Hot Summer Anarchy in Downtown Austin
I arrive on a disaster scene. Twin fire trucks flash lights outside Austin Police Department Headquarters, while platoons of cops in full riot armor tighten up their ranks along the street. The protestors regroup on the lawn, next to brick facades that have been graffitied and wiped clean, then graffitied afresh: “ACAB: All Cops Are Bastards.”
Most of the cops who weren’t bastards have dematerialized over the past two weeks. Black and Hispanic faces have become notably rare in their ranks, along with females, and those with innate capacity for empathy. A battle line of hard-faced white male aggressors remain — armed to the teeth against their fellow American citizens, yet maskless in the face of COVID-19, which ranks far below unarmed civilians on their list of deadly threats.
As I circulate among the survivors, shards of the story coalesce into a coherent narrative: the Mike Ramos Brigade — an aggressive group of protesters seeking justice for their titular victim’s murder at the hands of the APD — burned an American flag in the street this afternoon. The blaze attracted the Austin Fire Department, and the cops fanned out to guard their flank. In the words of those who witnessed the altercation, “It got real rowdy.”
Things remain rowdy as I unlock a Wheels bike and motor up to 6th Street, two blocks south. The uphill climb sends the poor bike’s engine into a coughing fit, and I wish for a solid Husqvarna — or even a farty little Yamaha. This bike’s only value-add seems to be its Bluetooth speaker, which quacks out “Duel of the Iron Mic” at a volume barely perceptible above the din of the Juneteenth revelers who spill forth from the mouths of clubs and bars, mask-free and gleaming with bling, eager for all forms of nighttime action, political and otherwise.
“Whose streets? Our streets!” chant the marchers, while peacock boyfriends and tight-dressed dancers raise cheering toasts from the balconies. The hard core of the march seems to be the Brigade, who’ve announced a “March on the Capitol” tomorrow at noon. They’re joined by club-goers with phones hoisted high for selfies, many marching with the crowd for just enough paces to fill a 30-second video. Unaffiliated protestors jog along the flanks, while flashy frontmen arc across the street on Lime scooters, inviting the fence-sitters to raise a fist or a glass in solidarity.
One of my first nights out here, a friend of mine asked whether I was here as a protestor or a journalist. I answered “both,” sincerely: I’m here to observe, document, catalogue and participate, in the grand tradition of Dr. Thompson — not the comical Bahama-shirted Raoul Duke who bears an uncanny resemblance to a notorious fictional pirate captain, but the real hard-hitting, award-winning, interview-getting Thompson; the man who reported Nixon’s Saturday Night Massacre this night in 1972.
Conventional journalism falls apart in moments of national crisis, yielding the field to veterans of true courage and dedication. The only way to report accurately on these protests is to get involved. To stand in the trenches chanting “Hands up! Don’t shoot!” as armed cops surround us. To participate in the debates and interpersonal dramas that spark the formation of cliques, groups, allies and rivals within the movement. Follow the shifting tactics and rhetoric like the trail of a wild beast. Study her habits. Become acquainted with her moods and peculiar sensitivities. In good time she will reveal her many faces, each more wonderfully fascinating than the last.
In calmer moments we update our social media feeds, sharing information with friends and family. My parents are Republican Trump supporters. My father owns numerous handguns and rifles, and is friends with many cops. Earlier this week I spoke with them for more than three hours about police brutality, and about the specific cases of George Floyd, who was choked to death by Minneapolis police, and Breonna Taylor, who was shot eight times by Louisville Metro PD while sleeping in her own bed.
I also showed my parents videos of cops shooting at civilians on their own porch, running over crowds of unarmed protestors, punching and pointing guns at underage kids, firing at medics and other civilians here in Austin, shooting at an unarmed journalist and permanently blinding her, and documenting the White House’s reality-defying denial that any of this is taking place at all.
The White House has become notably detached from consensus reality over the past several weeks, crowing that their rally in Tulsa — on the date and site of a 1921 massacre of three hundred black citizens — will be mask-free. Social distancing will not be practiced at Coronapalooza, which makes me glad I demurred when offered a ride up to Tulsa last night. This Juneteenth, I’m staying home and staying safe.
As for tomorrow … that will be another story.
