Trump at the UN (again)

  

 The arrival of the orange turd in NYC for the UN session could not be left unchallenged. I got up before dawn, rounded up my arrest essentials- ID, keys, phone, train fare- and made sure to put on lace free shoes.

    When I stopped at the arabic bodega to buy my tea, the owner - who I watched studying for his citizenship exam and eagerly told me when he first voted -  knew right away by the early hour that something was afoot. “Trump is at the UN,” I told him, saying nothing about protests. He broke into a broad smile. “You always do the right thing,” he said.

    I missed the R by a few seconds and, worried about being late, I made up the time by jumping from the R to the N to the D to the 4. Arriving on the 4 platform in downtown Brooklyn, I immediately spotted Ken S. “I know where you’re going,” I said to him. On the train we talked about animals, pets past and present, the temperamental nature of bunnies who will stomp their fluffy feet with a grouchy look on their adorable faces and then select a target to revenge pee on.

    

    As we approached the assembled group, I spotted Erik, who was still unhappy about not being able to get arrested with us because he had to teach. I called over Ben to share his activist professor tips and went to collect a sign, my favorite among many great messages, “Trump Lies All the Time”.

    At about 8:15am we headed out, like a crowd of mostly older adults on a class trip. “Protestors,” commented one commuter as we passed him, taking in the signs.  Our destination, 43rd and 2nd Ave, was surprisingly low on police so we easily surged into the street blocking everything but the bus lane. We stood chanting with our signs while various vehicles honked and beeped as though that would make us move.

    Then we sat down- I was actually kneeling since sitting on the ground is a challenge for my body. Beside me, Erik gracefully bent his long legs into a cross-legged position. Ryan, on my other side, was leading chants. Later, on the bus, we decided we should probably swap “Trump is a Pedophile” for “Trump is a rapist” considering the history of how the word pedophile has been used against our own community.

    The warnings began, and Erik regretfully unfurled himself and got out of range. The warnings continued for an unusually long time, both on the LRAD speaker and by officers approaching us individually. There was a distinct vibe that they didn’t really want to arrest us. While this was going on, dignitaries headed to the UN were being sent single file down the bus lane, a slow process that let them get a good look at the protest. 

    Eventually officers began hauling us to our feet.  Officer Camacho was in charge of me. He had a strong accent and kept ending his directives to me with, “my love” which was disconcerting. He was so new that another officer had to show him how to press down on his sharpie a few times to get the ink flowing. Another officer passing by gestured at the scene and said to him, “welcome to the SRG”.

    It quickly became apparent why they were hesitant to arrest- they did not have a police bus there to transport us. It seemed like they had expected us to do the action in the same location as the previous year and were having trouble adapting to our new location.  Finally they commandeered a city bus, one of the long ones joined in the middle, made all the passengers get off, escorted a homeless man off, and then walked us all down 2nd to 42nd to get on, creating quite a spectacle for onlookers.

    Lined up outside the bus, they removed our IDs and everything else from our pockets. The random stuff went in manila envelopes while they used our IDs to get our names. I had not been able to find my current ID, so I was using an old ID with a picture from more than 20 years ago but they did not complain.

    On the bus, I wound up beside Mary again -  we met at the last UN action, her first arrest, when they plunked her beside me on the cushy police employees’ bus they used that time.  They couldn’t take the joined bus on the FDR so they drove through the city streets, confusing people at bus stops all over the place.  As we approached the Mass Arrest Processing Facility, an officer got up and informed us that we would disembark with our arresting officers and then he said “thank you for….” And I thought he was going to say “your cooperation” but instead he said “for being the way you are” which caused a stunned silence followed by cheers.

    Unloaded at the facility, Mary and I were placed in a cell together again, this time the very last cell.  We sat there chatting- she is a retired teacher and so was my Dad, so we had a lot to discuss about the segregation and politics of the NYC public schools.   At a certain point, my eyes started to close, and she urged me to take a nap. "It’s the good thing about being short," she said, pointing out that we both could lie down on the cell bench, although she remained seated. I was sound asleep when I was awakened by the heavy slam of a cell door and a CO shouting names- they had started releasing people from the front cells. 

    Finally they got to us, and we shuffled out to cheers from the several men still in the big group cell. We were presented with two tickets each, which they have been doing lately, both for disorderly conduct but one for “failure to disperse” and one for “blocking vehicular traffic.” They might as well save themselves some trouble and just do one each because these don’t go anywhere. They don’t even always make it onto the court calendar and if they do, they get thrown out or ACD’d.   But the officer issuing them very seriously informed each of us of the charges, the court date, and for some reason , the number of each ticket as though we were going to remember it. Then they handed us our manila envelopes and IDs and we headed out into the afternoon sunlight to where our friends and supporters were waiting.