Takin' it to K-Street: why I don't regret my decision to protest
|As we marched down to K-Street and blockaded the traffic, car horns filled the air as members of our group|
spread out and started to paint the mural, which bore the words "reconstruct, reinvest and resist."
Photo by Larisa Karr.
It was an overcast day as we seated ourselves in the middle of a park near one of the most notorious streets in America. We gathered to eat lunch and say goodbye to our new friends, César and River, who had guided us, all but one from UNC Asheville, to Washington, D.C., to join over a thousand individuals in a mass protest against the most hot-button issues in the country, racial injustice, environmental destruction and anti-immigration legislation.
A few weeks earlier, I was seated on the Quad, enjoying the quaint and cute maple-shaped cookies and cider that UNCA so generously hands out every fall, when a friend from the UNCA Divestment Coalition came and placed a flier in my hand, telling me about the “Our Generation, Our Choice” event taking place Nov. 9 in Washington, D.C.
My first thought was, “There is no way I can leave school, not with all the assignments I have to do.” My second thought was, “Hell, yeah.” I had never really been to D.C., unless you count gliding through on a Greyhound bus, and these are all issues that I am passionate about.
It was settled.
We first left for D.C. on Saturday morning, and aside from some mild panic in regards to obtaining rental cars, the trip there was fairly smooth. We discussed everything we loved about the world, hated about the world, talking ‘bout our generation all the while. The energy was good, and it was evident that we were all thoroughly excited and ready to jump into the action.
Rolling into the American capital at night, we first went to an art collective in a warehouse nestled in an industrial, sleepy side of the city. We met César and River, who, alongside the other artists there, were helping to make the signs and the mural that would ultimately be our group’s creation.
We worked for hours in the chilly, neon evening and the warm, comforting art studio, with some of us cutting out cardboard circle stencils, others painting the main banner that would be supported by over 20 hands on the day of the rally, others making the wood posts to hold the signs up, and still others spray-painting the stencils onto small canvases outside.
We were there from 6 to 9 p.m., weary but excited, envisioning how everything we were helping to create would be utilized in the rally.
After this, we departed into the twilight and found the church in which we were staying. Sleeping on the floor alongside other activists from across the country, it wasn’t exactly the most comfortable situation, but I love my sleeping bag, so it was all good.
Some of the group went directly to sleep, while the other, perhaps less sensible portion of the group, myself included, retreated back into the night to roam the streets of D.C.
It was a fantastic night to say the least. We walked up and down various sections of the city, sipping beers and talking about life, engaging in various kinds of debauchery that won’t be mentioned here for various reasons.
However, the inevitable hangover that ensued the following day was nothing short of awful, and as I took off to our day-long civil disobedience training, running to throw up in trash cans at subway stops, I sort of regretted my decision to not be responsible.
The training was a lot of things, to say the least. There were intense moments, in particular when one person confronted the speaker about immigration issues and treatment toward minorities who were protesting, and by the end of the day, we were tired as heck and ready to crash.
The morning of the event, however, we were just ready. Even running off an unstable amount of sleep, we were possessed by a fervent energy to get into action and bring everything we had to the rally. We had been warned numerous times that we could be arrested that day, and while it was frightening, it was a risk that I wanted to take. The issues we were speaking out against, the impending crises that the United States is facing as the 21st century pushes forward, and the well-being of our generation and the generations still living on this earth were something to speak out about, and I wanted to contribute my voice.
As we marched down to K Street and blockaded the traffic, car horns filled the air as members of our group spread out and started to paint the mural, which bore the words “reconstruct, reinvest and resist.” I held the art supply cart, mainly because I had managed to skin my already-skinned knee further by falling that morning, and would have been in too much pain to kneel on the ground and paint.
The snipers inevitably came out on top of the White House and pointed their automatic weapons at us, a bunch of “crazy hippies” promoting a world where people are kind and thoughtful, not ruthlessly given over to the behest and pursuit of the almighty dollar.
After two hours, we retreated back to the park from where we had originally marched . Al Jazeera and Reuters reporters were there, interviewing students about our protest that apparently was national news.
I have at times been skeptical of whether or not myself and a few others in our generation, a few planktons dominated by a sea of piranhas, actually have the chance to make a change in the world.
But as I sat there with my crew, smiling and taking in the soothing autumn air, I knew I wouldn’t have chosen to have spent the morning of November 9, 2015, in any other way. In the words of Regina Spektor, “All this hippie shit’s for the ’60s.” But it’s for the ’10s, too.
This article was originally published in Recount Magazine.