My May Day Highlight

The loving embrace of Black Bloc


This essay is also published in Mitchel Cohen's book, "What Is Direct Action? Lessons from (and to) Occupy Wall Street" (foreword by Richard Wolff)


by Isis Feral
2012

On the eve of May Day a black-clad crowd indiscriminately smashed up a neighborhood in San Francisco's Mission District, and continued unhindered even after they hit the police station. In a sensationalistic frenzy, the bourgeois media denounced anarchists as the ones to blame, but there were reports that no one among local anarchists and black bloc participants knew the vandals. In fact, comrades in black bloc explicitly distanced themselves from the vandalism, and most left the scene as soon as they realized that the action was without direction and not principled. In the days following, Occupy San Francisco, which includes anarchists and black bloc, condemned the action and offered help to repair the damage to homes and small local businesses.

Wearing black and masks, and smashing things, does not a black bloc make.

May Day itself was an amazing day here in the Bay Area. While it was not a traditional general strike, several unions did go on strike, including janitors, nurses, and ferry workers, while longshore workers effectively shut down the ports for a contractual stop work meeting. Immigrant workers marched as they have every year since May Day 2006, a national day without immigrants, the first general strike in the U.S. since Oakland 1946, and the union busting Taft-Hartley Act that followed in 1947. It really felt like International Workers Day, a holiday observed in most of the world except in this country, where it originated when the 1886 general strike in Chicago won the 8-hour work day.

We left Oakland at 2:30am for the Larkspur ferry terminal in Marin County, to picket with the striking inlandboatmen there. The Golden Gate district officially canceled the ferries that morning, but we'd heard that they had lied in a previous strike, so we didn't take any chances, and showed up early to help defend the strike.

The picket line was slow to start, but when a driver threatened to run me over, more workers got pissed off, and finally picketed in earnest. Until a union bureaucrat showed up and ordered everyone not to block cars. I didn't violate her wishes, but did challenge her, hoping that the rank and file might follow my example in the long run. Too many unions are neutered by the rank and file relying on their bureaucracies to make decisions for them that are not in their own best interest. Rather than take her word for it, I asked how we can be sure that none of the drivers are scabs, and told her that if she asks me to come to a picket, I'll picket, but if she asks me to come to a protest, I'm not showing up at 4 o'clock in the morning.

As the sun came up the rally was bolstered by a teamsters' big rig, blasting Marianne Faithful's version of 'Which Side Are You On'. They also brought a giant inflatable fat cat grabbing a worker by the throat. We left the party atmosphere behind by around 9am, and headed to Berkeley to support the striking nurses.

Though the hospital was surrounded by nurses, they weren't too clear on the concept of picketing either. I asked some of them whether they were really picketing, or were they just protesting and letting people through. They said they stop only union workers. They let non-union scabs go in to fill the jobs they had walked out of. Something obviously got lost in the translation. How sad when THE militant direct action strategy in defense of the working class is so woefully misunderstood, and its effectiveness diminished by catering to laws that were written to enslave.

At Noon we left the nurses and went to Oscar Grant Plaza, the center of activity for Occupy Oakland. We arrived just after the first police riot, when they discharged teargas, and snatched individuals out of the crowd. I later saw video footage, and at one point cops were surrounded by angry protesters. IF Occupy really was violent, those cops would have gotten seriously hurt, but all the crowd did was yell, 'we are not afraid'. And IF Occupy really was violent, it wouldn't have been just bottles and paint that were thrown at cops later that evening, when they lined up to clear the plaza long before curfew, as a peaceful crowd milled about. Not one of the cops in their armored riot gear got hurt. They did not even react to the shattering glass, seemed more concerned about the paint stains on their uniforms. They went after occupiers quite some time later, so their actions were most definitely not in 'self-defense'. The violence originated ENTIRELY from the cops, who were armed to their teeth.

We hung out at the plaza for a couple of hours, a very chilled out scene, nothing illegal going on that I could see. It didn't even smell like pot! We were using the plaza for its intended purpose. But then we heard the familiar sound of a police projectile exploding about a block away, and a little later, someone came up saying that the cops had announced (out of earshot, in a side street) that they would arrest everyone at the plaza, so most of us left. A few people stayed behind to test it out, and were not arrested after all. But looking down from the nearby parking garage, we saw a huge crowd in the intersection, which looked like a very large protest. All riot cops! It looked like there were hundreds of them. This was around 3pm.

