Protests. They're in the news a lot these days. Some people feel like they do nothing. Some people feel like they do something. But mostly, I would wager that a good number of people out there in this great nation of ours have never been to one. They see them on the TV news, online, in the paper... and they make snap judgments about everything related to the protest: the police, the people, he causes. But it's not that simple. It never is.
I went to my first protest in high school. After putting out issues of our underground 'zine, FUCK OFF!, one day I was approached by a fellow student who asked if I'd ever actually been to a protest. When I replied in the negative, she insisted that my criticisms of protesters held no sway because I had not experienced any myself.
So contributing writer Fast Eddie and I decided to go to the next protest we could get information about, and it happened to be in front of the McDonald's down the street from the Northridge Mall. Back then, without the Internet or cell phones in abundance, it was kind of difficult to get our peers to give us the 411 on a protest, seeing as we spent many issues of our 'zine ridiculing said peers. But once we explained that we were doing it so that we could put our money where our mouths were, our peers were more than happy to clue us in.
We made signs and stood on the corner of Tampa & Nordhoff, raising awareness of meat industry shenanigans and the global corporate interests of McDonald's worldwide. I was not a vegan or a vegetarian, but I could see that some of the issues were valid complaints: stop doing business with corporations that continue to support apartheid in South Africa; post nutritional content for customers in order to make them conscious of what they eat; curtail the barbaric slaughterhouse practices that dominate the fast food industry as a whole.
Even some of our teachers were there. And afterward, when it was time to call it a day and the group was going to meet at the Falafel Palace down the street, they invited me to come along. And I said:
"You mean you're going to protest them too?"
The teacher looked at me funny, like he thought I was joking. I was not. I suddenly realized that they were not going to protest the Falafel Palace; they wanted to get a bite to eat.
At the end of the day, the protest educated me on a whole slew of concerns. It did not change my attitude towards eating meat, but it did make me question why I automatically gave McDonald's my money with unblinking loyalty. And I gained a great deal of respect for the protesters, because they were very responsible in their actions.
Of course, not every demonstration is going to go over that well. Some erupt into chaos. I have been to my fair share of protests since that day in high school, and I've seen a variety of different scenarios. I am by no means a professional activist. However, I have seen enough action to know that you CANNOT trust the media to report about most rallies and demonstrations fairly.
Let me repeat:YOU CANNOT TRUST THE MEDIA TO REPORT ON DEMONSTRATIONS AND PROTESTS FAIRLY.
The following is from a website I used to contribute to in the late 90s/early 2000s. It was called AmeriCON and it was run by a college kid whom I'd never met in person. It exists no more, but at the time I stumbled upon the site while surfing the Web and I liked their style. I asked them if I could be their L.A. correspondent (I believe they were situated somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, if I remember correctly) and they said "Knock yourself out."
I'm not going to edit it. I am going to post it as is and let you, the Reader, decide what to make of it. But keep in mind: this was the year 2000. George W. Bush was running against Vice President Al Gore. I was supporting Ralph Nader, a decision I do not regret. I was not married, or a parent, and I didn't live in the Midwest. Obama was eight years away from happening, and the idea that one day a man like Donald Trumpp could actually become the leader of the free world was laughable at best.
Let's travel back into time, then, and take a look at life pre-9/11... a simpler time... a magical time... oh, who am I kidding? Not much has changed.
ANARCHY ON THE FENCE
A fuzzy recollection by James
Ledesma
August 14th, 2000.
So there we were, a group of us, en
route to the Staples Center via the newly-constructed Metro Rail that joins
North Hollywood with Downtown Los Angeles. It was myself, my longtime friend
and partner-in-crime Sharky, his girlfriend Brenda, a co-worker of mine named
Carlito and his younger brother Mitch.
The event?
The Democratic National Convention for the year 2000. All week long there were
protests going on. This night in particular held a personal interest for the
five of us: Rage Against The Machine was scheduled to play a live set, right
outside the Staples Center.
Riots were
expected.
