We
could hear the crowd across the street chanting and cheering “Thank
you! We love you! Thank you! We love you!” Two police officers
supported my elbows, as I mounted the steep step on to the prison
bus— hard to do with my hands tied behind my back. I found my
friend, Ruth, and sat down awkwardly beside her as our fellow
protestors entered one by one— their hands behind them in plastic
hand cuffs. Cecelia, another of my compatriots from the Community Church of Chapel Hill (Unitarian Universalist) sat down across the
aisle.
As the bus pulled
out of the parking lot behind the state legislative building, the
crowd broke into a roar of applause. Although we knew they
couldn't see us behind the metal latticed windows, and we certainly
couldn't wave to them-- we stood to get a better view of them
standing in the headlight's glare, cheering and waving their signs.
“What a beautiful crowd!” the woman behind us exclaimed. We
were heartened and very touched that they were still out there at
9:30 PM. They were no doubt hungry and tired—but they had waited
to watch this last bus depart. I myself, at past Moral Monday
protests, have only had the stamina to stay until the first bus left.
I really didn't think anyone would still be there this late.
The barred windows
did not block out the light of the full moon, which followed us down
the city streets of Raleigh, as we wound our way towards the county
jail. Ruth and I begin to sing “We shall not, we shall not be
moved. We shall not, we shall not be moved—just like a tree that's
planted by the water, we shall not be moved.” Others joined in,
raising their voices in harmony with us. People started other songs
“This little light of mine”, “We shall overcome”, “Let
there be peace on earth”.
I looked around the
bus. My fellow passengers were young and old; black, white and brown;
men and women. We had all been arrested for “Second Degree
Trespassing” and “Failure to Disperse”. We had stood in the
rotunda of the North Carolina state legislative building singing, speaking, chanting
“This is what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks
like! This is what democracy looks like!” until they led the 75 of
us away one at a time. The total
number of citizens arrested for civil disobedience during these past
12 weeks of Moral Monday protests is just shy of 1000. Along
with those being arrested, thousands of people have rallied on the
lawn behind the legislative building every Monday this summer. The
movement is a growing groundswell—more and more of us every time.
North Carolinians from many walks of life crying out in unison,
waving signs and banding together.
In the air it is
palpable: unity, standing strong together and anger against the sheer
callous meanness of our new ultra conservative legislature—which
keeps stabbing and wounding its citizens under the guise of being
“business friendly”. To most of us, it has come as a shock,
because our state has always been a place of reason and progress in
the South—unlike Alabama and Mississippi. We have been proud of
our university system and our very successful early childhood
education program “Smart Start”. We have protected our natural
resources for decades. Suddenly, North Carolina is inviting other
states to dump their garbage here. We are about to frack away our
clean water, and we officially deny the scientific fact that the sea
level is rising. Suddenly, we have become the only state to deny
its citizens Federal
unemployment benefits—and we have refused Medicaid expansion under
the Affordable Care Act. The lack of healthcare will cost lives, and
hurt job creation in our state by curtailing the expansion of
medical services. The “earned income tax credit” which President
Reagan created to help the working poor is gone, and in its
place—more tax cuts for the wealthy. Our education system been hit
hard---they have taken away the limits on class size while
eliminating teacher assistants—making life so much harder for our
teachers and children. And then there are the strict new
anti-abortion laws—snuck in in the dead of the night—ironically
attached first to a bill forbidding Sharia law in NC, and then to a
motorcycle safety bill.
Some
folks have traveled for hours to be part of Moral Mondays--to listen
and cheer the powerful, eloquent and passionate speeches of NC NAACP
president Rev. William Barber. He is an amazingly inspiring,
melodious orator in the tradition of Martin Luther King. He often
recalls the civil rights demonstrations of the past and how much
people have sacrificed to get where we are today: the march from
Selma to Montgomery; the blood shed by those who fought for voting
rights with their lives including Medgar Evars and Dr. King. He says
it is up to us to carry their work forward, to protect these gains,
to make sure it was not all in vain. “This is our time!”
proclaims Rev. Barber The crowd roars
its approval. “Forward together, not one step back” we chant.
Rev. Barber's
words were particularly moving on the Monday after the acquittal of
George Zimmerman in the murder of Trayvon Martin—speaking about the
endemic racism in the system that led to this tragedy, about rampant
gun violence and about how our current legislature has gone “gun
crazy”--passing bills that make it so that gun records are not
public and allowing concealed carry on university campuses, in bars
where alcohol is served, at funerals and parades, and in parks where
children play. “They want more guns than they want citizens in the
people's house.” Rev. Barber shared that through the haze of his
anger and hurting over the verdict, he had left the NAACP convention
in Florida to come home especially for this Moral Monday because
“when you are hurting you need to be around people who still
believe in the possibility of us being one people.”
