Black Lives Matter in Portland

Dad grew up in Detroit, Michigan. He was born just a few years after the riots and fires of the late '60s that devestated that city. Dad's mother was a cardiac care nurse at a downtown hospital there. Dad and I think Black Lives Matter so we wanted to head to Portland to be with the protesters and to better understand the movement. It was all very different that we expected. Below is something that Dad wrote during the trip.

July 21, 2020

Made it to Portland to show my support for the protesters and see first hand what is going on. The streets are empty. There is no sign of either protesters or police. No military. It's a beautiful day, but there is an eerie sense about the place. By the river families picnic and stroll in masks. The streets are clean and open, but free of traffic and the downtown shops are closed and boarded. There is a tent encampment by the bridge. Young people in their 20s and 30s sit on the ground laughing and talking in the sun. Their faces are uncovered save for a little scruf.  We pass a bar called Outrage. It is empty. Crossing the Columbia River, Mt.Hood rises in the distance amidst blue skies. There is no sound but the whisper of the wind. - Dad

July 22, 2020

The sun has set in Portland. Six hours earlier the city was quiet.

Then all we saw were boarded streets lined with messages of Black Lives Matter and graffiti scrawled on the wood of boarded windows on otherwise ordinary streets. The messages repeat every block or two. "Everything has changed" screams a warning in red spray paint.  The 'A' has been replaced with an Anarchist symbol. We see the mark again and again with the regularity of Starbucks.

Closer to the city center stands a young woman in a trench-coat, Ray Bans, and knee-high rubber boots meant for an eastern storm.  Her eyes dart back and forth nervously. On the ground next to her, three young men with bushy blond hair are penning messages on stacks of white poster board.

We can not see what they say.

A few blocks further we come to the Federal Court House and see a parked police cruiser. There is no one inside. It is the second of the night. Around the building 200 people stand in quiet protest. They honor the six foot social distancing guidelines and stand in single file as if waiting for something. They are older than we expect, 30s to 60s, and wear bright clothes.The line ends where it began. On the steps and stone of the courthouse there are more messages in dark paint. Black Lives Matter. Black Lives Matter. Black Lives Matter. The only Black person we see near the line is selling masks and hand sanitizer.

In the park opposite the Court House, the scene is more festive. Another 200 or so young people, mostly dressed in black, sit around a smoking BBQ pit. The scent of cooking mingles with other familiar festival smells and sounds. Time for dinner...and maybe a change of clothes. My baby-blue Polo Shirt and Kelly's sundress don't seem quite right for the moment.

At 10:00 pm we resolve to head back to the park. According to our waiter, this is the time things start to happen. "Don't go to much after that," he warns. At midnight the police come through like clock work and clear the grounds.  It is almost 11:00 pm when we arrive and we aren't disappointed.

Parking is easy, so we leave our SUV straddling two spaces. Next to us, a woman pulls in with the same idea. Her gray hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail and three DSLR cameras are draped across her shoulders. "You aren't going to pay are you," she asks pointing to the automated parking machine at the far side of the lot. "I am," I say, but the machine is broken and a notice covers the screen.

We start walking to the protest.

It's only about four blocks from our car to Pioneer Square. Every hundred feet or so we pass a small group of people. There is a food truck selling snacks, some homeless. and repeating clusters of men and women in black garb and masks of varying ages and race. Eighty to ninety percent of those we pass under 30 and white.

Pioneer Square looks, smells, and sounds like a festival. At the front of the square, SW Broadway Street has been converted into a kind of stage with the flat brick wall of the Department Store behind it serving as a projection screen. A spotlight moves with the music and lasers dance. Around the stage, it's packed. We guess 1-2000 people are gathered, maybe more. People hold signs. Black Lives Matter. Dump Trump. No Feds. etc.  One woman holds a sign that says, "Teach the Truth."

Center Stage and Stage Left have the greatest concentration of people. They are getting ready for something. Just beyond them  a small number of police in blue and cammo have begun to gather as well. There are no Federal Agents or vehicles anywhere that we can see. At the other side of the park, the crowd thins out considerably. A small line forms at the snack area and chalk on the pavement points the way to even more refreshments a block away. Here small groups stand, or sit, or mill about. The music and sound system are excellent, so I catch myself swaying to the beat.

The protest is well organized. Young women in reflective vests play the role of usher and provide directives or help, now and then, to a wobbly protester.  The side streets have all been blocked by large pickup trucks in which sit women 30-40 yrs old on radios slumped down so as to make the vehicle seem empty. They remind me of my RA at Stanford.  Across 5th street, next to the court house, the organizers have provided an ambulance and recovery area.

We make our way to Stage Right, farthest from the action, where we see a camera crew. The area is lit with studio lights and at the center are about a dozen women with linked arms. Their backs are to the department store and they are facing the small video crew and set of photographers. We approach from behind the the camera crew and meet the steadfast gaze of the linked women. For about 10 minutes or so while pictures are taken the freeze and project nothing but looks of solidarity and grim determination toward he empty rear of the park.  We keep turning around expecting to see Police, but there are none in sight anywhere.

Today captions on those photos read "Moms Link Arms to Protect the Protesters."

We walk up toward the Courthouse again to see more people arriving.Three young men in matching black outfits have their backpacks out and are checking equipment in the fashion of soldiers. They wear helmets, have goggles and what looks to be padding under their jackets. They are serious, moving quickly, but in no rush.  White, late 20s, skinny and about 5'7"-5'9". Next to them we can hear a woman encouraging a protester in a yellow shirt and glasses to join them for what is next. "Oh, no. I really can't," she says. "If I get arrested I could lose my income."

There is loud noise, like a gun shot, but it is just a firecracker or noise maker. No one even flinches. The new arrivals buckle their helmets and head off to the front of the protest.  It's now almost midnight and our waiter's advice has turned out to be true. "Show starts at 10 pm. Cops clear everyone out shortly after midnight." In the distance off Stage Left up Broadway you can hear the muffled megaphones of the Portland Police starting their march.  Some wear Blue/Black uniforms and some wear cammo. They march together with large patches that say Police velcroed to their chests.

The music continues to play and there is surprisingly little tension in the air as the various players hit their marks for the 50th night in Portland. Chants of "Hey Ho. Hey Ho. President Trump has got to go" erupt briefly then die down.  The Moms linked arm and arm remain at the rear of the crowd with the TV cameras. The serious men in helmets and jackets break free of through to the front in an attempt to provoke a reaction from Portland Police dressed in Army fatigues. Everyone else seems a little bored.

We are a little bored too, so we decide to walk back to our hotel.  The walk is surprisingly quiet. The hum of the crowd fades away completely in a block or two. There is not a single fire, or broken window, or police car between the square and our hotel. We fall asleep expecting to hear some signs of trouble in the city, but there none.

The next day we wake up to the sounds of large street cleaning machines lumbering down the empty boarded city blocks. There is a ticket on our car despite the broken meter and the lot is full of city contractors. - Dad