RNC Suffering for a cause: One protester's ordeal
Zoë Williams
The Metropolitan
New York City came alive Sunday, August 29th when 400,000 protesters sprawled across Manhattan Island. The United for Peace and Justice March kicked off a week of creative and direct action in protest of the GOP agenda. Music from marching bands and drum circles echoed off buildings. Toward the end of the march, a thirty-foot long dragon puppet burst into flames. Police conflict was minimal.
On Monday, 7,000 people tore through the streets for two hours during the unauthorized Poor People's March for Our Lives. The crowds demanded a solution to homelessness, universal health care, exploitation of workers, free AIDS medication, and an overall end to capitalist oppression. New Yorkers leaned from balconies as cries of "Whose streets? Our streets!" cut through the air. I danced in the streets thinking, We are making history! as true democracy unfolded before me. The Republican National Convention protests have been dubbed as the largest party convention protests in history. Another record was broken as well. New York police participated in the largest mass arrest the city has seen. By the end of the convention, nearly 2,000 people were forced through the legal system.
On Tuesday, I was one of more than 1,400 protesters arrested.
I cannot disclose information about the circumstances leading to my arrest, having started this story about two hours after the plastic handcuffs were slapped on as I was loaded on to a city bus.
The music of the demonstrations stopped, and new songs of support and solidarity came from the protesters. As the bus rolled off, I assumed were going to Central Booking (aka The Tombs). When the bus stopped and we were unloaded, our actual location was quite a surprise.
In a single file line, we were led into a building dimly lit by yellow lights. Barricades similar to what were used on the streets guarded our line. On either side of the barricades were chain link cages topped with razor wire. These cages were full of protesters, who screamed and cheered so loud the building began to quake.
The air around us was heavy and stale. Chemicals wafted into our nostrils. We had arrived at Pier 57, a former bus depot that would come to be known as "Guantanamo on the Hudson" or "Little Gitmo."
The aisle of barricades led us into a larger cage. Polaroid cameras flashed in our eyes as we filed into the pen. There were no benches, just several portable toilets in smaller cages at either end. Thick layers of grease and oil sat on the floor. Signs listing various chemicals dangled above our heads.
At this point, we realized we were no longer human beings. The police officers referred to us as bodies, our cages were kennels, and we were pushed from one to another. Occasionally, a sandwich on stale bread with processed cheese or a water cup was thrown our way. From the instant we were piled into the pens, the blackness from the floor climbed up our bodies. My sinuses began to ache and I could feel my skin becoming irritated.
Several medics managed to bring supplies into the holding area to treat bruises and minor flesh wounds from the plastic handcuffs we were finally freed from. The spirit of the streets had not been muffled. A dance-circle began with rhythms created by old handcuffs, shoes, clapping, and singing.
At about four in the morning on Wednesday, I was removed from the larger pen and placed into the smaller cages divided by sex.
As the day progressed, a pain starting in my rib cage gradually coursed though my body. My head pounded, my stomach churned, I coughed and gagged. Runny noses, burning eyes, itching skin, nausea and breathing troubles sprung up across the cells.
It was impossible to clean up. There was no running water and only some cells were provided with hand sanitizer. When eating, one had to weigh out which was worse, ingesting the toxic chemicals or enduring rattling hunger pains.
Regardless of miserable conditions, we kept singing and chanting. Whoever felt less awful provided comfort and care to their cellmates. We alternated in cycles hugging and nursing each other.
Late afternoon, after being shifted around numerous times, we were put in jail buses and taken to The Tombs for booking. Even after almost 24 hours in police custody and inhumane conditions, the people on the buses united in song. "We are rising up like a phoenix from the fire, brothers and sisters spread your wings and flying higher." We would not be broken.
Once inside The Tombs, we were sorted into holding cells with televisions. We watched as Tuesday night was replayed for us. Arrests in Times Square. Arrests in Madison Square, Arrests at Ground Zero. Arrests at Union Square Station.
