It’s September 1, 2008, day two of the Republican National Convention in Saint Paul, Minnesota. I am positioned on Kellogg Boulevard within the “soft perimeter” where no cars or bikes are allowed. I stand next to a heavily guarded pedestrian gate to the “hard perimeter” encircling the immediate conference site. Delegates, credentialed media and workers hustle in and out of the gate. I am listening with earphones to an mp3 player, dancing and smiling. I have been doing this solo dancing for 90 minutes. Soon I will join the rest of the "Don’t You Feel It Too?” dancers for another hour in Rice Park near one of the TV show stages.
My community is under siege. Warring forces have occupied Saint Paul. War-like language dominates conversation and reporting. Troops. Soldiers. Marching. Clashing. Tear gas. Helicopters. Blockades.
My community is a pass through for the commerce of politics. Millions raised and millions spent. The everyday occupants of public places and spaces called home are displaced while the convention takes over. Saint Paul and nearby Minneapolis politicians were promised lots of money would be spent in our local economy. They took the bait.
Security is big business too. When an operation like the RNC comes to town the locals loose the right to keep peace in their own way. Government and private funds flowed from somewhere. Forces were amassed and riot gear was stockpiled. A city block was surrounded with steel fences and security checkpoints. National Guard and city police officers were sent in from other states to help lockdown the convention site. Extra highway patrol cars cruise both Minneapolis and Saint Paul and are stationed at exits and entrances on the interstate highway, roadblocks at the ready to cut off and reroute traffic.
My community is awash with protestors of every ilk. Some have connections here and have been welcomed by brethren with local roots. Others act in their own interest only, believing their cause is holier. And others are just plain angry with everybody and everything.
My community is a media destination. From major networks to the tiniest stations here to cover their home state delegates, from self-appointed pundits to the satire juggernaut the Daily Show, they are here with cameras, crew, lights, microphones, logos and minivans. Some are interested in covering the convention itself, but others swarm to show interaction between police, protestors and delegates outside. They fan the flame of conflict. They broadcast snippets, snappy sound bites and print attention-getting headlines that give an inaccurate portrayal of my community. I take some of our Minnesota independent media makers and citizen journalists to task for feeding the hysteria also—for not being thoughtful, thorough and persuasive to rest of the country.
How did this happen? When we weren’t looking the business of electing a President grew so large it may be unstoppable. The personal was removed from national politics. People have abdicated responsibility for politics to a horde of corporate professionals. The possibility of democracy as a messy, vital, imperfect but redemptive tussle between people intimately connected through a mutual need to govern is a dim memory.
Protesting has become something many citizens are not willing to do. It takes money to get here, and an infrastructure to pull off a protest march—permits, legal expertise, transportation, lodging, computers, cameras and Internet access. It is risky to life, limb and a future career. It is the domain of the well financed, the almost fanatically dedicated, those with green cards and clean records, or those who think they have nothing to lose.
It’s about the commons again. We’ve lost more of what we once had together--a precious, tenuous legacy for peaceful self-governance tended and passed on from citizen to citizen over hundreds of years. The smell of money, hate and potential violence permeates. Fear follows and the very thin line between expression and oppression is crossed.
But what can I do? I am going to dance.
Don’t You Feel It Too? is a public art project by Marcus Young and his group called The Bird in the Sky Primary School of Behavioral Art. He calls it dancing where dancing doesn’t belong—a joyful protest against so much that is scripted or prescribed in our lives. He did not create the project specifically for the RNC convention but we are here as a collective force during The UnConvention determined to create disruption for joy.
Any one can take part. We practice to perfect the form but the premise is brilliantly simple. Each dancer has earphones and an mp3 player loaded with her or his favorite music. We start out individually and then come to a prearranged place to dance together. We don’t break any laws. We move if someone asks us to. We have no costumes or buttons or signs. We can fade in or out of the crowd because we are indistinguishable until we start dancing.
Our behavior is non-standard because it is joyful and unfettered. We smile. We dance our own kind of dance and make eye contact with viewers if they seem willing. We try not to interact verbally with people who want to know what we are doing except to say “don’t you feel it too?”
