The World We’re Trying to Create
When we got on the bus at midnight in a Los Angeles church parking lot, it felt like going off to summer camp. Seven hours (and not much sleep) later, we were the very first bus to arrive in San Francisco. Dolores Park, the site of the rally, was empty except for a few people walking their dogs. Clouds hung low and swirled around the radio towers in the distance. The air was wet and cold and clean. I took a walk with my housemate Michele around the quiet neighborhood. It felt like London with its old houses right on the treeless sidewalk, low and pressed together like they’re sheltering from the wind. When we got back to the park, ours was still the only busload there. People were sitting around, wondering what to do in the next four hours before the rally. It felt like this day was not going to be very big after all. We went to a coffeeshop and met people from Nevada, Sacramento, Seattle… One woman had been to the protests in ’72 and predicted this would be the biggest rally since ‘nam. Across the street a mini-rally was going on, a few dozen people chanting and waving Palestinian flags at the passing cars. Young men jumping around with bullhorns, women in headscarves with little children, red anti-Israel graffiti.
Back at the park, a few more busses were depositing their passengers. The organizers had arrived and were beginning to set up a stage, tables, and piles of colorful picket signs. Michele went to walk around. Tired, I sat on the concrete and watched the people handing out their leaflets and putting together their banners and chattering nervously. One woman said to me, “it’s so wonderful to see so many young people getting involved in the movement.” I told her, “it’s so wonderful to see so many older people who are still involved.” Soon I heard music on the other side of the park, by the stage. Still exhausted, I wandered over to a band called Zazumba — six huge xylophones and a pair of gourd rattles beating out happy African tunes through the damp San Francisco air. I couldn’t see Michele anywhere, but I figured she would find me. Anyone who knows me knows that I will always be near the music. Eventually Zazumba’s happy African tunes woke me up and I was dancing crazy as ever with a few other hippies. Two new friends from the bus (Rob and Alex) joined us, and as expected, Michele came over too. We had a great time dancing and playing shakers for the gathering crowd and the media men with big cameras.
When the music ended, I turned around — what a surprise!! The entire park was blanketed with people. Black, White, Brown, Yellow, and Red faces looked back up the hill towards the stage. Palestinian flags and Earth banners and Peace signs waved in the wind. The rally was beginning, and we were right up front! There were amazing speakers from all different groups, urging the US to stop its violence against the people of Afghanistan, Palestine, Columbia, the Philippines, Cuba, Africa, and here on our own streets, our schools, our workplaces, our prisons… There were American Jews who had been to the Occupied Zone and served as human shields for Palestinians. There was a Gulf War veteran who had been discharged for refusing orders. There was a women’s theatre group that beat up a puppet of Uncle Sam to techno music. There were labor organizers and immigrants and women and men from all different backgrounds who all raised their voices for peace.
And behind us, on the hill, there were still people pouring into the park, lining the sidewalk, filling the streets… I climbed into a tree to take pictures of the amazing crowd that was still forming, stretching far into the distance. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, every different kind of person you could imagine, all standing together. Dreadlocked hippies and old ploughshares ladies and anarchy kids with their black bandannas and pirate flag. Artsy types with big puppets and colorful clothes. Students wearing t-shirts with radical slogans on them. Respectable-looking people who probably had ordinary nine-to-five jobs in offices somewhere. Middle-Eastern people with looks of fierce hope on their faces. Veterans for Peace in worn old camouflage jackets. Ministers with their stiff white collars and Jews in Kippas and Buddhists sitting cross-legged in meditation and Muslim women with their heads covered and Witches with their Goddess t-shirts, all standing together. I nearly cried at the beauty of it. This is the world we’re trying to create.
The march began. It was gorgeous madness — down in the street you couldn’t even see how far the crowd stretched. It was a human river flowing through San Francisco, chants rising organically like waterfalls, people tumbling through the intersections and sidewalks, waving at the waiting cars and the people watching from their windows. People climbed on top of bus stops with their videocameras and flags, and residents shouted their support from the rooftops. Inspired by Zazumba and energized by the speakers, Michele, Rob and I hurried to find more people with musical instruments. Our ears were open for the sounds of drums and whistles and tambourines, and we wove through the crowds like we were swimming. They were scattered, a drum here and there, but our little impromptu jam sessions were enthusiastically received by everyone around.
About halfway through the march, we encountered a group on a street corner with drums, cowbells, and a stiltwalker. Rob joined in with his chimes, me with my tambourine. We stayed with these people for most of the march. When the march was almost over, there was a big brass band playing in front of a concert hall, with dozens of drummers who had also stopped. I lost Rob and Michele, but stayed with the big band for awhile. They played all sorts of fun and lively songs to get everyone energized for the peace rally. Then I heard another group drumming across the street, with space for dancing on the uneven sidewalk. So I threw my bag down and danced for a long time with a hippie girl in brown dreadlocks and a handmade calico dress, a guy with a long, fuzzy, bright orange coat, and a little girl, maybe six or seven years old, laughing barefoot on the street. Eventually the music ended, we all hugged, and continued to the civic center.
San Francisco’s civic center is a huge, grassy square that’s surrounded by stately-looking buildings. It reminds of Glasgow’s George Square, only greener. The entire space was packed with people and banners and flags. Somewhere on the other side of the square, there was a rally going on, but the sound of drums caught my attention. People of all different shapes and sizes and colors were playing drums and instruments from all over the world — Africa, India, America, Europe, Asia, the Middle East… Some people were dancing, some were swaying with the beat, some were just sitting and enjoying the music. A few people were playing recorders and flutes, adding a beautiful melody to the earthy beats. I took off my shoes and danced in the grass until my whole body burned. At one point, someone came by and angrily told us to keep it down, we were supposed to be listening to the rally and there would be time to party later. But the rally was far away, and why not be joyful now? This is the world we’re trying to create! Playing music and dancing together and celebrating the beauty all around…
I danced myself into a light trance then slept in the grass for awhile. There is nothing better than sleeping in the grass and sunshine!! When I woke up, Rob and Alex were back, and we danced for a little while longer. Someone was leading a beat where we would should “peace” and “love” at certain intervals, which was beautiful. Then all the drummers picked up a beat that went faster and faster, we began to dance intense and frenzied, and it all exploded like an orgasm. After that, everyone sort of knew the drumming was over, it was time to start packing up. I found my shoes and headed over to the street with Alex and Rob, and we found Michele. Before we knew it, it was time to get on the bus and start back to LA. This time, it wasn’t so hard to sleep.