May Day
Written on Wednesday, May 3rd, 2006I had Monday morning off, so I drove Susie to her job in Central San Rafael. About six blocks away from her office, I noticed small groups of Latinos walking in the opposite direction.
They were waving American flags, signs, the whole array of rally paraphernalia. Four people in one group, six in another, a pair in a third… no sense of organization, other than the fact they were walking west as I drove east. Unaware of any planned demonstrations in San Rafael, I equated this display to my past experiences of San Rafaelian demonstrations.
Twice now, I have witnessed demonstrations for peace on the streets of Central San Rafael. In a politically monotonous region in which everyone hates Bush et al. with unrepentant reverence, these demonstrations have been exclusively held by a miniscule group of elderly former radicals, confined to the sidewalks while the BMW/Prius-driving, latte-sipping Marinites drive by. They politely honk their horn in solidarity or something, using a rhythm that denotes support. Like “Hooray for you, standing out there in the rain, advocating for the cause I hold so dearly to my heart, but can’t fight for, because I am too busy paying my Marin-sized mortgage.”
It wasn’t rainy this day. It was 75º and sunny, in fact. I dropped off Susie at her office. Then, I had a very specific goal in mind. Go home, do laundry, straighten the house a bit. That was my plan for the day. Eager for something to punctuate that, I decided that it was time for a donut.
The donut shop was a block away, and as I started to walk, I thought to myself how glad I was that this particular business was owned by Asian immigrants, not Latino immigrants (especially as I walked past the Latino-owned businesses in this section of town and saw that they were proudly advertising the fact that they would not be open this day).
I picked up a donut, dropped a tip in the bucket, and started to stroll towards the sirens I began to hear. For now, in addition to the hodgepodge of sign-displaying, flag-waving groups that were populating the streets, I heard sirens and saw the San Rafael police, parking enforcers and Marin County sheriffs begin to head westward as well.
Heading north on Lincoln, I turned west onto Fourth Street. And there, right before me, in the center of Fourth Street, was the beginning of the parade.
Hundreds of marchers, with their signs and their flags aloft, were standing behind the biggest sign of them all. And they were walking towards me. The sheriff, by now, had Fourth Street closed at Lincoln. I headed in.
As I got closer, the density of people on the sidewalk increased… mostly Latinos, but many non-Latinos as well, sticking their heads out of their storefronts, or pausing their early-morning shopping trip to observe the goings-on. The sidewalk dwellers were mostly inquisitive observers, with the occasion teenage marcher zipping in and out on a bicycle or scooter.
On the street, the vector was ever-eastward, slowly marching in a massive crowd of humanity. American flags abounded, but the signs demonstrated the diversity. Many were in Spanish, but many were in English or were bilingual. Some implored common human decency—we are humans, not illegals. Some demanded equality—we pay taxes. Some were patriotic to their core—we love USA. A few English-language signs were misspelled, but their sincerity was unquestionable.
Children joined the march in strollers, tricycles, bikes, on foot and on shoulders. I briskly walked to the west while the crowd slowly moved to the east. I listened. The shouts and cheers were bilingual too. Mostly they were in Spanish (and regretfully I did not know what they were saying). Occasionally, they switched to English-language mainstays like “Hell no, we won’t go!”
I walked four blocks to the corner of A Street and Fourth. There, the marchers had been coming from around the corner. I stood at the corner for a while, watching the stream come down the gentle hill, with the historic Mission San Rafael Arcangel in the background. The mood was celebratory, no anger or frustration, with a healthy dose of seriousness. This was real life we were talking about, after all—families and friends, livelihoods and legitimacy. But it was also a beautiful day, and a day markedly different from tomorrow and yesterday.
Soon, the end of the line came. So, I turned around and briskly walked back towards the front.
I returned to the corner of Fourth and Lincoln. And now the march was heading north on Lincoln. I figured that they must be going in a square around Central San Rafael. But eager to ascertain their exact plans, I briskly walked on. Since I like to watch things from the periphery, I decided to walk another block, away from the marchers, and catch them further up.
I turned the corner and ended up on Tamalpais Avenue, which was strangely quiet after hearing the chants, cheers, and sounds of Fourth. I caught up with the snaking line of marchers at the corner of Fifth and Lincoln. They continued past me. Their numbers seemed to be multiplying, and by now they were flooding the sidewalks. Cars on Fifth lined up, waiting to cross, along with patient pedestrians who, like me, were watching with curiosity and apparent support. After watching the crowd roll past me, the end came again. Now, the caboose of the crowd was a woman in an SUV with a party karaoke machine on her lap and a disabled placard in front window, her driver marching along with the blinkers on. She joined the crowd in its passionate chant, “Si, Se Puede!”
