Anarchists of the World, Unite — in L.A.

Ground Zero of the revolucion is a converted swap-meet warehouse in a seedy stretch of downtown. The largely Latino neighborhood comes with a built-in soundtrack — a cacophony of timbales and horn sections blare from store-fronts adorned with murals of the dearly departed, such as singer Selena. A block away from the activists’ headquarters, called the “Convergence Center,” sits MacArthur Park, made famous by the 1968 song of the same name. In it, Richard Harris lamented that “someone left the cake out in the rain,” and he didn’t think that he could “take it,” ’cause it “took so long to bake it.” Besides, he’d “never have that recipe again.” These days, it’s not clear why anyone would leave a cake or any other valuable in the park. Inside of two minutes, when I go there for a stroll, I rebuff the pitches of three separate rheumy-eyed gentlemen peddling their wares, as my magazine does not permit me to expense crack cocaine.

The Convergence Center is run mainly under the aegis of the Direct Action Network and the D2K network, an umbrella coalition of nearly 200 activist groups. It is too early in the day for much activist traffic. The space, however, still bears that unmistakable activist scent, best described as a cross between aged bean curd and the inside of a shoe. As I enter the building, I am greeted by an espresso-sipping Kim, if “greeted” is the word for it. Kim is a preschool teacher and a slip of a woman, yet she has a bit of an edge. She is working security, with her radio and cell phone complete with earpiece, so “I don’t get cancer.” Kim is, for the moment, all that stands between the Convergence Center and the pigs. She says the space has been under constant surveillance by the police, who drive by every hour. “There are definitely undercovers here,” she says, suspiciously eyeing me, “Maybe you’re one of them.”
 
9:45 A.M.

Before Kim has a chance to frisk me, I am off to the anarchist press conference at nearby Patriotic Hall. It is a stately, beautiful building, a monument to war veterans who have given their lives to preserve our highest democratic ideals — such as allowing ungrateful punks like the anarchists to advocate upending our system of government. The anarchists are here to flack their upcoming convention, where they will endure speeches like “Anarcho-realism,” delivered by Mike Antipathy. There will be seven such alternative conventions during the Democratic convention, held by a variety of malcontents from the People’s party to the homeless. They are all grievously wounded that they’ve been “shut out of the debate,” and they see their conventions as giving voice to the voiceless.

Inside the room where the press conference is to be held, two anarchists let me know it’s been postponed till 1 P.M. — they didn’t want to compete with the Free Mumia press conference at Pershing Square. The anarchists are something of a difficult bunch. While perfectly civil (this particular collective, they assure me, does charity work, such as sending birthday cards to political prisoners), they refuse to take you to their leaders, as they have none, since they are anarchists.

Convening an anarchist convention, then, is a bit like herding cats. In fact, when I ask Anne Kelly, a mousy blonde with no title (anarchists are about “minimizing hierarchies”), where the convention will be held, she refuses to tell me because of her acute police paranoia. The LAPD has been stirring up anti-anarchist sentiment by showing clips of last year’s Seattle riot, where the militant “Black Bloc” (the Shiites of the anarchist movement) broke Starbucks’ windows, perhaps because they detest corporate globalization as embodied by the ever-present threat of the icy frappuccino, or perhaps because . . . well, they don’t really need a reason. They are, after all, anarchists.

Though Anne tries to tell me hers are a peace-loving people, I ask what her fellow physics majors at Cal Tech must think of her radical politics. Anne shrugs her shoulders, saying she’s considered a moderate: “Most of my Cal Tech friends are Communists or socialists.”
 
10:40 A.M.

It is an unwritten law, of course, that wherever two or more protesters are gathered, the name of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal is eventually invoked. So it’s with resignation that I drive to Pershing Square for the Free Mumia press conference announcing the upcoming Free Mumia march. For a protest space, Pershing Square is positively lush. The terraced lawns are a verdant green. The inviting outdoor tables are shaded by palm trees and festively colored umbrellas. As one enters the square, one is torn between crying out against injustice and ordering a pina colada.

Standing amidst a gaggle of camera crews and protesters is radio personality Casey Kasem. As Kasem waits for the event to start, he admits he has no idea whether Mumia is innocent, but he’s certain a new trial is in order. A grandstanding journalist (all right, me) asks Kasem if he’s ever done a long-distance dedication to Mumia (perhaps, “I Fought the Law and the Law Won”). Kasem does not look amused. “No I haven’t,” he says. “I try not to use my work as a forum for my political beliefs.”

Kasem is flanked by an angry-looking black man named Sy who wears a black “Free Mumia” kerchief over his face, as if he is preparing to knock over a stagecoach. Sy is a member of the Revolutionary Communist Youth Brigade. When asked why he’s wearing the unseasonably hot mask, Sy looks across the way at a couple of cops. “They tear-gas us,” he says, “We don’t trust pigs.” Sy might have a point. The LAPD has expressed its willingness to hit any lawbreaking protesters with so many pepper bombs that they won’t know whether to flush their eyes or to serve themselves up with croutons under a balsamic vinaigrette. For now, however, the pigs are simply congregated around a hot-dog cart. Tomorrow they’ll tear-gas. Today they’ll drink A&W and eat half-smokes.
 
11:30 A.M.

Back at the Convergence Center, I’ve worked up an appetite, though after observing the grimy-fingered activist chefs in the makeshift kitchen, who are cutting up vegetables for gazpacho, I elect to go off-campus. As I start to dash across the street to a Mexican grocery, I’m halted by one of the center’s beefy security guys, appropriately named Big Joe.