We came back a couple of hours later, after lunch, and people were back at the plaza, waiting for the permitted immigrants rights march to arrive. The cops took down the banners while we waited, and I saw one of them reach for the pink pig piñata with a police badge on its chest, hanging out of reach. Some occupiers were all too happy to assist, and smashed the piñata to shreds, with candy and fake money flying everywhere. The only 'violence' from protesters that I saw was against a papier-mâché pig. The cops decided not to interfere. You can see a short, satisfying video of the piñata meeting its demise, with comrades singing "No more pigs in the community!" -- "No more brothers/sisters in jail!"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=eB7sw8_e8sI

We left around 8:30pm, right before another police projectile exploded in the intersection. In footage I saw later, the cops pushed the crowd away from the plaza up Broadway, at one point with a line of motorcycles with all sirens blaring. In one video a red SUV turned onto a street in my neighborhood, several blocks away from the plaza, and riot cops spilled out of it, and jumped a guy just standing on the sidewalk. The protest crowd was nowhere to be seen. There is also footage of two Alameda County Sheriffs (the notorious, and aptly named 'blue meanies') with M4 assault rifles in front of city hall earlier in the afternoon. They drove through downtown with an armored personnel carrier, which appeared to have on its roof an as of yet unused LRAD (long range acoustic device, which can make you deaf), apparently trying to intimidate the crowd. When I was at the plaza in the evening, I saw a group of about five Oakland cops patrolling the park, and one had his hand firmly placed on his pistol with live ammunition.

With the overwhelming and threatening presence of ever more militarized riot cops, the highlight of my day was when we approached a small cluster of black bloc at the plaza. My comrade was distributing his organization's critical defense of black bloc in response to Chris Hedges' article of condemnation, and we stopped to talk for a while. I told one of them that I've been defending them a lot in recent months, because I know that in the face of police violence it's usually black bloc, whether individuals or in a group, who shield others, preventing a lot of injuries and arrests. I don't have to agree with every smashed window to stand up for those who have my back.

I wish someone had taken a photo, because what happened next should disintegrate all the stereotypes of black bloc being out of control thugs: This completely cloaked ninja-like figure, whose eyes were all I could see, and who I will likely never recognize again, quietly spread his arms out wide, then wrapped them around me in a loving embrace.

It was a snapshot that encompasses the way I've always experienced black bloc: Loving towards their community, concerned for our safety, and ready to defend us. When the explosion went off in the afternoon, black bloc participants were right in the front of the crowd that swarmed to help our comrades under attack. Some of us have been calling for 'Workers Defense Guards' for decades, but few among organized labor have heeded the call. Until workers organize such defense guards, black bloc is the only group of people who mobilize to do this necessary work, who put their own bodies on the line to defend our comrades from the direct violence of state repression. I love them for it, and from now on I just may start all my participation in actions by first hugging everyone in black bloc.

The morning after May Day my neighbors found one of the black bloc shields, which the City of Oakland has since attempted to ban as a 'Tool of Violence': a plastic garbage can, cut in half, with a big heart painted on it, abandoned on the sidewalk in our neighborhood, battered, like so many more of us would be, if it wasn't for the courage of a few anonymous comrades.

ISIS FERAL
posted June 5, 2012








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Oakland Occupies May Day

by Daniel Borgström

May Day 2012. Occupiers were gathering at the Oakland Plaza for the noon rally. My friend Steve Gilmartin and I had just arrived and were standing in the plaza near Broadway. Music was playing over the PA system, when suddenly "Mic check! Mic check!"

"Police are grabbing our comrades! We need to save them!"

We all hurried over to Broadway where the police had dragged a woman off her bicycle and were arresting her. The next thing I knew, my view was blocked by those in front who were struggling with the police. The crowd was pressing in tightly from behind me.

