WORLDFIRE - Chapter 21, Part III

Shaping the State of the Union

My Keystone Incarceration

It unfolded later that same summer in Washington, DC and it involved going to jail. Tar Sands Action, a project of the climate group 350.org, had put out a bold call for volunteers to risk arrest outside the White House to protest the construction of the Keystone XL pipeline. This is the story of how I came to be one of 1,253 people who answered that call mere weeks before I would launch a 2,150-mile rocket trike ride down the proposed pipeline route, a ride that would begin at the U.S./Canada border and end at the Texas Gulf Coast; a journey that would be blessed by unexpected alliances formed with leaders of tribal nations. In all my years working in the conservation movement, I have never experienced, before or since, such a feeling of solidarity as what I felt with my Native brothers and sisters in that fight.

When I first learned of the direct action through an email invitation from Tar Sands Action, I was so deep in planning for my cross-country ride against the pipeline I could scarcely imagine taking the time to travel to DC. But as the date crept closer, it felt important to be there as a show of support for my allies, even if it meant having to push back my ride launch date. So I signed up for day one of the protest, along with 64 others. Little did I know what was in store for the Tar Sands 65.

Before leaving for DC, I reached out to a friend, who also happened to be Daryl Hannah’s agent, to pitch the idea of the actress/activist taking part in the direct action. An outspoken critic of the Keystone XL pipeline and a veteran of nonviolent protests, Daryl was not one to shy away from putting her body on the line. So I was not surprised when my friend later told me she was in. That was when I knew the protest had risen to a whole new level. We’ll return to this.

As is standard movement protocol with protests of this nature, participants are required to participate in nonviolent civil disobedience training. Our training session was held on a Friday night at an Episcopal Church in the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington, DC. There we role played arrest scenarios, learned techniques for de-escalation, peppered trainers with questions, and shared a communal meal. I found it to be an enjoyable and bonding experience.

On Saturday morning, August 20, I remembered to avoid drinking water and made a point of emptying my bladder before showing up at the White House, for no one knew how long it would be before we would next have access to a bathroom. Before leaving my friend’s house, I also emptied my pockets of everything except my driver’s license (for identification), $100 in cash (for bail), and a Metro card (to get back to my friend’s house). I then made my way by Metro to our rendezvous point, Lafayette Square, a public park directly across from the White House.

The mood in the park was festive and restive. Reporters circulated in search of sound bites. Here is what I told a Canadian reporter from the Edmonton Journal writing a piece called “Keystone protesters take it to Obama”: "We have got to end tarsands exploitation, period, if we are going to continue to live on this planet. It's going to fry the planet. I am risking getting arrested to send a message to the Obama administration that we are not going to stand for this.”

After circling up for a short pep talk from 350.org’s Bill McKibben, 65 of us calmly walked across Pennsylvania Avenue to the sidewalk in front of the White House where tourists famously gather to pose for photographs. Streaming silently onto the sidewalk, the tallest people gathered against the White House fence, holding up two large banners that read, “CLIMATE CHANGE IS NOT IN OUR NATIONAL INTEREST” and “WE SIT-IN AGAINST THE XL PIPELINE. OBAMA, WILL YOU STAND UP TO BIG OIL?”, while the rest of us settled onto the concrete. You are allowed to be there as long as you keep moving. Moving was not in our plans. Our intention was to sit there for as long as possible to focus the nation’s attention on the threat the Keystone XL pipeline posed to America’s breadbasket and the planet. The mood of our group of 65 was both solemn and light, enveloped in a comforting spirit of solidarity.

Weeks of negotiation between event organizers and law enforcement had yielded assurances that we would be arrested and given the opportunity to “post and forfeit” (pay a $100 fine and be released the same day by waiving your right to a trial versus appearing in court). But that is not how things went down. That is not how things went down at all.

They were ready for us. Some of the police were mounted on horseback. Others were busy erecting metal barricades to cordon us off from the rest of the public. In the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue in front of us were makeshift processing tents earlier erected by park police. Before long, a law enforcement officer with a bullhorn approached our group and issued the first of three warnings to disperse. A short while later, he did it again. After the third warning, we were told the arrests would begin, and so they did.

They began with the women in our group. Each was approached by a black-clad SWAT officer who ordered them to stand up. After having their hands cuffed behind their backs, each was individually walked over to a processing tent, where their mug shot was taken and a wristband with a number on it was affixed to their wrist. I remember our group shouting out chants, including one that was joined by those providing moral support on the other side of the police barricade. I also remember our group shouting out calls of appreciation for each woman who was hauled away. Upon seeing it was her turn to be cuffed next, a young blond-haired woman sitting to my right kindly offered me the large green apple she was holding, which I accepted with gratitude. If you haven’t experienced it yourself, there is nothing like waiting to be arrested in front of the White House to bring your senses fully alive. That Granny Smith was the tastiest apple I ever ate.

