Go Fight City Hall

Today the City Council met, and a few local activists planned to rally and then attend the meeting and give testimony about the police brutality that occurred August 4. Some survivors of the violence were on hand to tell their stories.

But their testimonies weren’t heard. Police Accountability was not on the Council agenda.  

Because of the large crowd, the G4S security staff at City Hall refused to open the balcony, lest “rowdiness” might break out. When all seats were filled in the main chamber, the rest of us were left to stand in the hallway or mill about. Soon after the meeting started, it ended. The select group that had made it through the doors had refused to remain quiet, so the Mayor adjourned the meeting and took the council to a private room to handle the prescribed agenda (pot-holes, zoning changes). 

Two people, desperate to call attention to the need for police accountability, staged a “die-in” (Extra). They were arrested and charged with trespassing. Another group tried to force its way in the front doors and was pushed back; the doors were locked. This photo was made just before the protesters were ejected from the building.

Those of us indoors stood bewildered, unsure why we were allowed to remain, why our comrades were locked out, why the mayor and city council were locked into a room we could not enter,  keeping their agenda.

It is easy to think there is no way to be heard, no way to make change happen. The doors are locked. Change is not on the agenda. Power reinforces itself. For generations, the way people in the USA have told each other a situation is hopeless is to shrug and say, "Go fight city hall."

Despite this, art happens, laughter breaks the tension. The bodies of the young are decorated with tattoos, their fleshy bits pierced and looped, hanks of their hair magenta, aqua, emerald. We sing happy birthday to Donna Hayes. Some hug. Some make photographs. As I walked toward the streetcar to go home, I saw people shopping, taking coffee breaks, flirting with each other, dozing on park benches. Sometimes I feel I’ve stepped out of a movie into the street, only the playwright is not available, the actors have to improvise their lines, and nobody knows the plot.