"We are not afraid!" we chanted. "We are not afraid!" (I was very much afraid.) We pushed and kept pushing. Was the woman freed? With people jammed in all around, my peripheral vision was about zero. I could only see what was happening right in front of me. The police pushed back against us with their batons, while those in front stood toe to toe with them, and we were soon pushing the police back up Broadway. A huge number of cameras were recording this, and we chanted, "The whole world is watching!"

Then a cop started jabbing the people in front of me with his baton. "Officer Niven!" someone shouted, "You're famous!"

I glanced at the many cameras, then at the officer's name tag. Yes, it was "Niven" -- now famous because this was being live-streamed.

Shouts and chants continued. "Police go home! Police go home!" The police retreated a hundred feet or more, to 15th street. Then, suddenly, an ear-splitting blast -- a flash-bang grenade. Two or three more flash-bangs, and a cloud of white smoke.

I started choking and coughing. Tear gas. I didn't see what happened next, but watching it on video afterwards, I found that the cops had then grabbed several people. What I did see was also confirmed in photos, but a lot happened during that interlude while I was choking on tear gas.

When I recovered somewhat, I could see that the police had repositioned themselves across Broadway in front of us, about fifty feet away. They weren't attacking us now.

"Mic check!"

"We're done here," the speaker with the bullhorn was saying, calling for us to return to the Plaza. Brian wheeled his ubiquitous stereo system along, just up ahead of me, playing music, a loud throbbing beat. The police did not pursue us. I noted down the time: 12:21 p.m. The confrontation had lasted nine minutes.

What we'd just experienced was a "snatch squad" in action. "Surgical arrests," the police call such operations, part of a new crowd control policy which the OPD had announced a week before. Police told newspapers that they would use specialized squads to isolate and arrest "troublemakers" before they could ignite others around them. How the woman on the bicycle became a designated "troublemaker" is a mystery; no doubt anyone and everyone in Occupy would fit their dubious definition.

The OPD's new policy had sounded ominous. The ACLU had written the police a letter warning them that they were bound by their existing 2005 federally court-ordered Crowd Control Policy, and therefore not free to change policies whenever it suited them. Meanwhile, there was a very real possibility that the OPD could be placed in federal receivership for failing to comply with court mandated reforms, and such a prospect could also affect the nature of police actions this afternoon, hopefully inducing them to chill out a bit.

But we didn't really know what the police would do. Earlier this year, the police had mass-arrested 409 Occupiers. That was on January 28th, and as a result of that, people might be really intimidated, perhaps too traumatized to come out and attend today's events. Some people had wondered if perhaps only a handful of the hardiest of souls would dare to show up. There'd been a lot of speculation about that, but nobody could really say for sure. I always think of that 1952 movie "High Noon," where the poor guy has to go out all by himself and face the bad guys. Actually, there were already several hundred Occupiers here, and more were arriving. The rally at the Plaza had resumed.

An aftertaste of the tear gas lingered in my chest, not disabling but discomforting, and I looked around for a medic but didn't see any right then. Apparently they'd gone to attend to a woman who'd been severely injured.

"The bicyclist?" I asked someone.

"No, another woman. Only about 19 years old. Her face was covered with blood."

"Mic check!"

There was an announcement, presumably about what had just happened, but from where I stood I couldn't hear what it was.

The rally continued. Speakers, then music, more speakers, more music.

People were dancing. Others were in groups, conversing. I ran into Henry Johnson from the Sunday Lake Merritt peace walk. He'd just come from a picket line at Alta Bates hospital where nurses were on strike. It was one of the numerous actions people had been doing since early that morning. A couple hundred had been picketing at the hospital. Another couple hundred had gone to Child Protective Services, and others had formed a detachment of flying pickets, visiting the various banks.

Before going to Alta Bates, Henry had gone with a contingent to Larkspur to support the Golden Gate Ferry workers. "I didn't bring my sweater, and at four in the morning the wind-chill factor made the temperature quite low," he said.

"You were cold? You?" I said. Even on the chilliest of days Henry always shows up wearing a thin T-shirt. I couldn't imagine him ever being cold. "It must've been sub-arctic conditions," I remarked. Here at the plaza the afternoon was turning out to be sunny and fairly warm.

The crowd had grown; there looked to be a couple thousand here now.

