. I glance at my watch, and as I look up, two columns of bike cops with sky blue shirts, black helmets, and an attitude make their way through the crowd urging people in an insistent tone to get out of the way. The cops wade through the crowd and immediately circle around two people lying next to a lamp post. They're pushing people out of the way.

“What the fuck?!” I hear myself yell. I'm losing my patience, my temper, and more reservations every minute. This is just like the Indymedia journalist on Tuesday. They come and make a scene right before the march to distract us. What they don't realize is that their antagonistic behavior doesn't scare us. It has the opposite effect. They're just making problems worse for themselves.

Riot cops come in, followed by the cavalry, followed by more riot cops until they've got a good 40 cops and a huge perimeter. The crowd is impatient. There's media here this time, mainstream media. We met a CNN photographer earlier. I can't even begin to describe the feelings I was feeling. The frustration. The anger. The helplessness. They're stealing our rights.

It's much like the same scene as the journalist on Tuesday, but with more collective anger, and more cops. I don't know what I think about this. On the one hand it's bad. Of course it's bad. This is a terrible violation of the constitution. On the other hand though, I'm looking for a fight. I want another Monday. Except I want more than anarchists and cops to see it this time. There are liberals here too. College kids and high schoolers. This is going to be interesting. The entire show is fixated on the scene and the whole crowd is gravitating towards us. I'm on the front line with my bandanna on, shaming the police as much as I can.

“Show me what a police state looks like!”

“This is what a police state looks like!” We mean it. More and more every time we have the opportunity to say it.

The crowd is over here, but the band is still playing Why the fuck is the band still playing? I jog over to the stage and shout up, “Are you going to say something about this?” A band member puts his hand cupped next to his ear. Of course you can't hear me. That's the problem. I repeat myself, “Are you going to say something about this?!” I get impatient and walk away.

The crowd is right where I left. Andrew is in the middle of the camera cluster fuck taping away. The guy is fearless. I'm up and down the police lines speaking my mind about all of this without hesitation.

“Why the hell do you think this is acceptable? You should be ashamed of your selves!”

“Show me what a police state looks like!”

“This is what a police state looks like!”

I still haven't heard an explanation about why there are people being arrested. We're all together. “Let them go! Let them go! Let them go! Let them go!” A voice over a mic on the stage contributes a few words too.

One line of riot cops briskly shuffles out. The mounted officers trot away and the rest follow. Of course the two people are hoisted through in the middle of the swarm.

The police are missing a fundamental piece of the equation of riot control. Either that or they're severely underestimating us. Every time they move and antagonize us like this, they are not scaring us. We're for the most part anti-authoritarian to a large degree. When they sit, we stand, when they say forward we say back. They saw what happened Tuesday after they arrested the Indymedia journalist. Not only does this turn the media against the police, but ups the ante on a movement that isn't even close to its potential. They've just upped the ante on a permitted non-violent march and I can't predict the outcome at this point.

The lawn has both an air of frustration and helplessness and a sense of the calm before the storm.

It's only twenty minutes before they start coming back. I'm clueless. Why are they back? The capitol steps behind the stage are filling up with a dotted line of riot cops. This time they're surrounding the field. They don't look all that threatening, gas masks aside. I'm getting used to those. It's any body's guess why they're here. At 4:50 a voice comes over the loud speaker. I can't catch his name, but the gist of what he says is that our permit is from 4-5 o'clock. We're notified that if we're not out by 5, we will be forced to disperse. This is outrageous. We're not even marching, and they're threatening to use chemical weapons on us. This is strike two and a half on the way to a Fascist America, and strike three for RNC St. Paul. There's a guy with a sign that says, “RNC=Tienanmen Square.” Just add tanks. The bullets are in their sidearms.

Now, I understand that there are limits on my first amendment rights to free speech and assembly. I understand that while the state can not discriminate against the content of a speech, they can regulate the time and place. I don't necessarily agree with that, but I can accept it. What I cannot accept though, is what I perceive to be a strict regulation of the time and place of these demonstrations based on the content.

