Flash Bang
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My buddy Marc meets me near my house at 3:30 on Saturday afternoon so we can bike to the small park named for Elizabeth Caruthers.
I looked her up as I started to write this article. Elizabeth Caruthers was an early pioneer woman whose Supreme Court case led to the 1850 Donation Act—ruling that a woman, married or not, had the same property rights as a man.
Her park sits in Portland’s South Waterfront District, the location of her homestead, which makes it only three blocks from the Portland ICE building.
A thousand have gathered in her park to march, peacefully.
My phone rings, helping me find Jane and a friend who drove down and parked just blocks away.
The vibe is that of a party, and we run into and chat with people we know.
Marc and I join the silent Quakers and clergy marching south on Bond.
Jane moves south on Moody, along with a multitude of local labor unions (and families).
Different routes.
Same goal: to walk past the ICE building.
Peacefully.
To protest ICE’s illegal and brutal activities.
We turn onto the street as Jane’s group chants “Shame. Shame. Shame. Shame.”
My group is silent.
And then—
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bright flashes in the daytime sky.
Puffs of smoke.
The light doesn’t bother me.
The sound does.
I will feel it for days— the sound, the feeling, reverberating in my guts.
More bangs, and I can see tear gas fired deep into Jane’s part of the crowd.
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Marc and I walk to retrieve our bikes.
As we ride across Tilikum Crossing—Portland’s bike, light rail, and pedestrian bridge over the Willamette—I ask my buddy, “Mind if we find a place for a beer?”
“I know just the spot,” Marc says. “The Workers Tap on SE 12th.”
Seems appropriate.
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We arrive.
Marc goes to the food truck next door and orders nachos as I go inside to order two IPAs. (It’s what we drink in Portland.)
The couple ahead of me is chatting with the proprietor about tear gas—how it’s deemed acceptable by the Feds, even though international law prohibits its use in combat.
“I didn’t know that,” I say. “I was there, too, but didn’t get gassed.”
“Scared?” the taller woman asks.
“Yes. Actually.”
“Would you care for a hug?”
“Nah—my buddy’s outside, and my beloved and friend are about to join us… wait…
What am I saying?
Yes.
Yes.
Hug.
Please.”
She holds me tightly and I relax into her arms for a few beautiful breaths.
Jane and friend arrive later than I expected as our friend’s eyes had to be flushed.
Who knew contact lenses trap tear gas, creating a brutal, dangerous mix?
The four of us drink, eat, and chitchat until it starts to get dark.
They go to the car, and Marc and I to our bikes.
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One must dehumanize people before inflicting violence on them.
I am human.
Very human.
And, shaken up.
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As darkness spreads, Marc and I ride our wounded hearts back to the safety of our Northeast neighborhood, thinking about all those who have no safe place to which they can escape.
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Sunday is a blur.
I don’t remember much.
Monday, I get Annie up, cancel the gym and morning meetings. I answer the most pressing emails and nap from 10:00 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.
As of the edit of this article on Wednesday afternoon, I’m still shaken.
But I had therapy, which helped.
Wednesday evening, my friend Greg and I join a group action at a beer hall, assembling S.A.F.E. whistle kits.
It’s good for my soul.
As of today, Friday, as I sit at the computer scheduling this article for you to read, I feel mostly back to myself.
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Please forward this article.
Tell people that your friend was part of a civil protest against his own government’s escalating use of force—and was fired upon.
And better yet, PLEASE get involved!
(There are plenty of ways to do so, even without leaving your house.)
rB