With the cross traffic gone, I headed for the western sidewalk of Lincoln, and followed the marchers to the north, still curious about where everyone was going.
Since I could walk much faster than the march itself, I quickly caught up. Now, the marchers were in the northbound lanes of Lincoln Avenue, safely on their side of the double yellow line. Meanwhile, unsuspecting traffic was heading southbound, inching slower than even the marchers as the police let them through. In addition to watching the marchers, I began to observe the observers. The unintentional observers were the most prominent, for they were merely driving along Lincoln as they ordinarily would, when suddenly the traffic heading in the opposite direction changed from cars to people.
Within a block of entering this situation, the marchers’ dominance was challenged only by the increasingly blaring sound of automobile horns. Every second car was honking in support, and not a single face revealed a sense of frustration at this spontaneous traffic jam. The traffic inched southward, the marchers marched northward, and I continued on the shady, tree-lined sidewalk.
Soon, the automotive traffic subsided as the police roadblock went into affect. The crowd showed incredible control, staying exclusively on their side of the double yellow line, leaving the southbound lanes open for police navigation. The police were clearly playing leapfrog with each other—a fact easily confirmable because I kept seeing the same officers’ faces. There were police on bicycle, police in those funny little parking enforcement vehicles, and of course police in cars, marked and unmarked, city and county.
But their presence was not stifling. They were out to support the marchers; they were good spirited, clearly enjoying the beautify May morning, absorbing the sun and the chanting; amiably working with the voluntarios (as their shirts labeled them) with the megaphones to keep the marchers marching ever-northward.
I was walking much too quickly, and soon, I caught up with the front of the march. So, I stopped and rested in front of someone’s house. A stray marcher on my side of the sidewalk suddenly warned me to watch out. I turned, as I was nearly hit by a flying officer on a bicycle.
Soon, an elderly woman started talking to me.
“Do you think all these Hispanics are from San Rafael?” She seemed shocked by the pure volume of people, people of all ages, all persuasions, all inundating her street.
“I think so,” I tell her. It’s an impressive crowd, but San Rafael is a relatively big, relatively diverse place, and if you’d just look, you’d see “these Hispanics” nearly everywhere. Yeah, it’s a lot of people… but it could easily be more.
The elderly woman had more to say. “I hear that they are heading for the Marin Civic Center”—the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed landmark that is the seat of county government— “for a rally.” This worked well with what I had heard earlier… a police radio reporting the marchers’ intention to make a right turn on North San Pedro, about a mile and a half away.
Around this time, the friendly man who prevented me from getting run over by a police bicycle got off his cell phone. He waved to his friends or his family, now in front of us, already marching. He left me and the elderly woman on the sidewalk, and joined the march.
The march is clearly much bigger now than it was when it was simply six or so blocks long in Central San Rafael.
After catching my breath, I continued up the hill, expecting to catch up with the head of the march once more.
But I don’t.
At the very peak of Puerto Suello Hill, the sidewalks are gone, and Lincoln Avenue has transformed from a fairly urban street into a two-lane road with gravel at the sides. Now, the street is to change names (to the pleasantly-rural-sounding Los Ranchitos) and switchback several times as it enters the valley below. I have driven this route before. But more commonly, I take in this view from Highway 101 at 65 miles an hour because Highway 101 also peaks at this point, slightly below Lincoln Ave., where both roads make their way up and down the impossibly steep northern face of the hill.
That’s when I noticed that the crowd is being ushered off the road and onto an asphalt trail that parallels 101 as it descends the hill towards the distant spire that is the Civic Center. To get a wider view, I joined the dozen or so people armed with cameras—some official-looking, others clearly amateurs—by climbing a steep hill on the opposite side of the road.
The crowd was bottlenecking as it went off the road and onto the trail. Taking advantage of their perch above Highway 101, they began to wave their signs and flags, attracting the attention of the now-slower-moving traffic driving towards San Francisco.
Before long, the semi-trucks joined in the chorus, honking their deep, bassy horns as they traveled by. Beyond the southbound lanes were the northbound lanes, now slowed by the presence of a California Highway Patrol car blocking the exit to North San Pedro. Clearly the marchers had made it below us.