I've seen and been chastised by members of the public on the illegality of those of our marches which are unpermitted. They are frustrated by the inconvenience of traffic jams due to protesters (which is actually police stopping a march and not letting it move forward). My response is that yes. It's illegal. But that's why civil disobedience is important now more than ever. The fact is, we're living in a police state. They, the police, the courts, the politicians that we oppose MAKE the laws, and then they execute the laws through extreme police brutality on both our bodies and our beliefs. Of course we're breaking laws. That's the point. I'm unapologetic. This is more important for both my comrades and yours.

The cop on the other end of the bull horn has to know we're not going to leave because he says it over a megaphone. I'm sure he's counting on it. There is no other reason he would have us surrounded like prisoners of war.

One of the organizers comes up to the stage and gives a short speech on why we're here. I have to admit I'm not paying close attention until she says, “We don't have a permit, but we're going to march anyway!” The crowd starts extending east towards downtown, and soon snakes toward the John Ireland bridge. There's excitement in everyone. It's now been made acceptable to all of those kids ready to do something real to engage in civil disobedience.

The usual chants. I'm waiting for my favorite.

“Who's streets?”

“Our streets!”

“Who's streets?”

“Our streets!” It's the most basic, and most empowering call I know, and the cops hate it. Part of why I love it so much. That chant is a good case to point out why there is always such animosity towards us. They like to think that the streets are theirs.

We reach the John Ireland bridge and they're already waiting. There's a line of either St. Paul or Minneapolis riot police, in front of some mounted cops, in front of a glorified golf cart with a police decal.

The march bunches up on the bridge and stops. “Let us march! Let us march! Let us march! Let us march!” It doesn't seem like they're going to. We don't know what to do. I mean shit. What can we do? It's a stand off. We're there doing nothing for quite some time. It's a two way bridge with three sections. The end of the bridge is occupied by the police. Black and blue, but far from beaten. The left side is full of protesters The right side belongs to the press. A lot of them. Almost all of their cameras are on the cops. As always. There are people lining the railings of the bridge on both sides. Andrew is on the press side railing with one hand on a lamp post and the other at a right angle with his camera filming. His eyes watching the screen behind the lens of a green old school gas mask. He looks iconic next to a big aluminum peace sign being held in the sky by a guy in a red shirt. In the background, the dome of the old chapel.

Someone in the front is yelling for everyone to sit down. A group of maybe forty sits while the rest stare back at the police standing. Bystanders and the press on the railings watch intently. This is a standoff. The mounted cops drop back, which makes me think of chemical weapons that they keep away from horses. I can't tell if the cops are going to gas us or wait us out. The tension is strong, but it starts to fade away, and some people start leaving. I look back at the end of the bridge and notice a line of bike cops blocking the way we came. We're not closed in yet.

There's a group of anarchists who are riding bikes and skateboards in a large circle in the middle of the intersection.

I'm wandering around the bridge checking out the scene. I see one of my friends in black is on the railing opposite me and I recognize him. His name is storm. He's a veteran of veterans when it comes to activism. Judging from his age, he probably got involved first in the anti-nuclear movement, and I'm sure he was in Seattle too. Says he got his bachelors and masters in meteorology and used to be a tornado chaser. Hence the name. He's got a black T-shirt converted to a sleeveless shirt and a bandanna around his forehead and dark aviator sunglasses.

I greet him, but he's preoccupied with thinking whatever Storm thinks behind that game face of his. As we sit and watch, I see a line of cop cars and minivans go under the bridge we're on and drive up the next exit ramp.

I'm not sure I've seen riot cops in minivans in St. Paul before. On the one hand it's funny as hell to see seven storm troopers crowded in the back like they're on the way to soccer practice, but it's also scary. To think that a large portion of the mobile police force are in unmarked vehicles does not bode well. I'm not sure if this is creepier than the Latin American style riot cops on the outside of an SUV method used in Denver or this. The Denver Pd's tool was intimidation and fear.

I'm guessing that there are police coming around the main march to block it from the other side. Sure enough, I see the cars and vans show up, though I'm told that the police department has guaranteed that the side of the intersection will be an escape route for those who choose to disperse.