We practice balancing our interior and exterior environment—just enough into our tunes that we can find the confidence to look foolish, yet still aware and connected to the passers by.
By reading the energy and circumstances of a place we find a level of dancing that intrigues people but does not cause suspicion.
Many people can’t believe that we are not for or against anything. They can be quite insistent in their questioning: who is paying you? Who do you represent? What candidate or cause do you support? They really want to categorize us in the political spectrum. They press literature and buttons and hats on us. Some think we are advertising iPods. Some try to get us to pose for pictures with their McCain hats, Obama posters or pro- or anti-something signs. For a funny example of such an encounter go to KRMG Tulsa Oklahoma.
Minutes before our first full out “action” at the convention on September 1, there had been a confrontation of police and pedestrians—some protestors, some agitators and some people just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many were detained and eventually arrested. Our photographer was among this group of innocents. She never did get to join us that day. See her photos of the Shepard Road Arrests at Flickr.
As we walked into the conference zone tear gas was still clearing from the air. Police cars and troops in minivans were zooming up and down the usually quiet streets, sirens blaring and lights flashing in a show of force. Foot patrols in body armor with shields and clubs stood in formations on street corners and at the gates to the delegate-only areas.
Helicopters circled over and over.
I was frightened. Would I be arrested for dancing on a street corner? Would I be guilty by association with troublemakers?
Then I was angry at the excessiveness of power.
I soon became curious about the people on the street—delegates? Downtown workers? Transferring busses? Tourists? Just passing through? When I plugged in my earphones and started dancing I felt empathy. These people are scared too, I thought. They have been inconvenienced and bombarded with noise. They have just had a nasty taste of violence—on both sides—barely contained.
I set my intention. I can dance. I can smile. I can change this place by breaking out of the prescribed behavior. I can help people feel better, and be connected to me and to each right now.
I knew Marcus and the other dancers were out there somewhere. I switched to my second playlist and hiked over to one of the most heavily guarded gates for media and delegates. With Marvin Gaye’s sweet voice cranked up to drown out the sound of the sirens I danced my heart out for the return of humanity to this place and time. Nobody else could hear what I was listening to. They just watched and sometimes smiled or gave me nod or thumbs up. Joyfully, hopefully, peacefully I imagined a better day for democracy.
If you remember the end of the Vietnam War you probably know the song. Hum it and get up and dance.
Mercy, Mercy Me (the Ecology)
Mother, mother, there's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother, there's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today, hey
Father, father, we don't need to escalate
War is not the answer, for only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today
CHORUS #1:
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh what's going on, what's going on
Yeah, what's going on, ah, what's going on
Ahhh....
Mother, mother, everybody thinks we're wrong
Ah but who are they to judge us
Simply 'cos our hair is long
Ah you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
CHORUS #2:
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
What's going on, yeah what's going on
Tell me what's going on, I'll tell you what's going on
By Renaldo "Obie" Benson, Al Cleveland, and Marvin Gaye from the 1971 Album What’s Going On
Some stories from the dancers...
A man came up to me after the dancing on Monday and very gently asked about what we were doing, who we were with, etc... to which I only replied 'Don't you feel it too?' and told him there was a small group of us. He then said, "Well...I don't care about the details. I think its just wonderful.
I have rarely felt so elated or free of inhibition in a public place. My involvement in your piece has allowed me to exercise my public-muscles to transmit joy and that is great gift. I was dancing to a piece of music that changed rhythm a lot and I made a movement a bit like a robot (by accident), the people sitting around the pond laughed and giggled. It made me feel good and made them feel good, so mission accomplished!
A man selling DVDs about how the Muslim world is out to destroy the West tried to put his DVDs at my feet and take pictures of me dancing joyfully with them. Not wanting to serve as an "endorsement" of his product, I just kept dancing out of frame, and he kept moving the DVDs in front of me. After a while, I decided to dance toward him as an invitation to dance with me. I must have gotten too close because he kicked me in the shin. After an initial shock, I was determined to keep dancing and smiling and kept dancing toward him. He kicked me three more times, and even though part of me wanted to kick him in the face, I resisted, and eventually he was too embarrassed or something to stick around. What a test!
Photos by Avye Alexandres, Creative Commons license BY/NC/SA from Flickr.
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