“I’d cross in the crosswalk,” Joe says, “They’ve been nailing people for jaywalking.” Joe also says police pressure’s gotten so bad, the activists now keep a “Paranoia Book” detailing every one of their pig encounters. I ask some of the media reps to let me read the Paranoia Book. But they won’t. They’re too paranoid.
 
Noon

Within the Convergence Center, outsiders are forbidden from observing unless they wear bright orange media passes and are accompanied at all times by an escort. Though the activists make a great to-do about clearly designating journalists, the distinction between us and them is readily apparent: We’re the ones who periodically bathe. Once cleared and accompanied by a babysitter, one is surrounded by a hive of activity. Grid maps are highlighted to show protest routes. Drummers inhabit the drum space, fashioning percussion instruments out of food containers. Upstairs, workshops are conducted where all manner of activist knowledge is imparted, from “anti-oppression training,” to protest songs (the Singing Sols Revolutionary Choir is rehearsing), to how not to hit your head on the cement when getting dragged to the paddy wagon.

Downstairs is a craft explosion, where busy puppeteers cut shopping bags into little pieces, then paste them into giant face molds with wet cornstarch. It isn’t clear if the street-pageant puppet heads are supposed to represent particular politicians, though they all seem to bear the bulbous, busted-capillary noses most often seen on your better Irish pols. My best guess is these activists have a serious beef against the late Tip O’Neill.

David Solnit, of the group Art and Revolution, is serving as de facto Minister of Puppetry (though like the anarchists, this group abhors titles). Solnit says this is not fun and games: “These are dead serious puppets.” The puppet stakes have been raised in prior protests. In Philadelphia, the cops confiscated and destroyed nearly all their puppets. In D.C., after a police raid, Solnit says, “we negotiated a puppet hostage release.”

In L.A., Solnit is concerned that because of the city’s restrictive laws, nearly anything made out of wood can be considered a weapon. I ask Solnit if there’s history of using puppets as weapons. He quietly contemplates. “In the case of Punch and Judy,” he says somberly, “Punch often physically assaulted Judy.”
 
5:15 P.M.

At Gladys Park in the heart of skid row, scores of homeless black men line up to get free barbecue. The spread comes courtesy of Ted Hayes, who runs L.A.’s Dome Village, a homeless encampment of fiberglass igloo dwellings that houses 23 residents and even includes a cyberdome with DSL lines (high-speed Internet access is a basic human right). Hayes, who wears island linens and dreadlocks and who’s been homeless himself, is trying to mobilize his troops for next week’s Homeless Convention.

It’s not an easy sell. Homelessness, once the pet issue of every cell-phone revolutionary, is quite passe. Most activists have moved on to East Timorese rights and anti-fluoridation teach-ins. Homelessness is so pre-Tibet, so 1980s. Complicating matters is the fact that Hayes let it be known that the homeless would be armed with video cameras during the Democratic convention, documenting not just police brutality, but also vandalism by activists. Naturally, the D2K types have put out on the grapevine that the homeless have turned narcs. But Hayes remains unrepentant. “They don’t know what the freak they’re doing, all the well-meaning college kids,” Hayes says. “If you have mass arrests, tear gas, and s — all up and down the street, [the activists] will leave on August 18, go back to college, and become an executive one day. We homeless people are left in the street being criminalized. . . . These are a bunch of white privileged kids pissed off at something, and they don’t even know what about.”
 
7:30 P.M.

Hayes is right: The activists are, for the most part, privileged white kids, but in fairness, they’re sick about it. This is evident back at the Convergence Center during the “Anti-Racism for White Folks” workshop. Gaining admittance to this discussion is no easy feat. Before I am allowed to sit in, everyone must be “comfortable” that I am not infringing on a “safe space.” (It’s so safe, no People of Color are allowed, so that white kids can confess their self-loathing with utmost honesty.) Loren, my media escort, asks moderator Cameron if he is comfortable. Cameron asks the group if they are comfortable. The group is comfortable, which makes Cameron comfortable, though he’s still experiencing discomfort that his co-moderator Susan might not be comfortable. Susan arrives late, and she is comfortable if Cameron and the group are comfortable, which makes me take comfort. That is until “Chuck” (he felt more comfortable if I didn’t use his real name) says he will only feel comfortable if I participate. I reluctantly agree, taking a chair, which makes Susan uncomfortable, as I am causing problems “spatially” by not sitting on the floor with the group. I abide by her wishes, though I experience discomfort.

Before we break into pairs to discuss our whiteness (I draw Chuck, who wants me to stop taking notes, as he’ll be more comfortable if I “engage him as a listener”), Susan has us finish the sentence “When I think about my racial identity, I feel (blank).” The answers are not comforting: “guilty,” “disappointed,” and “frustrated and embarrassed” are some of the sunnier responses. But Susan applauds us: “We should support each other in being uncomfortable, that’s where the growing takes place.”

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that not just greed-head global corporations are culpable. We, the oppressed, can also be oppressors. But we won’t stay down for long. Tomorrow, Susan will teach the Movement Workshop, not as in revolutionary uprising, but as in protest through the medium of interpretive dance. As we “play with the surface of the floor and different surfaces of the body,” we will probably experience discomfort. But no matter. We’ve gotta dance. As Susan says, “This is warfare, baby.”

Matt Labash is a staff writer at THE WEEKLY STANDARD.