All of us
in our little group were voting Green that year. We all felt, to varying
degrees, that the Democrats had let the Left down in many ways. Al Gore was not
our man, not any more than George W. Bush was. Ralph Nader was our man. Sharky
and I had voted for Clinton in ’92, but by ’96 we were voting for Nader—I mean,
did anyone really believe that Bob Dole was going to take it in ’96? I don’t
even think Bob Dole himself felt like he had a chance.
We took the
underground rail because no one wanted to navigate traffic in an event of this
magnitude. At the time, the Metro was brand spankin’ new, clean and efficient,
although there were still some last-minute finishing touches being applied to
the station terminals.
The five of
us sat on the rail, talking about what would happen to the rail if an
earthquake hit (seeing that California is infamous for its shakers, it was a
valid point to discuss); we also talked about seeing the East L.A. band
Ozomatli play at the DNC rally, after Rage’s set was done; and we all talked
about why we were willing to risk inadvertently electing George W. by voting
for Nader.
The general
consensus among us was that the right to vote is not based on the desire to be
on a “winning team”, but rather on the belief that each individual voice in a
democracy counts. Therefore, it pays to vote for what you believe is right, not
for whoever is leading in the polls. Our votes were protests votes. We’d all
heard the same rap during 1996: “Don’t vote for Nader—what if Dole wins?”
When you
vote for the lesser of two evils, it doesn’t matter which candidate gets
elected— evil still wins, even if it’s at a lesser degree. I try my hardest not
to directly support evil. Since the 2000 election, of course, everyone who
voted for Al Gore likes to mention that, thanks to me and my Green friends,
Bush is in power. To which I reply, “Oh, I guess the 51% of the population that
DIDN’T vote is exempt from all judgement then, eh?”
In 2000, we
didn’t feel the need to elect Gore to the highest office in the land—Gore, who
has ties to all the big oil companies that don’t have the Bush family in their
pockets; Gore, the man whose wife wanted to censor music; Gore, a man who ran
on a platform that included targeting Hollywood for brainwashing our youth.
On the
rail, I made a comment to Sharky: “ You know, this year the election may as
well be conducted like a Pepsi Challenge. Remember those ads for Pepsi? Where
they blindfolded people and asked them to drink a Coke and a Pepsi? And they
asked them which one they preferred?”
Sharky
laughed. “Or like that Ray Charles commercial—‘OK, who’s the joker who switched
Bush with Gore?’”
Brenda
chimed in: “If only they’d let Nader in the debates. He’d blow both of them
away. He’s so smart, and well-read…”
“And
fearless,” I added.
Sharky made
another joke. “Yeah, fuck Bush & Gore—I mean, their names alone ensure that
they won’t be getting my vote. It sounds like the title of a snuff
movie.”
Carlito
laughed. “Right on, man…” Carlito wasn’t particularly political, but he was a
definite Rage fan, and admired them for doing what they did. I have always had
reservations about them—musically, they were great; in interviews and press
releases, they seemed to truly believe in what they were advocating and were
very informed on current events. But the fact that they worked for a
corporation which distributed their CDs all over the world… I never could
reconcile that one. I’ve heard the argument that states that one can manipulate
the system to suit their own needs, and one can argue that Rage did this, but
ultimately it never rang 100% true with me.
Yes, I am a
skeptic. But wait, there’s more.
We reached
our destination: Olympic and Figueroa, the “designated protest area”, where
thousands of people were filling the streets, walking, talking, holding signs,
selling T-shirts at makeshift vending booths. There was music, both live and
recorded, coming from everywhere and nowhere. In the distance, the Staples
Center loomed large. We could see the tents where the Shadow Convention was
being held—conspiracy nuts, extreme Leftists, Communists, UFO lovers, and all
sorts of loveable political junkies were congregating in every conceivable spot
on the map. But there were also serious activist groups such as the Animal
defense League, and Citizens Against Human experimentation on hand. Lawyer’s
Guild representatives were everywhere, holding clipboards and wearing
fluorescent yellow hats to make them stand out. They were on hand to make sure
the cops didn’t violate anyone’s civil rights.