Today's protest was centered around the theme of voting
rights--protesting the new voter ID bill, which was clearly designed
to create obstacles that would prevent thousands of North
Carolinians from voting—especially minorities, the elderly and
students. Our legislators had proposed the most stringent new laws in the nation--
not accepting student ID's, reducing early voting, eliminating on
site registration, making it so that any citizen can harass another
and question their “qualifications” to vote. Rev. Barber cried
out “Any group of politicians who wants to suppress the right to
vote in any way is engaging in crimes against democracy.”
A Baptist minister
led a prayer given “in Jesus' name” for those of us choosing to
engage in civil disobedience today. Some of my Unitarian
Universalist, Jewish, and atheist friends have murmured complaints
about the strong Christian preaching and praying that is a big part
of these protests.--and some have questioned the audacity of the
alliterative title “Moral Mondays”. Although the organizers have
made an effort made each week to include a Rabbi in the speeches from
the podium, and Rev. Barber takes care to occasionally mention those
who “struggle with faith”-- the language and the tone of Moral
Mondays stem largely from the traditions of the black
church--historically a huge force behind the civil rights movement.
I personally am not offended when Rev. Barber and
others speak from their hearts and offer prayers as they know how to
do it. They are speaking out of their tradition. Whether you call
it Jesus or God, Spirit or conscience. we are all there to take a
stand together and to fight for what we believe is right.
As the crowd parted,
those of us wearing green arm bands walked down the middle of the
aisle two by two. At the front of the parade were clergy from
various denominations, and veterans carrying the flag. We were
surrounded on both sides by cheers, hands raised in blessing and
cries of “Thank you! Thank you!” For weeks I had been one of
those who stood and cheered and watched-- admiring and slightly
envying those with the green arm bands. It took me several weeks to
get up the courage to “be in that number.” But today I did
it. The feeling of walking through that cheering crowd was
thrilling. I was especially happy to see people I knew encouraging me
on— including a piano student and his mom, friends from the
Community Church, and old friends I hadn't seen in awhile.
As we gathered
inside the rotunda, there were a few more speeches. A Methodist
minister offered
a prayer. A nerdy
guy in a white suit quoted Emerson and Thoreau. A protestor from
Wisconsin said he felt compelled to be there, and a passionate young
woman yelled that a dear friend was dying because she couldn't afford
proper health care. Someone read from the constitution, and we all
repeated it together line by line “the right
of the people peaceably
to assemble,
and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances"
The chief of police
then announced that we had five minutes to clear the premises. As we
continued to sing and chant “This is what democracy looks like” I
watched my fellow citizens, including an 85 year
old veteran with a
cane, being handcuffed and led out.
When it was my turn,
the police chief quietly told me to put my hands behind my back
and informed me that I was under arrest for failing to leave the
building. The zip ties were tight and uncomfortable, but my sore
shoulder (which I had worried about) didn't bother me too much.
“Do you have any
weapons?” an officer inquired as he patted my pants pockets. He
carefully unbuttoned the pocket where I had secured my car keys and
drivers license. I had followed instructions and brought only
essentials that I could carry. You can't hold a purse or even wear a
back pack when your hands are tied behind your back. I had also been
careful to use the restroom ahead of time, and to limit my water
intake that afternoon.
A policeman herded a
small group of us on to an elevator and told us to face the wall. “Our
gazes aren't hostile”, Ruth assured the officer. The young woman
beside me introduced herself as Kaori, a UNC student, about my son's
age.
We were led into a
room that normally functions as a cafeteria. This was the holding
area where they would process us. Chairs had been lined up in
rows—men on one side of the room, women on the other. For some
reason there seemed to be more than twice as many women as there were
men. Our possessions were taken from us, and my car keys and
driver's license were placed in a manilla envelope with my name on
it.
I was frisked by a
female officer who patted my breasts brusquely and asked if I had
anything hidden in my bra. Several of the women later complained about
having their dresses lifted by the same officer, and about her
reaching down their pants to feel around their waist bands. It was
abrupt and vigorous frisking, not the polite pocket patting I'd
experienced earlier.
Next came the most
difficult part of the evening—the long, uncomfortable wait. We
had our mug shots taken one by one, and were each assigned a case
number. Plastic badges with our paperwork and ID's were clipped to
our shirt fronts. Then, eventually people were led in pairs to be
checked again before getting on to the bus. This whole process was
very time consuming. The woman on my left, named Julie, had driven
up from Carolina Beach. She had had shoulder surgery and was in
serious pain from the handcuffs. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
She asked an officer if he could bind her hands in front instead,
but was met with indifference “Do you have a note from your
doctor?” he asked.