The bandanna comes off of my face as I walk away from the bridge. Fox and Nelson are next to the circle. Fox is shouting and clapping in time with, “A! Anti! Anti-Capatalista!” I join in and start dancing in a circle, as others join in. “A! Anti! Anti-Capatalista!”

“A! Anti! Anti-Capatalista!”

There's a lot of people coming from this way now, away from the bridge. They're walking briskly, but not running. The line of black is advancing. I don't see any arrests, and people don't seem very frantic. I guess we're dispersing now. Only we're dispersing together. It's not conscious or planned but people are all walking the same way back towards the capitol lawn. I call Andrew to see where he is. There's some confusion, but we find each other at the back of the march and run to catch up.

We arrive at the Marion St. Bridge that goes over I-94 and see a repeat of the John Ireland Bridge. People are already sitting down as the cameras crowd in front of us watch the cops. Hey media, if you're going to report, report, but don't disrupt our demonstration. Andrew falls back and steps closer to a cop with camera in hand when a bike cop points his mace at Andrew as quick as a scorpion's tail. A sergeant points at Andrew, and he freaks a little. He backs off. The scene is a little less tense this time, but the cops quickly move to encircle the people at the intersection. Everybody runs out of the way this time, and the crowd volume increases as people yell while they get away. The police just kicked it up a notch.

Still sitting in the circle are twenty to thirty girls and holding up peace signs as the crowd insists! “Let them go! Let them go! Let them go! Let them go!” God. I should be in there. I can't believe I'm doing the logical thing and avoiding arrest. I'm still on probation. There should be radicals in that circle, but I don't see any bandannas. I'm ashamed.

Lia finds me and puts her arms around me, “guess who? It's Lia!” I know. I smile and hold her hands draped over my shoulders and around my neck. I feel like kissing her hand, but I don't. I feel a little more at home when I'm around her, even though I'm a thousand miles away.

These girls are brave. These are the kinds of moments I want to keep. I shout my love for them.

Someone starts singing the star spangled banner. More people join in, and more, and more. The song never really meant anything to me before this. I feel like crying for the first time. It's not the song, but the feeling that fills my chest with a new emotion I can't describe. One of the many new emotions I've felt this past month.

There's a ripple in the police line as a couple of people are nabbed and arrested. I find out later it was our tactical team, which explains the subsequent events. This march is stuck. Nothing is happening besides a peep show on political repression in the middle of a sea of blue. I walk over to one of the bike cops, and through the crack between my black hat and the black bandanna covering my nose and mouth I stare at him. I see him through the lenses of his gas mask, and I see through his uniformity and intimidation. He looks away. Sixty seconds, he's uncomfortable. 120. He turns his head side to side, but won't look me in the eye. 360. Even if he doesn't realize what he stands for I do. I walk away.

I'm getting tired of this joke of a spectator sport. I've walked around enough to know that people aren't going to leave this time if given the order to disperse. It's a very open area, which means that mass arrests are not going to be feasible enough for the police to try to block us in. This suggests to me that they're going to get trigger happy and disperse us by force. They already have their gas masks on.

I wade through the crowd up some stairs towards a parking lot in the corner of the park next to us. I see Fox standing there with Nelson, Jake, and Dorianne. Fox and I discuss the situation and come to the same conclusion on the ineffectiveness of just staying here. He presents to me the idea of getting some people together and to take an intersection or something. My view is that we could also just restart the march by yelling enough and walking the opposite way.

I walk around finding some more folks from Denver to present the idea. Some are neutral and some are all for it. Jake, Dorianne, Fox, Nelson and I get together behind the mass of onlookers and start shouting.

Jake and I shout, “Who's streets?”

A hand full respond. “Our streets!”

“Who's streets?”

“Our streets!” people are getting the message. Some turn around and start drifting our direction.

“Who's streets?” We turn around and start walking.

“Our streets!” A lot of people start following at first, and then more, and more.

“Who's streets?”

“Our streets!”

“Who's streets? Come on everybody! We don't have to stop because they say so! Let's carry this thing on!” I shout.