Carlito’s
younger brother Mitch, who hailed from Sacramento, was wide-eyed. Evidently,
there was nothing like this going on up north. He remained quiet and observant
throughout the entire evening. It’s possible that he couldn’t believe what he
was seeing.
I was
reminded of the events that took place earlier that year: the Lakers winning
the championship, and the riots that followed. Cop cars were burned and
vandalized; fans ran amok and fights broke out; the police did very little in
the way of preventing these rioters from wreaking havoc. Part of me thinks that
it’s because the majority of people in the streets celebrating the victory were
sports fans; more importantly, they were people who had paid good money to see
the Lakers win, at a stadium that was built with the intention of housing a
Championship team. (I’ve heard it said that the Staples’ ‘A’ Team is the Kings,
and that the Lakers are actually the ‘B’ Team, but until the Kings do as good
as the Lakers have, I’m going to assume that Staples was built for the Lakers)…
Who wants
to go see a team play the next season, after they’ve been beaten down by cops
in riot gear? The fear of alienating the fans was too great. It seemed to me
that the city handlers’ logic went as follows: Let them celebrate, just as
long as they don’t do any damage to the Staples Center itself… the revenue from
ticket sales next season will more than make up for the inconvenience of
rioting and looting… Tell the cops not to go crazy either— these aren’t Raiders
fans we’re dealing with, they don’t need to be handled like brutes…
And
here we were, exercising our rights to free speech and our rights to assemble
peacefully, facing the prospect of dealing with the LAPD, an organization that
wouldn’t look the other way when it came to protesters. Sports fans going wild?
Aw, they’re just happy their team won… Protesters? What a bunch of
ingrates…
How dare we
speak our mind!
The crowd
was not, as one might expect, a group of long-haired drug users in their early
twenties, although there was a fair share of those type of people as well.
There were many adults in their thirties and forties—some of them with their
kids in tow—mixed in with the inevitable Seattle anarchists, clad in their
black bandanas; kids with dreadlocks and Mexican ponchos; teens in Rage
T-shirts and young college-aged adults in flannels. Everyone was gathered
around the stage where Rage was performing. As we neared the stage, “Killing In
The Name Of” was being played by the band.
“Aw man,”
Carlito said, somewhat disappointed. “They’re already playing! I hope they’re
not almost done…”
As I looked
around and surveyed the scene, a few things caught my attention: First, there
was no mosh pit near the front of the stage; Second, there were plenty of signs
and placards on display that stated the political intentions of this assembly,
a point that I would make later when speaking to people about how today’s
protesters have no unifying cause; Third, the vibe was friendly and warm—there
was no tension, no crowds surging back and forth like at a concert, and since
it was outdoors the cool evening air made the sweat of thousands of bodies in
close proximity a bit tolerable.
The sound
system was lackluster, so Rage’s set sounded a bit subdued. Little did I know
that another video was being shot, for the song “Testify”, by Michael Moore,
the man who shot the “Sleep Now In The Fire” video on Wall Street. As Rage
played “Killing”, I anticipated my favorite part—when Zack de la Rocha tells
the whole crowd to sing, “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!” No
offense to the Rage boys (who have since disbanded), but my burning sense of
the absurd leaves no target untouched. The irony is base and simple, but not
lost on a skeptic like myself.
Rage did
some more songs, and then left. Meanwhile, Hillary Clinton’s face appeared on
the huge outdoor monitor as she addressed the DNC audience inside the Staples
Center. Boos from the outside protesters rose and died. Then, mysteriously, the
monitor went black just as Bill Clinton approached the podium to speak.
I looked
over to Carlito and wondered, “What, are they afraid that Clinton’s identity by
itself will cause violence?”
“He’s a
gangster,” was Carlito’s amused reply. He was too busy keeping an eye on his
younger brother, who was amazed at the goings-on, to really give me a
thoughtful answer. “Clinton’s a pimp, y’know?”
“Yeah, I
know… all too well…” I sighed and lit a cigarette.
