G20

I came back to Toronto to see the G20 with my own eyes. As I have been spending - (what I cannot bring myself to call the better part) - the larger part of my year in Oakville; I missed Friday and Saturday’s events. I had seen the inflated police presence that signaled the buildup to the G20 only briefly, but it was enough to make me uncomfortable and I felt the need to make myself heard.

I came down on the train without incident and met up with Karl, Nik, and Laurence at my parents home for breakfast. I was filled in on the past days adventures in freedom of speech, assembly, and what have you - most notably a moment where Laurence had been separated by a wall of riot cops, when the ranks of peaceful protesters had been infused with the Black Bloc. On the other side of the wall Nik and Karl found a representative of ‘Legal’ who offered her organization’s phone number in case Laurence was unable to get out. Nik showed me the phone number she had scrawled on his arm and I copied it onto my own.

It’s silly, and looking at the stories emerging from the detention center kind of naive, but that number on my arm did make me feel safer.

We arrived at St. George station around mid-morning and walked south through to Queen’s Park. The north section of the park was barren, save for four or five anti Israel demonstrators, but the south section was absolutely buzzing - with police.

As we stepped into occupied territory we were immediately ordered to keep our distance from the center of the park. A young pair were being arrested and we had been walking straight towards them with our cameras. Honestly all I had seen at this point were police. We adjusted our path, turning away from the park and were once again given an order. A separate group of officers had sprung out from behind the first. They called for us to turn back and come to them.

They asked us the basic questions, “where are you from, what are you doing here?” etc. As we were answering we were cut off by newly approaching officers who felt they had more pressing questions. “Where are you from? Why are you here?”

They rolled up Laurence’s sleeves, and distanced him slightly from Karl, Nik and I while they searched his camera bag. Laurence, proving himself more dystopianly streetwise than us had refrained from writing the ‘Legal’ number on his arms.

There were now three cops for each one of us. I surprised myself with how nervous I had become. My legs were shaking, my voice cracked. While they ran our IDs they questioned us about the ‘Legal’ numbers. They spoke over each other and encouraged us to do the same. Whether this was a deliberate tactic of confusion or simply a lack of leadership I don’t know.

Nik retold his conversation with ‘Legal’ from the day before. “Ah HA!” they cried! “But this guy has fresh ink on his arm,” gesturing at me, “that’s from today! How do you explain that?”

I had come down from Oakville, I told them. I was worried about coming downtown so I brought the number, just in case.

“In case of what? In case of what?” Didn’t I know that the violent hoodlums arrested the night before for singing John Lennon songs had had this same number on their arms? Didn’t I know that the black bloc had had the same number on their arms? Didn’t I know that those two being arrested in the center of the park were being arrested for having this same number on their arms? What did I need to be protected from? Nik once again explained that the number was from a free legal aid agency who had been helping protestors. It was no wonder that everyone had it.

“We know what the number is for” barked one of the cops. “If we arrest you we’ll give you the number” (a lie that wouldn’t be exposed until later¹)

Laurence responded by being overly compliant and cheerful as the cop running his ID questioned him.

“Brown eyes?”

“Oh no, baby blue. Anything else I can help you with officer?”

“Look, your friends are THIS close to arrest. You want to be the smart-ass that sends them over the edge?”

We were nearly under arrest? How were we nearly under arrest?! I had assumed this was one of the routine “papers and purpose” stops that everyone had been grumbling about the week leading up to the G20, and THAT had been enough to turn my defiance of authority on its ass! Now we were nearly under arrest?! Sheepishly I managed to ask what we had done.

“We’ll tell you if we decide to arrest you”

A few of the cops brought back up my fresh arm ink. They were bating me with their questions. Trying to get me to say something defiant. Something that rang of contempt for authority.

“You’re planning to cause trouble. You’re planing to be arrested. Why else would you need that number? Who are you afraid of? What do you think is going to happen?”

I held my tongue. The implication was heavy that the couple now being lead into a police cruiser had fallen for this line of questioning and revealed their distrust of the police. If Laurence’s joking demeanor had almost justified our arrest then surely any defiance would tip the scales. I felt powerless. Here I was, standing in the designated “Free Speech Zone” surrounded by militarized authority figures, being baited into speaking my mind so that I could be claimed to be an anarchist and locked away. We didn’t want to give them anything. We offered to wash the numbers from our arms if they were such a concern. Perfectly in theme, one officer told us they couldn’t help us with that as another pulled hand sanitizer from her pocket.

We asked again clarification on what rights we had while downtown. Laurence had been given clearly defined boundaries of ‘Red’ and ‘Yellow’ zones while speaking with an officer on Friday. Those areas had obviously expanded today.

“Things have changed”, confirmed an officer.

“But you can’t tell us any more than that.”

“That’s all we can say” he half chuckled.

But how could we avoid crossing the line if we didn’t know what it was? We could go where we pleased, they told us. But we had already been stopped and warned that we were a threat, so if they found us in proximity of anything they decided was an unlawful assembly they would have us arrested. This intimidation was enough for Karl and Nik, especially after the walls of riot cops they had seen the day before. These scare tactics and dissolution of rights throughout the core of the city was why we were here though, so Laurence and I pressed further south.

