THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE: One protestor's perspective

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.

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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.