After a while, it became clear that this trail was slowing things down, and I began losing interest. But instead of turning around and heading back to my car in Central San Rafael (which would lead to a certain fate of laundry and housecleaning), I decided to bypass the shortcut, and venture down the hill. I slipped past the police guiding everyone onto the trail, and rejoined general traffic as I descended into the valley.
Sure enough, I caught up with the center of the march once more at the corner of North San Pedro and Merrydale. Apparently, the trail joined Merrydale further uphill, and the march made its way through a small residential neighborhood beside the freeway. The marchers turned right to cross under the freeway and approach the Civic Center.
Here, general traffic and the marchers began to mix once more, as ordinary drivers, out on their Monday morning runs, encountered unexpected roadblocks and delays. I listened in as a woman, clearly not from the area, asked the police officer how to get where she was going.
“You can turn left here, get onto the freeway, exit Central San Rafael, take Second Street, and cut through China Camp State Park,” he offered.
She paused, and then replied, “I guess I’ll just wait here.”
I waited too, getting to observe frustrations finally fly as a frazzled woman turned on her blinker and prepared to turn left onto Merrydale. The officer stopped her.
“But how am I supposed to get home?” she wailed, ignoring the clear fact that her street was filled, curb to curb, with marchers merrily on their way.
The police officer shrugged and the woman responded, with clear definition, “Well, Fuck,” as she drove off in another direction, just short of squealing her tires. The on-lookers around me, including the patient out-of-towner who wanted to go straight, chuckled.
Finally, the woman from earlier, with the SUV and the placard and the karaoke machine (by now her chants had diminished) rejoined the end of the march, which finally wound down the trail and back onto city streets. It was time to move on.
I too crossed under the freeway, and approached the Civic Center. Like a massive vehicle itself, the line weaved its way under the freeway and into the left turn lane, turning onto Civic Center Drive.
By now, it was clear that many people who didn’t participate in the march itself were also here. The crowd was no longer much of a snake. It now consumed the massive park that lay at the foot of the Civic Center complex. They marched on Civic Center Drive, on the northbound lanes, and I continued to maintain my distance, walking along the opposite sidewalk, safely beyond the vast green median. Of course, I was not alone; I was joined by stray marchers and dozens of lawyers, judges, plaintiffs, and others, overdressed for the occasion in their suits and dresses, spilling out of the Civic Center Courthouse to see what was going on. I felt out of place on that side of the street, for I was in a crappy t-shirt that I had meant to take off within an hour of putting it on.
Suddenly, however, I realized that I might be on the wrong side of the street in yet another way. I saw a counter-protester. Fearful that my intentions might be misconstrued by the marchers observing me, the observer, I prepared to cross the street.
My worries were assuaged, however, when I heard a guy on my side in an official white May 1st T-Shirt point to the sky in amusement.
“Hey look,” he declared to his pal at his side. “A rich white guy!”
Assuming, based on my unshaven, poorly-clothed appearance, that he was not referring to me, I looked up in the sky.
Sure enough, rich white guy. Presumably. In a single prop plane with a banner reading “Wake Up, America! Close the Borders,” unfurled. It was circling the Civic Center.
The plane, with its comically-ineffective message, looked pitifully small in the sky above this massive park with a sea of people.
I finally made it to the rally, which was where everyone was headed. The rally was in Spanish, so I didn’t stay for long. The political sorts stood at the front, shouting, chanting, cheering, singing. They gathered around the leaders of the march and rally, as their voices echoed around the lagoon. But beyond the massive core stood families, couples, picnics, games on the playground, and a general sense of relaxation and enjoyment. It was, after all, a beautiful spring day in May. The sun shined, the children played, and it was a true holiday. A day of rest. A day in which no one went to work, and everyone spent time with their friends and families.
After circling the lagoon, I decided it was time to walk back to my car.
When I got home, I discovered that sure enough, this was all planned; at first I thought it was spontaneous.
The march and rally were organized by the Canal Alliance, which supports the residents of the Canal neighborhood of San Rafael. The Canal is a predominantly Latino neighborhood and is (unfairly) considered to be an undesirable part of Marin County.
That said, Susie and I are priced out of that neighborhood, which is gentrifying more and more every day.
I attended unarmed (who knew I’d be witnessing a march?), so I returned home with no video and no photos.
So I figured that I had better write it all down.
