The Hue and Cry of Still We Rise

As Still We Rise: A Poor People's March for Justice and Equality rose up in Union Square, moved at an aching pace across 15th Street to Eighth Avenue, and made the northward turn to its destination at the gates of the RNC, I wondered about the exact nature of the battle to which we were marching.

The march was comprised of a varied group, one that might be called diverse if you are feeling optimistic. A brief roll call of regiments present would first confirm the stated goals of the event, which was sponsored by "a coalition of over 38 of the strongest community based organizations working in low-income communities on welfare, immigration, AIDS/healthcare, housing/homelessness and criminal justice issues throughout New York City. The march will raise the voices and issues affecting poor New Yorkers."

The earnest calls of those voices were loud indeed: the contingent from Housing Works rolled a wheelchair-bound bass drum at its head; Mothers on the Move were consistent in their chant of "We're fed up, can't take no more!" The children of FUREE, Families United for Racial and Economic Equality, held their banners high. But as I moved through the ranks, and alongside them, such unity of purpose proved elusive among the rear guard.

A tiny, pallid man in wire-rimmed glasses and a disheveled navy pinstripe suit posed patiently for a photographer who captured the cutting image made by his DIY complaint, a sheet of letter paper, crumpled as if it had been hastily torn from the office printer: "Impeach That Bitch Bush." However objectionable, it seemed to capture the prevailing mood more succinctly than the phalanx of college-aged activists and their vintage chants: "From the mountain to the streets, my people will be free."

I ran into a friend from back home among a group of Texans whose banner read "We Don't Want Him Either." Identified by my notepad as a member of the media, a teacher representing a literacy project was overeager to have me take down a soundbite. Near the very end, occupying a position which seemed directly correlative to the likelihood that their cause--no matter how noble--would ever be won, two white women held a sign that read "Every Mother is a Working Mother, International Living Wages for Housewives"

This, I thought, must be what they call solidarity: toward the middle, far from the chants of single mothers and HIV + homeless men, were the anarchist majorettes in pink tutus, flanked by a color guard and attended by a drum corps. The anarchists, marching in step to elaborately choreographed routines, had gotten the bellicose spectacle down: a second group deployed a brass band, whose chant of "Oh-oh George Bush has got to go," was accompanied by the hook from Beyonce's Crazy. It rippled through the crowd, producing cheers the way popular songs rendered by marching bands always do at halftime.

But once the march reached the rally stage at 30th Street and 8th Avenue, it seemed like the anarchists and punk rockers were ringers called in to swell the ranks. Few seemed to be around when the scheduled speakers took the stage. They didn't stay to chant in support of abolishing the Rockefeller drug laws, didn't stay to hear Chuck D growl, "Don't believe the hype," to hear from the former death row inmate, or the AIDS activist, or to shout for "housing not shelter," for immigrant rights, or tenants' rights.

Uniformed police officers paid close attention to these peaceful speeches from sniper positions on the rooftops situated at the four corners of the intersection. They pointed down at the crowd and I wondered how things looked from up there. At the front, just beyond the stage, the crowd was held in rapt attention. At the back, where Mexican food was being served up to a long line of socializing kids, it seemed like a concrete fairground, with people strolling by hawking T-shirts and posters. The only heat from police came when they interrupted a few fresh-faced, scruffy-dressed youths playing soccer. At least we got one good game in, I heard the boys chuckle.

Afterward, when I expressed some guilt to M. about my feelings on this revival of "protest culture" he offered the following comfort: In life, we have little control over the meaning of our actions and words. In a march, we have no control over the meaning of our actions and words. N., who happened to call from Cape Town, had seen reports about the events in NYC all over the international news and asked me rather plaintively: Haven't we found a more sophisticated way to protest?

Perhaps the answer was no. That there isn't, never has and never will be anything sophisticated about the need and desire to put your body in the street and yell for change. Still, I knew that, unable to divine the meaning or success of a poor people's march by the loudest chants, wittiest signs or number of warm bodies present, what mattered most was what we would or would not do, after marching home.

Sharifa Rhodes-Pitts

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