sometimes rioters emerge
all that chaos, for looters and rioters,
might = anarchy
might = a free cell phone
or might = the thrill of smashing glass for the satisfying tinkling and crashing, shards flying like a fairy godmother's glitter.
the footage I watched of protests at Berkeley showed a wall of blue, plastic face masks pulled down to avoid rocks and spittle, batons jabbing forward or pushing horizontal lines of skinny, foul-mouthed college students (don't get me wrong, "fuck" is one of my favorite words)
backward, backward, crushed into each other (and I remember a day when I was 17 and stuck in a crowd at an innocuous event - a concert - people pushed and smashed and elbowed, and I screamed, and watching this video makes me want to scream, "Stop! Let me out! I can't breathe!")
what else did I see in the blue wall of men and women?
a whole wad of fear. the blue people shifting feet, dancing
like boxers who faced an opponent they didn't understand
that had moves they had never learned,
words bounced against the plastic face masks
and the blue wall flinched, shifted, danced shoved, dragged, yelled, "Move! Move! Move!"
they were not all white, the stones in that blue wall.
they were not all black, the terrifying specter of skinny college students.
Who threw the rocks and bottles?
Who smashed the business windows?
Who tried to set things on fire?
Those people need to stop it. If we don't protest the things that are wrong, eventually we'll accept them as normal. But if we allow protests to equal riots, we'll never get it right, and the definition of protest will begin to equal riot.
Oh, who am I to write about these things?
A frumpy, fattening, jaded, post-middle-aged woman sitting on my sagging sofa in my messy living room waiting around for motivation to leave the house, to DO something?
I suppose writing is a start.
ps - I wrote this directly into the Blogger window. No careful pruning and rephrasing for me lately. Just raw response.