There's maybe a hundred people going now and the march is off again! We walk up the street back towards the bridge. At the net intersection, a line of cops block the entrance to the bridge and the highway exit, so the march guides itself to the right through, ironically, the police memorial where it slants left and then back towards the John Ireland Bridge, by way of the park opposing the capitol lawn. There's an older guy on a megaphone telling us what to do. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate input from more experienced activists, but this is an older guy in a march of mostly younger people on a megaphone telling us what “we're” going to do. I'm pissed. I don't think he realizes he's coming off as authoritarian to a group filled with anarchists. Jake and I see the crowd thinning and spreading out and take it as an opportunity to interrupt this guy and perform a function needed by the group. “Tighten up! Tighten up!” We drown him out as others join in.

As we pass the John Ireland Bridge, a highway ramp appears on the left. Several anarchists run over and begin an attempt to blockade it. They call for people to come join. The adrenaline is building, but luckily enough people voice their opposition to a potentially disastrous, possibly federal crime, and the march goes on. A column of bike cops splits the crowd as they try to get to the front of the march, presumably to try to block it from turning left at the next bridge. They're shouting, but I can sense a note of fear in their voices as they're screaming, “Move! Move!”

The march turns right instead of crossing the now blocked off bridge. We're confident. We're exuberant!. Calls come to occupy only one lane so we stay together. “Off the sidewalk into the street!” people yell. The call is repeated and most of us are packed in the street now, making our way to University Blvd where another bridge into downtown lies. There are squad cars screaming and flashing and horse cops going at more than a trot passing us on the left to block us at the next intersection, but they're too late.

Up ahead, I see us pick up speed and turn right on University. I'm jogging to catch up and towards the front. Maybe thirty feet ahead there's a line of cops blocking the street. Not that many though. I'm maybe twenty feet away when the first crack of a rubber bullet leaving its barrel is followed immediately by screaming. 10 feet away from my feet a sickening green cloud of smoke billows in my direction and I can't see more than four feet ahead of me. All right, now I'm fucking panicked. Really fucking panicked. More screams. Jesus this is fucked up. I'm trying to walk, but I see nobody behind me and my legs are filling with fear and my brain orders me to bolt. Flash bang. Fuck! My ears are trying to adjust. There's no order to this. This is a goddamn police riot. People flood over through the Sears parking lot, back towards where we came from. I think they're chasing us now. Really though, I have no idea what's going on right now. Panic. Chaos. Fear.

Someone yells for vandalism, “into the mall!” No! No! We're fucking fucked if we go in there! Vandalism will not help this situation. I can't tell if anybody is listening, because right then a line of six horse cops gallop in. The hoofs are deafening on the pavement, amidst the flash bangs and rubber bullets going on in I don't even know what direction. We're blocked off in front. I'm pretty sure the situation behind us isn't getting any better. Jonah grabs me. I motion for John and Chuck. “I'm ready to get the fuck out of here. We all agree. We all run across the street and look for some place to hide and change out of our black clothes. I suggest going in the apartment building, but Jonah takes over and points out how bad an idea it is to trap ourselves so we close to the scene. We kneel down in a dip, out of sight from the road. I take my green t-shirt out of the bag and strip my black shirt off. My vinegar soaked white bandanna and black hat go in the backpack with Jonah's shit. We walk briskly up the road away from the disaster behind us, trying not to look back when a woman in a jacket approaches us and tells us to follow her to her car. We're all about trying to get the hell out of here. All four of us are following her as I lean over to ask Jonah who this is, and if we can trust her. Forgive me. I'm a little paranoid right now. There's a squad car with flashing lights at the intersection, and we turn right. We're closer to University now, and a few cars with lights speed toward the scene back towards the chaos. Right again and then right into a small parking lot next to a wooden fence enclosing a dumpster. The woman opens the passenger door. She pushes the seat forward. Jonah, Chuck and John pile in the back. The seat goes back in place. I get in the passenger seat. My heart slows down a little when the doors close. The sounds of the chaos behind us get quieter as we're isolated in the jeep. I feel safer. Ignition. The car slides down the street and follows the path we just walked. We cross a few streets and go through an intersection clogged down because of cars being turned away to the right. We cross the bridge over I-94 into downtown and the scene is behind us. My pulse is practically back to normal. I've never felt more alive.