Protesting Santa Fe Style

SANTA FE—When the word “anti-war” protest came to mind, I immediately thought of the Civil Rights movements in the 1960’s. I envisioned fire hoses, SWAT teams, bean bag shotguns, police dogs, and a demanding crowd defying authorities to have their voices heard.

Flash forward to the year 2003, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Location, the Capitol Building. This was my first assignment for the IAIA Chronicle. I had never been to an anti-war protest before. The images of police clashing with protesters kept replaying in my head. I wanted to capture it all.

With this in mind, I brought with me to the Capitol Building a $20 camera, three rolls of film, note pad with pen, and my ID. Clouds ran high above picket signs that proclaimed, “America’s destiny is not power. It is light—Thomas Jefferson.” Cool temperatures chilled a protester holding up, “We wouldn’t even be marching if the people in Florida could count.” A light breeze blew past a female protester holding this sign: “War is for men with small penises.”

Nearby streets were closed off. The crowd overflowed from the Capitol into the streets. Drivers passing by on Paseo de Peralta couldn’t help but notice the 15-foot puppets, stilt walkers, musicians, and George “Dubbya” Bush costumes, posters, and effigies.

I inched through the crowd toward the doors of the Capitol Building. Nine police officers stood guard inside, looking for something to do. Then a familiar scent grabbed my nose. It was as distinctive as walking through the Gallup Flea Market and smelling frybread and roasted corn.I backtracked three steps. Sage was being passed among a small group of New Age fundamentalists.

At that moment, I realized exactly where I was. I stopped and looked around. New Age Believers to the right of me, the Canyon Road Fat Cats to the left, over-caffeinated high school students in back, and the hardcore protesters in front—this event had brought people of all walks of life together.

Two tiny speakers carried political messages to a crowd roaring in response to rallies against illegal search and seizure, illegal Internet and phone taps, and the increased power of law enforcement at all levels.

But 150 feet away was a different scene. Flutes, drums, and guitars drowned the speeches. Many people danced and even more watched a jamming drum troupe. Even a man dressed up as good ol’ George Dubbya got up and got his groove on. Protesters in this section didn’t bother much with signs. They donned costumes, gas masks, and even makeshift biological rubber suits to make their statements on the U.S. position against Iraq.

The planned march to the downtown Santa Fe Plaza from the Capitol Building began. With all the people marching, it looked like a calm river flowing through the streets. A group of high school students tried to start a chant, but protesters chatted with their neighbors.

I walked along with the protesters, still hoping to glimpse hardcore, anti-war protesting. All I saw were strange looks from the occasional tourists who didn’t expect a parade.

Over 5,000 people crowded the plaza that day. I managed to obtain a great observation point right in the middle of the action, in the center of the plaza, atop a monument marker. A vortex of people swirled around the jamming drum troupe at the center of the Plaza. At fifteen feet away, I could see the pulse created by the drummers as the crowd seemed to hop to every beat. On the streets of the plaza, protesters kept making rounds with their signs held high.

There was no apparent organization to the rest of the protest. Police directed the protesters back to the Capitol Building around 2 p.m. I kept hearing a rumor about a permit that allowed the protesters to stay on the plaza until 3 p.m. Most of the protesters moved on, but a few stayed. With this information and the handful of protesters left, I found myself hanging around to see what would happen.

A fire truck rolled in around 2:15 and parked near the plaza. I thought, “This is it!”—The Big Thing I was looking for, a confrontation between authorities and protesters. But that truck just sat there. The protesters remained calm. Obviously, there was going to be no major incidents between the authorities and protesters.

The Plaza emptied little by little. I watched a group of protesters playing hack sack and a couple of obscure-conspiracy theorists as they talked to people. Soon the only signs of a protest were the signs themselves, strewn in trees, intertwined in chain link fences, and kicked around on the street.
I thought, “So, this is protesting,” and caught a ride back home.

Copyright © 2003 IAIA Chronicle