So, following the collision and police report last Tuesday (the physical aftermath of which has been photo-documented in the previous post), Seager and I headed up to Bethesda to hit up the only Army surplus store we know of in the area. He wanted a pair of shorts he hadn't cut from pants, and I needed a pair of black Dickies to round out my "funeral" getup for the procession we'd organized to the Israeli Embassy. Mark had duct-taped a gauze wrap around my entire lower abdomen and back, to close off the glass wounds and keep me from bleeding into my clothes any further, as I was absolutely not going to let some ass-hat motorist keep me out of the game.
We parked the car he'd borrowed from his uncle near the convergence point for the procession, and changed into our dress clothes on the sidewalk (partly obscured by the car doors). Unifored Secret Service rolled by, but surprisingly didn't think anything of the barefoot white kid with no pants, opposite the UDC tennis courts. Seager opted to suit up in the rear of the vehicle, and managed to lock himself in. He waited no longer than my opening his door to fart audibly. I later pondered the potential guffaw I'd foregone by not promptly shutting him back in.
By the time we'd walked two blocks, Seager noticed I'd bled a solid red horizontal line into the lower part of my shirt. Apparently, the guaze and bandaging had reached capacity. When we grabbed our coffin, I had him let me take the front, to obscure the stain. I could overhear Lauren commenting to him that she was so proud I'd "finally become a woman."
The procession was incredible (I highly recommend viewing the video footage at the link above). Dizzyingly diverse turnout, beautiful imagery, vividly confrontational to all observers without being threatening, and virtually bulletproof from the usual racist characterizations lobbed at any gathering with a significant number of Arabs. Of all the action ideas I've ever pulled out of my ass in a 5-minute strategy meeting, this was by far the most seamless and powerful -- almost entirely due to legwork and outreach that I had exactly zero to do with. People really stepped up and made shit happen in a way I'm not sure I've experienced in prior organizing.
The media hade a field day with it, as well (international media especially). The Washington Post ran a particularly sympathetic piece, and the reliably borderline-fascist, looney Washington Times even ran something (somewhat less helpful). My friend Noura even wound up invited to duke it out on the O'Reilly Factor, accepted the invitation, and by at least one account handed O'Reilly his ass.
By the end, my shirt, slacks, and boxer briefs were saturated with blood, and I found my way to the ER, where I was told (were it not for the staff being absolutely slammed) I'd have been checked in as a "trauma." I'd walked in holding my wadded-up dress shirt against my lower back to stop the bleeding, and combined with my hunched-over hobble, I seemed to have given the the security guard the impression that I was experiencing some sort of sodomy-related injury. Inspired, I text-messaged Seager from my little ER room, saying: My undies look like a buggering gone wrong. To which he wrote back: Or very, very right.
And thus concluded yet another installment of the Seager-Stephens Ethically Questionable Humor Show, rounding out an otherwise less-than-comical day.
The next morning, I had my bike examined for damage. My front wheel was done for, the fork on my Kogswell was done for, and I wound up spending a good day or two scrambling to get a bike pieced together that I could use for the protest ride to the Israeli Embassy that I'd talked everyone into doing for Friday. Elliott (being his usual angel of a self) got me squared away just in time. The KHS frame was rebuilt, with a new substitute front wheel, and I joined the 20 or so folks who congregated in Dupont Circle at the tail end of rush hour.
In years past, I was fairly regular in Critical Mass rides, and quite enjoyed them. But in recent years, the rides had become less diverse, and more and more grew to resemble a circus sideshow of folks who -- were it not for them discovering the shallow refuge of a rather narrow "anarchism" -- would've likely gone straight to the carnie temp agency. The authentication of a given lifestyle aesthetic had taken the reins and displaced what of the activity could be translated into something broadly legible. It felt less like an opportunity to communicate something, and more a means of further marginalizing an already relatively marginal trend along with its perfectly reasonable demands/politics.
This ride, while not being a Critical Mass itself, was populated largely by really smart, sophisticated, and genuinely sweet folks. It's always one thing to feel some intellectual resonance with someone. It's another to collaboratively set bodies in motion and tangibly make something manifest; to create movement from that resonance; without jettisoning ethical and intellectual rigor in favor of a lifestyle clubhouse. For months, I've been conversing with a number of the folks who turned out, discussing political geography, behaviors that give space to difference, commitments that become our lives rather than dulling critical examination. Those conversations, while heartening, were still merely conversations. Pedaling up Connecticut Ave., I felt like we'd begun to put our bodies into making that critical space physical.
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