We made it a half block from the park before we were stopped and searched again. This time we dealt with a single officer. He expressed his discomfort with the position he was being forced into while he searched us. He had been re-deployed here from the detention center due to his uneasiness with the weekends tactics. He was now tasked with watching over a group of around a dozen protestors. We asked his name, Officer Dylan, and we shook his hand. He asked our purpose for being downtown. We explained that as Toronto residents we were uncomfortable with the handling of our city and were here to document it for ourselves. He showed sympathy for the police forces, saying they were on edge after the Black Bloc rioting of Saturday. We agreed with him, that we were here to hold the Black Bloc accountable as much as anyone else. He thanked us, we shook hands again, and were on our way.

We walked south as close to the wall as we could get, being stopped and searched every time we hit a corner. Over the course of our searches we learned that Sunday’s grounds for arrest included:

The ‘Legal’ phone number

Ownership of a bandana

Ownership of a change of clothes

Ownership of any kind of eye protection

Wearing of black clothing

We met up with Zack and headed West to Spadina.

Along the way we encountered our last search of the day. As they were running our IDs we were again asked the typical questions. We held up our cameras and identified ourselves as part of the disorganized civilian paparazzi. The woman running my ID made a joke about having a bad hair day and that she’d look bad in any of our pictures. I laughed and dropped my guard slightly, thinking back to officer Dylan and how nicely our conversation had gone. She asked if we were members of any of the protest groups and I told her no, but we were uncomfortable with the police presence across the city.

Her face changed instantly. She clicked back into cop mode and stared me down. Suddenly I smelled like pot. Had I been smoking the reefer earlier today? Was I high now? “It’s ok if you are,” she told me, “I can’t do anything about it. You can tell me” Taken aback I reverted to my own defenses.

“No mam, never touched the stuff” Etc. “Can we go now?”

The brief connection we had made was shattered as the wedge between police and citizen was re-established.

And that was it for me. Possibly one of the most un-eventful G20 adventures in history. I wasn’t arrested, I wasn’t beaten, I didn’t witness any property damage, I didn’t see any weapons fired. Compared to the horror stories others can tell I had a perfectly lovely day; which is kind of the point of writing this. While I run the risk of coming off as a petty spoiled first world baby in complaining about my experiences downtown, I think there’s something important to be said here.

The atmosphere created in the run up to the G20 and over the course of the weekend was one of intimidation and misinformation². The areas where we supposedly lost our rights didn’t exist outside the fence, yet in practice were extended as far north as Bloor street. The areas where we were supposedly “allowed” our freedom of speech were some of the biggest targets for arrest. Police were given carte blanch throughout the entire downtown core of one of the countries largest cities where an “Us vs Them” attitude was cultivated, culminating with Bill Blair’s false dichotomy of police supporters vs anarchist advocates³. These were purposeful efforts to stifle dissent, whether through threat of arrest during the event or through the discrediting/misrepresentation of legitimate protest groups after⁴. It is true that the actions of the Black Bloc contributed to the air of aggressiveness and dissolution of legitimate messages, and I may appear to be coming down much harder on the police⁵, but I hold those who claim a position of authority over us to a higher standard than I do pre-pubescent hoodlums.

OFFICER DYLAN FOR POLICE COMMISSIONER!


Tommy Taylor's account of his arrest

1: Tommy Taylor's account of his arrest

2: Globe & Mail article on deliberate misinformation

3: Bill Blair interview

4: Macleans "Thugs" article

5: I'd like to make clear that I understand police were "just following orders" and, debates over the Nuremberg defense⁶ aside, my real problem is with the elected officials who called the shots who are now defending police actions, while simultaneously framing the debate so as to place responsibility upon the officers⁷

6: Nuremberg defense

7: Mcguinty's slimeball tactics

IT BEEEEEGIIIIIINS

I've been struggling for a while over how to begin this blog. I know my aims and I know the tone I want to take when I eventually get to topics I want to write about, but how to begin translating this mess of thoughts onto paper has been throwing me. My first attempts were of brash self assurance, but since I'm no Colbert, I'm settling for the humble uncertainty of "All I know is that I know nothing". Socrates is about as good as Stephen I suppose, and it has been the foundation of my thinking to some degree for as long as I can remember. Though it began more as self doubt before growing into the guarded, somewhat mock modesty of today, I suppose it's still fitting to begin by saying:

I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!

I'll scream it from the blog-tops. I know nothin' bout nothin' no sir-ee! Mah brain's as finely tuned as Helen Keller's GUI-taaaaar. My conclusion's are as certain as Schrödinger's! My ideas hold as much water as a man with no arms who owns a bucket full o' holes!

There, look how humble I am. It's charming eh? I am the charming king of humble. And as king I decree that this blog is to be the document of my attempts to figure things out. You shall be my slightly less, or slightly more humble servants (whichever one is better for my position in this confusing monarchy I've designed) who will attack my ideas with your disgusting peasanty pointed tongues.

And while I'm trying my damnedest to be clever and irreverent I should get this out of the way. While I love language, I am not an english major, I've never had much love for grammatical structures or the tone of a proper essay. Truthfully I don't know the proper grammatical structures and I still grapple with the tone of polite company, let alone academic papers. While I won't go completely off the rails, this blog is more of an imagined one sided conversation than a formal essay. That being said I have much respect for formal argument and will sheepishly drag my tail between my legs if I am caught in logical fallacy.

So call me on my bullshit. I’m starting this blog to invite debate, as well as to alleviate some frustration. I will be venting to some degree and attempting to prove wrong those who draw my ire, but I really do want to have my ideas tested. When I’m wrong, show me how I’m wrong. Rub my nose in it. It’s the only way I’ll learn.



Coming up next! Some actual thinkin'!