Washington D.C. – With the tightest security in the history of presidential inaugurations and 100 square blocks of the nation's capital under total lockdown, Republicans rejoiced at the reinstallation of George W. Bush last Thursday with a $45 million blowout set to the theme of "Celebrating Freedom." Never mind that the miles of 10-foot-high metal barricades, the legions of heavily armed riot cops and the 7,000 troops deployed to downtown D.C. made the ceremony feel more like a military occupation than a freedom celebration. The Orwellian irony of the big-money bash wasn't lost on the thousands of irate protesters who traveled to the nation's capitol from all over the country and braved sub-freezing temperatures last week to voice their opposition to another four years of Bush-Cheney. Gone was the festive optimism that characterized last summer's Republican Convention protests in New York. Activists came to town in a solemn and determined mood and they were really, really pissed off.
"Mandate my ASS!" yelled Mimi Johnson, a 76-year-old wheelchair-bound great-grandmother who rode a bus through the snow all the way from Detroit to join in the counter-inaugural Code Pink rally at Dupont Circle. "Bush is nothing but a heartless, spoiled brat. You can dip him in gold, inaugurate him and stick him on Air Force One but he's still not a president to me!" That level of indignation was ubiquitous on inauguration morning. On a march from Malcolm X Park, sponsored by D.C. Anti-War Network, demonstrators weren't mincing words. With clenched fists and chattering teeth, they held up signs that read: "Bush: Mother Fucker!," "Bush, You Son of a Bitch," and "Hey W Suck My Mandate!" Maybe not so eloquent, but definitely to the point. By 12:30 p.m., as Bush was wrapping up his inaugural address (he should never, ever be allowed to use the word "freedom" again), tens of thousands of protesters were simultaneously converging on the military-style checkpoints set up along the Pennsylvania Avenue parade route. Cowboy hat-sporting dignitaries and their mink-coated wives rushed to beat the incoming swarms of protesters.
Radical clowns with bullhorns tried to ease the growing tension in the throng with public service announcements: "Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare yourself for a full body rectal exam. Bend over, drop your drawers, and assume that position for the next four years." The humor helped, but the animosity between the pro- and anti-Bush contingents was bound to come to a head after the police and Secret Service abruptly halted all traffic through the checkpoint at 14th Street and Penn. Shoulder to shoulder in the cold, under the constant thumping of helicopter blades, the tempers of the rival parties flared. "You call this freedom? This is a police state!" screamed Rebecca Katz, a college student from Boulder, Colo., from behind a barricade. "Four more years of it, too," a Bush supporter quipped. "Four moron years," someone responded.
The heated exchanges in the checkpoint lines eventually led to furious chanting, and a pigheaded mob mentality began to take over among both the neocon set and their sign-waving counterparts, as they were forced to endure each other for hours in a bottleneck that stretched for blocks to the north. "Let-us-in! Let-us-in!" the crowd chanted, their volume growing in intensity as they pounded on the barricades in rhythmic fury. An army of riot police, tear gas guns in hand, marched into position, preparing for the inevitable confrontation.
And then it came, almost in slow motion: Perfectly formed and skillfully arced, a snowball sailed across the fence and scored a direct hit on the crotch of one of the storm troopers. The crowd cheered. Then another and another and eventually a volley of snowballs were pelting the futuristic gladiators, who just stood there for a few minutes looking really annoyed behind their fogged-up riot helmets.
Then the order was given and a blanket of gas covered the crowd. The protesters backed off for a moment, washing chemical off their faces and regrouping. Then a fence panel fell off its hinges 30 yards away and the police rushed over to repair it before anyone squeezed through. As they repositioned the panel, another was knocked off 20 yards down, and then another. Each time, the gas got thicker and thicker. Undaunted, the snowballs kept coming. Before long it was a full-fledged battle between the snowballers (many who had the foresight to grab a gasmask before leaving home) and the tear gassers. Passing Republicans hurrying to their reserved bleachers on the parade side couldn't resist the opportunity to lob a frozen orb or two over the fence.
Suddenly everyone was 10 years old. Snowballs were flying everywhere, and by the time the presidential motorcade finally sped by, everyone was having too much fun dodging snowballs to really notice. From photos in the papers the next day, you might have thought Bush was walking all the way down Pennsylvania Avenue giving the thumbs-up sign. But in truth he remained cut off from public contact; he and Mrs. B. walked only a hundred feet or so, past a heavily cordoned-off area full of their supporters that was several blocks away from the designated "free speech" zone (read: snowball zone). Too bad – maybe, if he'd gotten any closer, he could have joined in the snowball melee.
But if this truly were a free country, our president wouldn't have to fake walking among the people, he wouldn't have to lock down an entire city so he could throw a party, and you wouldn't have to have a ticket to get into what is ostensibly a public event. In the meantime, snowballs will have to do.
This article appears in Jan 26 – Feb 1, 2005.