A lot of actions had taken place that morning, and more were on the agenda for the afternoon. However, we seemed to be boxed in. The streets leading from the Plaza were blocked off by police in Darth Vader helmets, creating a war-zone ambiance in order to keep the downtown area open for business as usual. Ironically, the police, by their numbers, had unwittingly partnered with us in doing exactly what they were trying to prevent us from doing -- shutting down the center of downtown Oakland. An even further irony was that the small restaurants which were friendly to Occupy were swamped with customers.

The Oakland police had called in "mutual aid" from five other cities plus the Sheriff and CHP, someone told me. "They even brought in an armored vehicle."

"A tank?" another person asked in disbelief. "Did you say a 'tank'?"

People all around were chuckling. Riot police are not a laughing matter, but the concept of armored vehicles for use against protesters seemed bizarre, silly. Like hunting ducks with howitzers.

"Occupy Oakland holds a demonstration, and they send tanks. Wow! That's what I call respect!"

"Shows they have a high opinion of our prowess."

"It probably has nothing to do with us. They spend big bucks acquiring that hardware, so they like to show it off and pretend it's useful."

They're closing schools for lack of funds, but police agencies had money to buy a tank. Actually, as armored vehicles go, it was rather unimpressive, didn't even seem to have a turret with a cannon. But we preferred to think of it as a "tank" -- which was more flattering to our collective ego.

A number of CHP were guarding the entrances of the City Hall, some carrying automatic rifles.

People were dancing to music from a stereo system. Actually, the police don't allow anyone to use sound amplification systems without a permit, and they'd hassled us several times for it in the past. Our rallies and marches weren't "permitted" either--not by the police or city officials, that is. Occupy Oakland doesn't ask permission.

Meanwhile, the big event of the afternoon would be the immigrant march, "Dignidad y Resistencia." It would gather at Fruitvale, about 3 ½ miles east of here, then march from that plaza to this one. That was a permitted march; the organizers of it had wanted it that way as they believed that would ensure the safety of their marchers, many of them undocumented.

We were hoping to march out and meet the immigrant march. But would that be possible?--to the east of us a line of riot police blocked off 14th Street at Franklin.

The afternoon was wearing on. Steve and I considered taking BART to San Francisco for some of the activities there.

Just then, a blast resounded. It seemed to come from the other side of the city hall, on 14th near the Federal Building. A flash-bang? Immediately, the crowd started moving in that direction. It seemed a bit ironic, because those flash-bang grenades are intended to disperse crowds, not attract them. But this was clearly a pretty assertive crowd.

Crossing the plaza and reaching the street, it was packed full of people, curb to curb and the sidewalks as well. There were hundreds, probably a thousand or more. I was pretty far back and couldn't see what was going on up ahead. Presumably there was a bunch of police there. Someone, probably Brian, had brought a mobile sound system and loud music boomed out and echoed back from the tall buildings on either side of us. People were dancing. Much of the day they'd been dancing, and now, apparently with the police not far away, they were again dancing.

There was cheering, chanting.

From time to time I heard what sounded like a police bullhorn. I couldn't make out any of the words. The music and dancing continued. Then people started moving back toward the intersection of Broadway. A block to the east of us a row of police were still blocking off 14th.

We headed north on Broadway, going a block or so. Then back south on Broadway. Back and forth. I had no idea what was going on. There were "Mic Check" announcements over a bullhorn, but I couldn't really hear very well.

The police seemed to be closing in, or at least that was my impression. Being in the midst of the crowd, I couldn't see much.

Then I saw Frank, wearing as always his brown bicycle helmet, for which reason we called him "Brown Hat." I remembered him from the security committee at the camp in October, and I asked him if he'd seen what was happening. The police had ordered us off the streets, to get on the sidewalks, he told me, "they said they'll use chemical agents."

The gathering filled the entire width of Broadway; the sidewalks were already packed and not large enough for all the people. Nearby was a BART entrance, and I really wanted to go home, hide under the bed. I was just scared, scared, scared. Very scared. But I'd been through a lot with these people during the past half year since October. Two police raids on our camp, two port shutdowns, J28, and a lot more.

"What do you want to do?" Steve asked.

I bit my lip and said, "I need to stay. But if you want to leave, it's okay with me."