For the
next half an hour, various speakers came to the stage and talked about the same
unifying causes that detractors claim we were lacking. One woman spoke about
globalization, and how the international trends towards trade entities like
NAFTA and the WTO were spelling doom for ordinary blue-collar people who make
honest livings. Another person spoke out against Al Gore, emphasizing his ties
to Occidental Petroleum and “Big Tobacco”.
There were placards in the crowd that denounced Citibank, WTO and the
G-8. Activists working on behalf of imprisoned radicals like Leonard Peltier
and Mumia Abu-Jamal beseeched the unwashed masses to sign petitions to get
their decisions and sentences overturned. There were some lobbyists pushing for
medicinal marijuana legalization and calling to attention the fallout from the
failed War On Drugs. Others decried our dependence on foreign oil, and promoted
the preservation of the Alaskan Wildlife Preserve. People passed out flyers
that detailed how our warped foreign policies are forcing Third World countries
deeper into debt. Yet another young, articulate person spoke from the stage
about the need for real campaign finance reform and universal health care, while
attacking corporate welfare programs and policies that endanger the environment
(logging, deforestation, developing over wetlands, etc).
These are
all real issues, and anyone who thinks that all Greens are just tree-huggers or
that there is no “unifying cause” between the various and far-flung factions of
the left has not been paying attention to anything other than their own
contempt for both the youth and the desire to change the world around them. Is
it no surprise that our very own parents and the people of their generation
scoff at us in our attempts to finish what they boldly started? They are old
and ineffective, and sold out so long ago that even they wonder if they were
ever a part of the counterculture. And now that they are comfortable in their
lounge recliners, sipping Frappachinos and driving SUVs, they have the gall to
observe our actions and declare, from the safety of their own fat and filth,
that we have no reason to protest.
There was a
very real feeling in the air that, by being a thorn in Gore’s side, by showing
hostility to the Democrats, we were taking the real risk. It’s easy to
blame the Republicans for everything evil in this country, because they usually
are the ones to blame. However, the Democrats have committed a far worse
crime: misrepresenting the interests of the people in their party. Liberals
nowadays resemble the conservatives of two decades ago, and today’s
conservatives are either downright fascistic or surprisingly moderate. Of
course, we all knew at the time that Bush’s “compassionate conservatism” was
really just another version of Clinton’s “moderate liberalism”… but never in my
personal memory have two candidates been so undistinguishable. Later on in the
election year, when the debates were televised, I was appalled at the fact that
the Lincoln-Douglas format, a traditional mode of debate, was nowhere to be
seen. Gore ripped Bush a new one on TV, and then he balked when his stupid PR
people told him to go easy on poor little W.
I took
debate in high school, and I’d like to know: SINCE WHEN DO OPPONENTS ‘GO EASY
ON’ EACH OTHER IN A DEBATE? Isn’t the concept of a debate similar to the
concept of a trial by jury? If so, THEN WHAT THE HELL KIND OF DEBATES WERE WE
WATCHING IN 2000?
Bush came
off like a used car salesman, while Gore came off like one of those
ambulance-chasing lawyers on daytime TV: “I’ll fight for you!”
My thoughts
at the time: “We seem to be doing to the concept of Democracy what the Greek
males, who originated the idea, did to each other: screwing it up the ass.” Ralph Nader tried to attend one of the debates,
and when he was discovered to be sitting in the audience he was asked to leave.
His identity by itself was cause for concern among both the Democrats and
Republicans—Reform Party members had their own problems to worry about.
Okay, so now I’m back in front of
Staples, with revolutionary thoughts in my head and a political axe to grind.
Ozomatli took the stage as the sun started to fade off into the horizon, and we
were happy. If there is anyone not familiar with Ozomatli, let me describe the
band as best as I can.