An officer announced
that as long as we were quiet (no singing or chanting) we would be
allowed the courtesy of being held in the air conditioned cafeteria,
instead of the sweltering buses. We conversed softly. The African
American woman beside me was a minister from Salisbury. She shared
with me the story of how she had had a stroke in church. I told her
about my dad, who was also a stroke survivor. Ruth told us about the “Raging Grannies”--the singing, protesting group that
she is part of. She said Bill Moyers was featuring them in a
documentary on PBS. I hadn't realized that there are chapters all
across the country. Kaori told us about her summer internship at
Planned Parenthood in Washington DC. We helped each other, bending
and twisting to scratch itches, push glasses back up, check the time
on watches. Just my luck, I was among the last to get on the third
and final bus—so we were handcuffed the longest—almost three
hours.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We were singing “We
are a gently angry people”, when our bus arrived at the detention
center. Once we entered the building, they finally cut our
handcuffs. Wow, what a relief! There were red marks on my wrists
where the plastic cuffs had dug into them. My shoulders and arms
ached and felt stiff from being bound in such an awkward position.
About 8 of us were placed in a locked cell together--a stark but
clean room with just a small metal bench in it—and a toilet with no
privacy. Someone suggested that we all give each other shoulder
massages. We stood in a circle and rubbed each other's shoulders and
backs. We could see across the hall that our companions in another
cell had taken their cue from us, and were doing the same. A
gray-haired woman wearing a minister's stole led us in some stretches and simple yoga poses—as
much as we could do in the small crowded cell.
A young woman named suggested that we introduce ourselves and say a little bit about
our backgrounds. Alma said she was related both to old
Southern plantation owners, and to Colombian immigrants. Kaori told us she is the only person in
her Japanese family who is an American citizen, and the only one who
could vote--so she was there on their behalf. Others
spoke of their work as teachers, ministers, social workers-- of their
beliefs and their families. I told the group that
my mother had been a civil rights activist in the 1950's—arrested
for “disturbing the peace” by singing “We shall overcome” in
an interracial group of citizens on the streets of Washington DC and
that I felt I was honoring this legacy. Although we came from
vastly different backgrounds, we shared strength and conviction.
Before we had
gotten completely around the sharing circle, an officer unlocked the
door and cuffed our hands together in traditional metal handcuffs
attached to a chain. He started to lead us all through a maze of
hallways and doors. Walking chained together seemed like a strange
cross between preschoolers hanging on to a leash to stay together and
slaves bound in chains. Someone suggested that we hold hands. I
started to sing “Working on the chain gang” under my breath and a
couple of others joined me. “I hope we don't get in trouble for
singing”, said Leigh beside me. “We're already in trouble!”,
I giggled.
We arrived at
another part of the building and were escorted into a different cell
where we continued to tell our stories. From here the processing all
sort of blurs together in my mind—but it was handled quickly and
smoothly. We were escorted from location to location in this stark
institution by officers who all treated us courteously. I understand
that those who were arrested in the first wave of Moral Monday
protests had to stay in jail much longer and were fingerprinted
multiple times. We benefited from the experience of those who had
gone before, and the process had become much more streamlined and
efficient--not just for our benefit, but to save the county money.
Unchained, we walked
through doors marked “Release” to enter a room with metal
benches, where our driver's licenses were returned to us. Then we
waited against the wall in another corridor for each of us to have a
turn to receive individual paperwork from a magistrate, and to be
told the conditions of our release: not to enter the legislative
building again, and to appear in court on the date ordered. When the
last officer led us to the last elevator he said “I hope you
realize that this was not a typical jail experience.” We were
released into the night.
As the small group I
was with stepped outside, we were greeted with cheers. People pinned
celebratory buttons--badges of honor on us reading “I went to jail with Rev. Barber”.
Ruth's daughter met us with plates full of cookies, and passed them
out to everyone, including the cops. The NAACP had everything so well
organized! There were volunteer lawyers there who looked at our
paperwork, took down our information, helped us sign waivers so we
could choose not to attend the initial court appearance.
There were cars of
volunteer drivers waiting in a traffic circle. Cecelia and I climbed
into a Prius, driven by a young man who had been arrested himself
previously, and was now volunteering for the cause. He drove us back
to the Baptist church where we had attended an information session
with Rev. Barber earlier in the day. We arrived at the church to
more cheers, to much needed restrooms, and to an incredible potluck
donated by NAACP volunteers—casseroles, stew, cole slaw, fresh fruit,
and a wide array of home made desserts. Cecelia and I found our
friend Richard, from the Community Church waiting for us. He had been released
earlier, and was sitting at a table chatting with the famed civil
rights lawyer Al McSurely. I enjoyed talking with the African
American woman beside me who had political buttons all over her straw
hat, and some very interesting things to say about the Wake County
School Board elections, and how she thought this had been the “ground
zero” of Art Pope and our Tea Party legislators. Some women came
over and talked to Al about being frisked inappropriately, and he
took notes. I savored my dinner, the cold water, the brownie, the
fellowship, the festive atmosphere in the room.
There was very little late night traffic on I-40, as I drove home in the dark with Richard and
Cecelia. It was wonderful to have their company, to debrief together
and share our experience. I felt tired but satisfied, filled both with
delicious food and with hope. I felt connected to a wide community of committed citizens, who will work together to do whatever needs to be done to
take back North Carolina.