"I'm staying too."

"Thank you for staying," I said. That's all I could think to say.

"Mic check!" An announcement followed, but I couldn't hear what was said. Another mic check, but I still couldn't hear.

People were cheering, chanting. "Let's go! Oakland!" they chanted. Spirits were high. Motorists caught in this traffic jam, actually a people jam, honked and waved to us.

Soon we were moving, marching north on Broadway. We passed 15th, then 16th, then turned east on 17th.

"Whose street? -- Our street!" "Whose street? -- Our street!"

Going east on 17th, we crossed Franklin, turned south on Webster. Where were the police? I wondered. We marched on. Reaching 14th, we turned east again, crossing Harrison, Alice, then Jackson.

14th was the street which would take us out to Fruitvale. The police had blocked it off near the plaza, presumably to keep us from marching out to meet the immigrant march, but now we'd just walked around the police, leaving them behind us. Were they just going to stand down and let us go?

As we passed the library, the librarians came out and stood on the steps, waving to us and cheering. We crossed the new bridge over the estuary which connects Lake Merritt to the bay. It's a saltwater lake which rises and falls with the tide. It's the oldest wildlife sanctuary in the US, populated with geese, cormorants and even pelicans. A noisy flock of seagulls flew overhead, and out on the lake I saw two or three small sail boats.

Up ahead, music from Brian's stereo system boomed out in all directions from the crest of the bridge. Looking back, I saw what looked like police vans trailing us. People at the rear of our column grabbed the large orange-colored road dividers from the street construction and pulled them across the bridge behind us, a temporary makeshift blockade for the police vehicles.

Minutes later we were out in the avenues, soon crossing 4th, 5th, and 6th, taking care not to trip in the potholes as we marched along. I wondered how many of the people on this march were old enough to remember back when the streets of American cities weren't full of potholes? Most of the people around me were young. Some carried signs, some carried shields with peace signs painted on them Beside us was a woman with a small white dog decked out with signs. "Tax the big dogs" it read on one side, the other: "Justice for the little guys."

Steve and I exchanged estimates of our column, eventually concluding that we numbered something over a thousand, possibly as many as two thousand.

The significant thing about this march here in Oakland was that despite the months of police repression, over a thousand of us took the risks, braved the dangers, and were marching. "Marching in the beauty of the day," as the song goes; and this was a truly beautiful day, the sun shining nicely. A thousand plus people. That's not the same as a thousand people turning out to hear politicians and other celebrities make speeches, as was at so many protest marches in years past. This was a march in the face of intimidation.

People along the streets waved to us, as did children at a school we marched past. Motorists also honked and waved.

Reaching San Antonio Park, we took a break and waited for the immigrant march, which eventually arrived from the opposite direction. As they came marching up Foothill Boulevard, we lined up on both sides of the street and cheered for them. Then we marched back to the plaza together with them.

DANIEL BORGSTRÖM
June 1, 2012

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The above article was published in the July/August 2012 issue of Z Magazine





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Port of Oakland



Occupy claims success in West Coast Port Shutdown of Dec 12, 2011

On the Line in the Port of Oakland Spring of 2007 Shutting down war profiteers

What caused the Port Chicago disaster? by Howard Keylor, retired longshoreman

The Spymaster's Tale

United Nations report on the 2003 police attack

Comments on ILWU Local 21 Longview contract with EGT, LLC
by Howard Keylor


The Documents: ILWU Local 21 Longview contract with EGT

High Noon & the West Coast Docks
by Daniel Borgström


Whose Port? - events at the Port of Oakland on April 7, 2003

ILWU hold sit-in at PMA office April 12, 2011

Pre-trial hearings of the Oakland 25 in November 2003

SSA Marine--profile of a profiteer

"Remember the shots? Return to the docks!" April 2004

The unexpected ending of the case against the Oakland 25 in April 2004

For 8 days in May 2004, Truckers closed the Port of Oakland

Port Protest 2007

Picket war profiteers in the Port of Oakland on Saturday, May 19, 2007

A letter from Bellingham -- Port actions in the Pacific North West 2007

Port Activists from Puget Sound visiting Bay Area, spoke in San Francisco on Friday, March 28, 2008

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