The group is large—ten or eleven
members, I believe—and made up of a true melting pot of ethnicities: black,
white, Jewish, Mexican, Asian… The band has a brass section, as well as the
standard bass-drums-guitar combo, plus a slew of percussionists, a DJ, an MC,
and multiple vocalists. They play any style they can: salsa, ska, funk,
hip-hop, rock, banda or mariachi, you name it. They take the
stage by entering through the crowd, carrying their instruments and drumming as
they storm through the rowdy throngs. It is their signature entrance and
exit—sometimes, after a show, they will stay in the crowd and improvise a drum
circle for as long as they can.
In addition to being socially conscious,
Ozomatli is also community-conscious: they organize programs for inner-city
youth in East L.A. to keep kids off the streets. They used to work with the
late great jazz drummer Billy Higgins at his World Stage drum workshop; in
fact, several of the members of Ozomatli were introduced to music through
Higgins’ Leimert park-based activities.
Needless to say, this band is NOT
about violent confrontation or negative energy, yet that’s what they came face
to face with that night in front of the Staples Center.
It started when two guys were
perched on the chain-link fence that surrounded the Staples Center. God forbid
anyone should actually touch the side of the building that L.A. invested so
much money to build, a building that seems more like a monument to spending and
making cheese than anything else. They were throwing rocks and water bottles;
the LAPD responded by spraying pepper spray into the crowd.
This episode was escalating in
clear view of everyone in attendance. And here’s the interesting part: at one
point, everyone in the crowd told the two bandana-wearing anarchists to get off
the fence! You see, contrary to what political commentators and mainstream
media editorialists want you to think, this crowd was aware of what kind of
trouble was brewing. This crowd wanted a peaceful demonstration, not rubber
bullets and tear gas. And the crowd collectively voiced its opinion as we
chanted, “GET OFF THE FENCE! GET OFF THE FENCE!”
Ozomatli started playing, but by
their second song the cops were threatening to pull the plug. When the
anarchists did not stop their activities, the cops made good on their threat.
The sound went dead, and some of the guys in the band were upset. They thought
it was a sound guy’s goof. When they realized they were being shut down, they
urged the crowd to demand the sound to be put back on. So we did.
Is that inciting to riot? I don’t
think so, because none of the people in the crowd started to go nuts. We just
wanted Ozomatli to finish their song. However, Cmdr. Kalish of the LAPD decided
to declare the assembly unlawful, and he got on the PA speaker to announce it
as such.
“You have fifteen minutes to
disperse,” he spat.
People started to move. I was
getting angry, and so was Carlito and Sharky. Brenda and Mitch were
concerned—was a full-scale riot about to happen?
Carlito and I started singing the
lyrics to “Fuck Tha Police” by NWA. As we did, a young woman came up to us and
pleaded with us not to exacerbate the bad vibes.
“That’s just what the cops want,
man,” she said. And she was right. So we stopped singing, and started trying to
get the fuck out of Dodge in fifteen minutes.
As we walked back to the Metro rail
station, we saw anarchists trying to overthrow mailboxes and trying to set fire
to things. And we also saw groups of people rushing around the anarchists,
telling them to stop. I overheard one guy say, “If you knock that trash can
over, you’re going in it, pal!” The anarchists had no choice—they were
outnumbered in every attempt to vandalize or create mayhem. I couldn’t believe
it: the power of persuasion was working with these guys.
Now why couldn’t the LAPD do the
same?
Ten minutes after Kalish told the
demonstrators to leave, I heard rounds of rubber bullets cracking in the
distance. People started running. Sharky, Carlito and I turned around to see a
stampede of panicking people running towards us. We started to stand in
peoples’ way, telling them, “Slow down! Don’t start a stampede!” Others
followed suit; soon, the threat of getting stomped had lessened.
Walking down Figueroa, we saw the
guys from Ozomatli, leading a parade of people away from the Staples Center.
They were drumming on their drums, to call attention to themselves, hoping to
get people in line behind them as opposed to scattered about on the street. It
was a glorious sight to behold. The procession weaved in and out of the
neighboring streets, making a detour onto 11th Street when the LAPD
posted a barricade.
People driving by in cars looked
genuinely horrified, but as far as I can recall, no automobiles were set on
fire. The mindset was miles apart from the mindset of happy, drunk Lakers
fans—we had no intentions of being malicious. We all just wanted to get out of
there without any incident.
