The Republican Nation Convention is in town this week, New York City, my home.
Predictably, many New Yorkers have fretted for months about the disruptions this would cause to their daily commutes and the increased likelihood of a terrorist attack. Some decided to spend a week of their vacation days elsewhere. Those who didn’t are getting a taste of what life is like when every police officer is on duty at the same time. Helicopters buzz over midtown Manhattan and over my apartment in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. Metal barricades line the sidewalks. In the subway you catch people eyeing each other, doing quick racial profiles, deciding, “he’s okay, she’s fine.”
On Sunday, lots and lots of people mached up 8th Avenue, past Madison Square Garden, where Bush and Cheney would hold court a few days later. The protesters, as you saw on TV, came in costume, carrying signs, or just covered in anti-Bush stickers. How many people were there? If you’re moveon.org, you say half a million; if you’re Fox News, you say 3,500 tops. Without someone counting up in a helicopter, there’d be no way to know.
I marched, though without a sign, or a sticker. I wore my black tee-shirt which spells out the Khmer alphabet, with the dependent vowels getting a special section of their own. The demonstration was pretty fun; people talked amongst each other, and whenever we ran out of things to say, we could start a chant. I never chanted, though.
It was a strange, adrenaline-esque feeling to walk like that, to express myself by just being there. The crowds were huge and dense – a bomb inside a giant, paper mache head could have killed a hundred people, easy – so I felt a little brave. I also felt humbled to see so many, many people out; every age and race and level of cookiness. The land of the free had turned out.
But though this feeling will warm our hearts for a while, the march will accomplish nothing. Attack ads in swing states will accomplish something. Appealing to populist themes and racism and catch phrases and innuendo accomplish something. Outright lies and unsubstantiated claims and facts taken out of context acomplish something. Voting accomplishes something.
On a lighter note …
A collection of political bands, speakers, and a filmmaker or two came into town on Tuesday, billed as the Axis of Justice tour. They played at The Knitting Factory, a small club in the financial district. On the bill was Tom Morello, the guitarist for the now-disbanded Rage Against the Machine. You know RATM’s music: scorching guitar, bass, and drums, with pissed-off left-wing raps about killing soldiers, racism, and anthems for the oppressed, proletarian Indians of Central and South America. The Ragers exploded to stardom in the early 1990’s, during the first Bush (really quite reasonable) regime. But by the late 90’s, the machine was no longer worthy of rage, unless you were just an angry person in general. The recession was history, the new economy was soaring, and recent college grads commanded eye-popping salaries for playing ping pong in the conference room. Sure, we had the President’s sexual deviances to be appalled by, but who could rage against oral sex? Not me. The Republicans did; it was their turn to rise. Sadly, though, no lasting art remains from those red-faced tirades at the Congressional podium. The Clinton Impeachment hearings gave us nothing to put in our iTunes.
Jerry Garcia was once asked why the Grateful Dead never wrote any protest songs. The 60’s had had so many machines to to rage against: Vietnam, the draft, short hair. Garcia answered (I’ll paraphrase) that he wanted to make music that remained above that. Introduce political lyrics, he said, and what’s left to fall bck on? When you just want to turn off the outside world, look inward, heal yourself, and trip out? To me, this makes a lot of sense. I’m very interested in world events and economics, but when writing, I approach politics from an obteuse angle, and will probably contradict myself several times along the way. Most meaningful issues are too multi-faced for me to find a single, clear, unwavering position, pro or con. You might accuse me of flip flopping, and I’ll think you’re a jackass for parroting Carl Rove.
Sometimes we just want to have a good time. The world has enough rage. So anyway. Tom Morello’s show was great. He played acoustic and sang in a low, manly voice, like Johnny Cash. The songs were enjoyable, heartfelt, and VERY political. Later, he was joined by an MC whose style harkened back to RATM: lots of anger, railing against injustice, outspoken and plainly stated. And humorless. The crowd loved it. Hands rose in the air; heads bobbed. Until the MC, who looked like he was mulatto, if we can still say that, or half-black or mixed-race, or whatever … until he sang something along the lines of “Kill whitey!” at which point many heads stopped bobbing. Mine did.