A short while later, I looked down and noticed that my dress shirt was soaked in sweat from sitting in the blazing sun wearing a sports coat and tie. I had gotten a few joking digs from fellow protesters for donning a cashmere wool jacket in the summertime, but it was the only formal wear I owned at the time and I was determined to look my business best. 

I eventually drifted into a semi-meditative state with my eyes closed and stayed that way for some time before sensing my turn was approaching. I opened my eyes to find a burly SWAT officer looming over me. Shaking my sleeping legs awake, I slowly arose and swung my arms behind my back, feeling the hard plastic cuffs secured around my wrists way too tightly for comfort. Ignoring the discomfort, I thanked the officer for arresting me and asked him if he had any kids. When he said he did, I told him I was doing this for them. He said nothing to me in response, but I wonder if I didn’t sense a flicker of acknowledgement in his countenance.

After having my mug shot taken in the police tent, a blue wristband was affixed to my right wrist with #26 written on it. I was then led into a waiting paddy wagon, where my new friends and I were crowded onto a cramped, metal bench clearly designed for discomfort. Others were crowded onto a bench on the other side of the van, with a steel wall separating us.

The jolting drive to the Anacostia police station was surreal. Being the last to be loaded into the van, I was afforded a good view out the rear window. As we raced through the streets of the nation’s capital–lights flashing and sirens blaring–it felt like we were living out a scene in a Hollywood action film, blowing through one red light after another. I can still recall the startled looks on the faces of the tourists we sped past, many stopping in their tracks to stare at the police vans filled with who they probably imagined to be hardened criminals. I also remember getting a nice view of the Washington Monument, which for a few brief seconds had me feel strangely like a tourist myself. When we rolled up to the station minutes later, I was happily surprised at how quickly we had arrived. I was eager to be processed so I could get the blood flowing back into my hands. But that would have to wait.

Not long after our van pulled up to the curb, the back doors swung open, with the infusion of cool air sweet relief. But just as it appeared we would be released from our rolling truck oven the open doors were slammed shut. With no air conditioning, or explanation, we were kept locked in this metal hot box for nearly two hours as they processed our female cohorts first. With our hands secured behind our backs, and our legs jammed in front of us against the wall, it was impossible to get into a comfortable position. We suffered mostly in silence; occasionally checking in on each other to make sure everyone was okay.

Nothing I did would relieve the pressure of the cuffs (it would leave the palm of my left hand partially numb for months). I discovered that the only way to stop the stinging sweat from dripping into my eyes was to lean down and gently push my eye socket into the knee of my pant leg, which served as a makeshift sponge. I did this several times when the burning wouldn’t stop. Eventually, it dawned on me that I could ease the discomfort by shifting my focus, so I envisioned being in one of my hot yoga classes. With the help of my wool sports coat, sweat poured from my body as profusely as in any yoga class I had ever taken. That helped.

Finally, another paddy wagon full of arrestees pulled up behind us. Minutes later, the doors to our van once again swung open. This time they stayed that way as we were marched single file out of the van and into the police station for processing. The guard greeting us was stern and curt, but not abusive. I was grateful to him for honoring my request to trade out my cuffs with a pair that weren’t so tight. Once inside, we were eventually released from our handcuffs, after which we were ordered to remove our shoelaces and hand over all of our by-now-sweat-soaked possessions to be confiscated and inventoried (when I later retrieved mine from impoundment, they were still in the sealed plastic bag, my jacket, tie and leather belt having provided a humid habitat for a kaleidoscope of brightly colored molds to flourish). We were then each marched over to another table for more processing, where I spoke with a female guard who seemed determined to be as unpleasant and unhelpful as possible.

After being led into the main building, 15 of us were crammed into a tiny holding cell. The cell had a small bench and stainless steel sink and toilet. Luckily for everyone, no one had to use the toilet for anything other than to urinate. Since there wasn’t enough room for everyone to stand or sit against the walls, we took turns standing in the middle. Despite the discomfort of 15 people being crammed into that 6’ x 8’ cell for more than five hours, we made the best of the situation by sharing jokes and telling stories to pass the time. At one point, we were told we could make one phone call, which, one by one, we were let out to do. With this unexpected delay throwing my travel plans to the wind, my call was to Delta Airlines to change my return flight home.

After some initial difficulty getting an outside line, I finally got through to Delta. I told the reservation agent that I needed to push back my return (I had by then decided to stay for the whole two-week action), explaining that I didn’t have my credit card with me to pay the $150 change fee because I was in jail. His sympathetic reply was, “I feel you.” So I asked him if it would be possible to use the card they had on file. He put me on hold to check. When he came back on the line, he told me it was “taken care of.” When I asked if he meant he had gotten clearance to charge my card, he said, no, he had gotten clearance to have the change fee waived and I was now booked on the later flight I had requested. Stunned by this unexpected act of kindness, I offered him my profuse thanks and asked if he wanted to know why I was in jail. He said he didn’t need to know, but I told him anyway. He sounded touched. I know I was. When I rejoined my cellmates, I shared the story of the airline agent’s extraordinary kindness, which brought more than a few smiles to our drab little cell.