Caught in the crowd, I told my
friends, in case we all get separated, to meet back at the rail station. And it
was right then that I got separated from the crew I was with. Awash in a sea of
protestors, I tried to make my way back to the station.
A hippie in a parka standing next
to me was smoking weed out of a glass pipe. “Here, man,” he said, offering me a
hit. I was stunned, but I also thought it was the right thing to do for the
moment. Looking around me, I snuck a quick hit, exhaled the smoke, and thanked
my friendly neighbor for the toke. He said, “No prob,” and disappeared into the
crowd.
In the midst of a gathering, I took
the hit… and then moments later I took a different kind of hit!
I scanned high and low, looking for
my friends. I stood on the corner of Figueroa and 9th, trying to see
if I could find them, when all of a
sudden the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Before I knew what was going on, a
throng of riot gear-clad pigs were making their ways towards me. The head
pig—the one in front of the line—had his baton out, and when he saw me standing
by myself, he must’ve thought I posed some sort of threat.
“MOVE!” he yelled, and gruffly
shoved me out of the way with his nightstick held in both of his hands. The
blow hit me on the right shoulder. It wasn’t too hard of a blow, but it was
enough to get my adrenaline racing. All I could do was say aloud, “What the
fuck did I do?”
An ACLU rep was right next to me.
“I saw what that cop did,” she said. Apparently the ACLU and other activist
lawyers came down to the demonstration in case there was trouble. “Are you
okay?” she asked, pulling out a clipboard and a ball-point pen.
“A little stunned,” I said. “But
I’ll live.”
She got down my personal info and
told me that she would contact me later on, when a class-action lawsuit was
prepared against the city and the LAPD. I wished her good luck. Judging from
the chaos that was occurring right in front of me, they had their work cut out
for them. But I never went in to the lawyer’s office to follow up on the suit
(mainly because my injuries were extremely minimal—just a slight bruise that
lasted two days) and I never heard about any class-action lawsuit being brought
against the cops.
Eventually I got to the station,
and there was Sharky, Brenda, Carlito, and Mitch, waiting for me. I told them
about getting crowned Rodney King-style, and they were shocked. We were all
energized and upset about the whole situation, and on the rail ride home we
spoke with others who had been at the demonstration. It seemed unreal, but at
the same time it seemed too real.
Carlito’s car and Sharky’s car were
parked at the North Hollywood station. Carlito and his brother went home, while
the rest of us went back to my apartment. I wanted to see the news coverage.
Maybe I shouldn’t have. There was
Cmdr. Kalish, on the local news, talking about the “unruly throng” and how they
didn’t want a repeat of what happened when the Lakers won the championship. “We
were caught unprepared that time,” he said, “but this time we had hundreds of
rookies trained to deal with any problems. And I’m happy to say that we handled
it well.”
I was livid. “They weren’t caught
unprepared for the Laker riots—they just didn’t want to piss off sports fans
who have season tickets!” I exclaimed, nursing my bruise with a cold pack.
Kalish continued. “We gave the
rioters twenty minutes to disperse. When compliance was not met, our men
unleashed rubber bullets and pepper spray to facilitate the evacuation of the
area…”
Now it was Brenda’s turn to be mad.
“Bullshit! They gave us fifteen minutes, but really it was more like ten! Now
they’re saying twenty? And what about that rush of people trying to get out of
the line of fire? Those LAPD assholes almost caused a full-on stampede!”
We were all shaking our heads in
disbelief.
The newscast made no mention of the
fact that many members of the media, such as CNN cameramen, print photographers
and a few journalists were actually hurt in the melee by the LAPD. The cops
were very indiscriminate in their actions.
The newscaster went on to state,
“The riot started when the anti-government rock group Rage Against the Machine
took to the stage. Their fiery performance may have set the stage for an ugly
confrontation… one that was thankfully put down by the city police.”
