GVConsulting

Young Protestor, Peace of the Action (POTA), Obomba Residence, July 4, 2010 from gregory vickrey on Vimeo.

“There is something abnormal here, and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

When I grabbed the bull horn to speak in the heat of Washington, DC, on the 4th of July, 2010, those were the first words out of my mouth.

Frustration made the oppressive heat and more oppressive city all the more so. When I first arrived near the White House, in Lafayette Park, a Secret Service blue-shirt shouted, then screamed, then shouted again, for me to “move back, move away!”, as I was apparently encroaching on sacred ground during the arrival of some esteemed BBQ guest. I meandered a bit amongst the tourists gawking at the gates to the hallowed halls of the presidential palace, smiling for the cameras, and standing oblivious to oblivion.

The circus continued and eventually I connected with colleagues and friends of POTA. There were so few of us, and I lamented in my head about the movements for peace, for civil justice, for health care. I muttered the Declaration of Independence preamble to myself, and thought of the Bill of Rights. I spoke aloud to a passing stranger, “Epic fail.”

Those of us who could ‘legally’ assemble on the White House walk grasped signs, recording equipment and the bull horn. We rose up for ourselves, for the movement, for the soldiers, for Afghanis, for Iraqis, for ecological systems, for you, for generations. We spoke to the obvious nature of corporate control and the obnoxious behavior of the powers that be. And we observed the people along the walk shunning us, posing instead for their most congenial photos with their best statist smiles.

The bomb threat came next; you did not hear about it through mainstream media because it was a fraud, perpetuated by your United States government.

First we were told we could not assemble – our bodies had to stay in motion. Mere minutes later a young man with a backpack and a guitar strolled through and as he spoke with rank authorities the message from the bull horn became righteous and powerful. The young man then moved to the edge of the walk, mumbled something, and immediately we were told to shut it down and get out of the park.

Amazing how that works, is it not? Read that last paragraph again.

The aggression from the agents in charge was directed towards us, not in dealing with a supposed bomb threat. As I moved slowly through the park I asked a relatively relaxed agent if, indeed, there was a bomb threat. He casually replied, “mmhmm.”

This was not an evacuation of any sort; it was a trampling of rights to assemble and to speak freely. You see, we were disturbing the BBQ and birthday celebration with the truth.

Just outside of the park, opposite the festivities at the Big House, we continued speaking and flyering and expressing other rights as provided in the Constitution; yet, again, we ruffled too many feathers and were forced to cross the street, and our “free speech zone” was officially a quarter mile away from the one man who needed to listen to us.

Oppression. Frustration. Epic fail.

Dripping with sweat, yet cold-hearted under the glares of people disgusted, ambivalent, or ignorant of our collective purpose, I took the mic and I roared. For several minutes I stormed and shouted and raved, and with each breath I listened for an echo from the masses walking by.

Only silence.

My stump-speech ended with a quote from the greatest truth-teller I know: “Turn on to politics, or politics will turn on you.” And I said it twice, because I swear by that statement.

Silence.

If it were not for POTA, no one would have heard. If it were not for POTA, my shoulders would have sunk. If it were not for POTA, I would have been alone in those words, and in that moment.

Where were you at 5pm on Sunday, 4th of July, 2010?

—–

Later that evening I returned to the White House. Of course, once POTA had dispersed for the day, the placated masses were allowed back in the park at Caesar’s door step. They had nothing to say, and only flash bulbs to burn.

A young girl, not yet three, walked with me. She was determined to protest.

“Protest! Protest! Fight the Power! Fight the Power!” she chanted along the walk.

“Yes, but what are you protesting?” I asked.

“Bad gas. BP. Bad people.” she stated matter-of-factly.

Fist-pump.

I had my echo.