By this time, I was starting to get delirious out of sleep deprivation and sickness. All I could do was sit and stare at the chunky blue and red paint on the walls and hope for the best.
In the cells, we began meeting people and making networks. We met pedestrians and tourists who had been swept up in mass arrests. There were women who needed medication, women getting sick, and women who were terrified. Ages ranged from fifteen to eighty. We learned one another's stories. Using whatever energy we could, we kept chanting, singing, and laughing.
At around 4:30 in the morning, I was pulled from my cell and placed on a chain of handcuffs. Police officers kept changing their stories, saying we were hours away from freedom, while others said we were days away.
Tile hallways and crowded cells spun past me as we were moved over and over. The cells became smaller and smaller until I was taken to the twelfth floor and placed in an eight-by-nine- foot cell with six other women and a colony of cockroaches.
What little food I had in my stomach came up. My vision went blurry and my nose was bleeding. I was hallucinating with a fever. I curled up shivering under the single bench in the back of the cell. Every ounce of strength I had left was used to calm an oncoming breakdown. My energy was gone. I did not know how much longer I could last in the cell. I could not sing, I could not chant, I could not even think straight.
As I rested my head on the cold paint-chipped floor, I noticed a noise in the back round. It was faint at first, but growing louder, I heard more cheering and chanting. These noises were not coming from inside the jail, but outside, where hundreds of people gathered to support us.
I rested for an hour and woke up with a new inspiration. I was placed in a larger cell. My head was heavy, my bones throbbed, but I was filled with energy. The cell pushed aside how much we hurt and we began to organize.
We met under consensus. Liberals, radicals, and unfortunate bystanders alike, we decided to take action. In response to the system's failure to arraign us within 24 hours, we declared a 30-person hunger strike. We yelled as loud as we could. We later learned our chanting was heard throughout the jail and outside on the sidewalks.
Protesters arrested on Aug. 31 spent between 24 and 48 hours in police custody. Many did not get a phone call; even more did not see a lawyer or a judge during this time.
In the last twelve hours of my stay, I experienced a harsh blur of intense emotions. I was covered in dirt, my body was creaking, and my lungs kept exploding with dry hacking coughs. Some of the good cops told us we would be released soon to warm showers and decent meals. All I could think of was seeing my friends.
At 7:30 p.m. on Sept. 2, 48 hours after my arrest, I walked out of the jail into the setting sun of New York City. Applause, cheers, medics, legal aide, and fellow protesters greeted me, When I finally saw my friends-some of whom had stayed outside for 30 hours, others who returned after their release-a hot lump formed in the back of my throat. I fought back tears.
I wasn't a "body" anymore. Handcuffs didn't bind me. We hugged and kissed. Sickness had not subsided, there were merely more important things at hand. Gentle camera flashes lit up the background of our reunion, interrupted occasionally with couching and sneezing.
New York City taught me a great deal. This hellish mix up with the justice system offered me a glimpse at what our brothers and sisters of color experience regularly without the company and support of nearly 2,000 people in the same situation. We got off easy compared to those of previous protests and struggles. I did not have to endure what I can only imagine is a crushing experience of being trans or gender-queer in jail. Most of us suffered few if any police injuries. Yes, our scars were shallow, but the lesson was deep.
The strongest of my revelations came to me in the arms of my comrades. We are a movement fueled by love and compassion. We work for community, equality, and humanity. Our success is based on so much more than attendance at events. While the city and police department's charges can be dropped, lawsuits can be filed and their power (read: their money) can be taken away, what we gained cannot be touched. We are more educated, motivated, and united stronger than ever.
Under alienation and inhumanity, love and resistance blossomed.
Their cages cannot separate us; their cuffs cannot bind us.
While some of us fought out days in police custody, others continued the battles in the streets. Though parts of our experiences in New York were less than enjoyable, they were necessary. This was only the beginning, and we will not stop until we are on the other side of the new world. |