Sharky laughed. “What idiots! Rage
were in their limos, driving to the next gig by the time this shit went down…
and I’m even more pissed off because I wanted to see Ozomatli finish their
set.”
But that wasn’t the most
infuriating part. The most frustrating aspect of the whole DNC rally was the
next day, when the newspapers continued to distort the picture of what really
went down. The LA Times praised the police for their readiness—never mind that
the LAPD were actually trying to start a riot as opposed to quelling an
uprising.
I talked to co-workers about the
incident. What did they have to say? “You shouldn’t have been down there in the
first place,” one person said to me.
“We have a right to protest
whatever the fuck we want to in this country,” I said, getting worked up.
“But not in a violent way,” the
asshole continued.
“It wasn’t violent until the cops
showed up, you stupid ignorant prick!” I have a reputation, at my work, for
being argumentative and verbally abusive. Most of my co-workers are used to it,
so they don’t flinch when I curse them out.
I couldn’t find anyone that day who
was sympathetic to my cause. Except for Carlito, who was there, and one or two
others who know how fucked up the cops in L.A. are, everyone put the blame on
me, like I was the anarchist on the fence, heaving rocks and plastic Evian
bottles at the Staples.
By the end of the day, I’d had it.
Then, Sharky called me up and told me he and Brenda were going out to march
again. There was a March Against Police Brutality scheduled for that day.
“You of all people should go,” he
said, half-jokingly.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I said
wearily. My arm was still a bit sore, but I was more upset about how it got
that way in the first place.
He also told me about Ted Hayes,
the homeless advocate. He and his followers were marching the night before, in
an unrelated demonstration to call attention to the homeless situation. His
march ended up intersecting with the DNC crowd. The cops thought he was part of
the alleged insurrection and shot him in the chest with a rubber bullet. He was
in the hospital, in stable condition.
Hearing that made me feel a little
depressed. I told Sharky that I was going to sit this one out. I didn’t feel
like getting rapped in the head or smacked in the kisser, just for being
somewhere that I’m lawfully allowed to be. He understood.
I went into my office, pulled out
my CD case, selected a CD, placed it in the CD player, turned the knob the
Track Two, and sat back, with my office door closed and the volume full blast:
Fuck the police comin’ straight
from the underground
A young nigga got it bad ‘cause
I’m brown
And for the other color so
police think
They have the authority to kill
a minority
Fuck that shit ‘cause I ain’t
the one
For a punk motherfucker with a
badge and a gun
To be beatin’ on and thrown in
jail
We can go toe to toe in the middle of the cell
Fuckin’ with me ‘cause I’m a
teenager
With a little bit o’ gold and a
pager
Searchin’ my car, lookin’ for
the product
Thinkin’ every nigga is sellin’
narcotics
You’d rather see me sittin’ in
the pen
Than me and Lorenzo coolin’ in a
Benzo
Bend the police outta shape and
when I’m
Finished, bring the yellow tape
To tape off the scene of the
slaughter
Still getting’ swolled off bread
and water
I don’t know if they fags or
what
Search a nigga down and grabbin’
his nuts
And on the other hand without a
gun they can’t get none
But don’t let it be a black and
a white one
‘cause they’ll slam your ass on
the roof top
Black police showin’ off for the
white cop
Ice Cube will swarm
On any motherfucker in a blue
uniform
Just ‘cause I’m from the CPT
Punk police are afraid of
me—heh!
A young nigga on the warpath
And when I’m finished there’s
gonna be a bloodbath
Of cops dying in L.A.
Yo Dre I got somethin’ to say…
FUCK THA POLICE!!
I agree with the girl who asked us
not to sing those lyrics during the near-riot—I agree with her sentiments, and
I agree with her reasoning behind it.
But I also agree with the lyrics
themselves, and they make me feel a lot better when I can’t do anything about
the situations I find myself in. Is it wrong to recite violent rap lyrics?
No—we have freedom of speech. Even if the pigs make me move out of the way,
they can’t shut me up. But ask me if I think it’s wrong to carry out violence
for its own sake. You’ll get a completely different answer to that question.