For some reason, the authorities then began releasing members of our group who lived in the DC metro area. Those of us remaining were removed from the holding cells, re-cuffed, and loaded back into paddy wagons for the short ride to DC’s Central Cell Block. Upon our arrival at DC Central, we were ordered to stand against the wall while our plastic cuffs were cut off. The unfriendly female officer cutting mine also carelessly clipped my wrist, drawing a little blood. That got me irritated. We were then marched up several flights of stairs to an empty cellblock, where some of us were assigned cellmates. I had the good fortune of sharing my 5’x7’ jail cell with Ari Daniels, whose outgoing personality made the unpleasant a little less unpleasant.

As one who feels pretty much at home wherever I am, I decided to treat that tiny jail cell as home for however long it would be. I made a conscious decision to be fully present and to take everything in with curious eyes. I figured that would make the uncomfortable at least interesting. I examined our new digs. It wasn’t Shawshank, but it wasn’t pretty. Picture two steel bunk shelves (giant cookie sheets with small holes in them and no bedding); a stainless steel toilet and sink (with a little fountain that produced rank water I was desperate enough to drink); shiny stainless steel walls and ceiling (ensuring maximum heat and discomfort); a fine wire mesh outer wall (to block the view of your neighbors); a 5” x 12” slot in that same mesh wall with two bars (where you could peek out and see others doing the same); a bright fluorescent light angling down from the ceiling (kept on 24/7); and three or four cockroaches scurrying across the concrete floor (they were small and really not bothersome at all). It was right around then that Ari and I started hearing loud bangs, as if someone was being body slammed against one of the metal walls. We soon determined the source of the noise to be the steel bunks, which compressed when you laid down on them and made a loud popping sound when you got up. Poor design or intentional sleep deprivation device? I would put my money on the latter.

Luckily for me, Ari was skilled in the art of massage and kindly offered to work on my numb wrist. We were sitting down on the lower bunk shelf and had just started sharing personal stories when the guards interrupted us and began removing us from the cells for additional processing. Each of us was individually escorted downstairs, where another picture was taken for yet another identification wristband. Then the black ink pad came out for the thumbprint procedure we’ve all seen on the old TV crime shows. After that, I was led to a high-tech fingerprint machine, which I was surprised to learn even records the unique print on the side of your palm. The guard processing me was new to the machine and struggled to get it to work right, so I was patient with him as he repeatedly rolled my fingers and palm over the scanner until he finally got what he needed. After that was done, another guard kiddingly asked if I was ready for my "gourmet" meal. I assured him I was. He yelled out, "Get this man his gourmet meal!" That was met by hearty laughter all around. I was then handed two bologna (or something that looked like it) and cheese (I’m even less sure about this) sandwiches wrapped in plastic.

Happy to have my hands out of cuffs and to be free from my tiny cell for the time being, I was led to a chair in a side room where I stretched out to luxuriate in the relative "freedom" of the moment. I was relieved, and more than a little surprised, that the guard chose not to secure my ankles to the heavy metal shackles bolted to the floor lying at my feet. Despite being ravenously hungry, I was in no rush to finish my gourmet meal and be returned to my cramped cell. So I took my time eating, warmly greeting each guard as they walked by, until one leaned into the room where I was sitting and asked why we were protesting. He said he really wanted to know. Convinced of his sincerity, I told him. By the time we finished talking, he seemed to agree that it would be smart for President Obama to block the Keystone pipeline on behalf of the American people. Hearing this, the guard who had earlier cracked the joke about the food chimed in that we are on track to blow up the whole world anyway, so why bother? I conceded to him the possibility, but proposed an alternative scenario that involved searching our hearts and embracing love instead. He seemed to like that option better. Eventually, one of the more unhappy-looking guards (they were apparently working overtime because of our incarceration, and their grumbling made it clear they were none too happy about it) broke my reverie and marched me back up the stairs to my cell, where I would remain locked up for the next two days.

Our group talked to each other through the bars for the better part of the next six hours until the rest of the male contingent began arriving after midnight. I felt for them and wondered what all they had been through. From this point, the timeline gets a little fuzzy, as there were no windows and thus no way to tell time (other than to ask a guard, and we were more often than not ignored when we did). Later, I stretched out on the bottom shelf, with Ari taking the top, in the hope of getting a little shuteye. A little is all most of us got.

The air in the cellblock was oppressively hot and stuffy, forcing us to strip down to our briefs. I eventually figured out I could fashion a pillow of sorts by folding up my khakis and using them as a cushion placed atop my dress shoes. It worked pretty well, enough for me to grab a brief nap here and there. At one point, I remember a giant fan being brought in to blow hot air down the hallway of the cellblock, but all it really did was drown out our ability to hear one another. I don’t think it was by chance that the fan was placed outside the cell of Dan Choi, whose sparkling sense of humor was helping keep spirits high. I suspect the sound of his infectious laughter was missed by more than just me.

NOTE: The written form of WORLDFIRE is the authoritative version. Any inadvertent errors in transcribing the recordings are mine and mine alone.