Pink Parasols at the Barricades
Seattle’s CHOP as Carnival
“In the dark times / Will there also be singing? / Yes, there will also be singing. / About the dark times.”― Bertolt Brecht
ON A summer day in Seattle, the sounds of sirens, chanting and drums were thunderous. Several helicopters roared in the sky above. Thick clouds of smoke loomed overhead, drifting into nearby apartments.
A massive crowd of mostly black-clad protesters faced off with an army of police in riot gear. As yet another tear gas cannister was fired, a bright spot of pink emerged on the front line. One single bright pink umbrella opened, defiant against the horde of jackbooted thugs. This was perhaps the beginning of the curiosity that was the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone (CHAZ) alternatively known as the Capitol Hill Organized Protest (CHOP)
In February of 2020 — just as the public was beginning to get alarming reports of a new strain of SARS in China, Ahmaud Arbery was jogging in his neighborhood in Georgia when two white men followed him in a truck and gunned him down because he seemed “suspicious.” On March 13th, two days before many states issued stay at home orders in response to the looming pandemic, Breonna Taylor was shot by police while sleeping in her bed.
On May 25th, nearly three months into a deadly pandemic that had already claimed the lives of thousands around the world, word spread that yet another unarmed black man had been murdered by the police, this time in Minneapolis. His name was George Floyd. One of the officers at the scene knelt on his neck until he was dead. He was being harassed for potential check fraud. The entire grisly scene was captured on video. At the time, not a single officer present was disciplined, fired or arrested.
Americans had endured three months of lockdowns, unemployment, anxiety and fear as we watched the body count from Covid-19 rise without any sign of stopping. Black Americans were suffering the highest rates of both infections and deaths. While white, middle class Americans “worked from home” and made sourdough bread, large numbers of Black Americans were deemed “essential” and continued to work on the frontlines at hospitals, long term care facilities, grocery stores, warehouses, and airports, increasing their exposure to the deadly virus. The murder of George Floyd was another reminder that the lives of Black Americans are not valued.
Across the country, protests erupted. For the first time in months people were gathering together. They demanded justice for Floyd and an end to the constant harassment and humiliation at the hands of police that has become its own kind of plague.
The protests in Seattle started small. On May 29th a small group of protesters gathered in Hing-Hay park in the International District and were met with a strong police presence and pepper spray. The following day, the crowd was larger and mostly peaceful. There was a distinctly militant, and yet jovial vibe. As the day wore on the crowds grew and the pent up rage erupted onto the streets. Police cars were set on fire and downtown chain stores were looted.
Still, amidst the fury, the sense of conviviality remained, perhaps stemming from the pure release of once again being outside of one’s home. One protester was seen on camera jauntily carrying a liberated cheesecake, a bottle of wine and stem glasses suggesting festive plans for later in the day.
The police met the protesters with riot gear and deployed tear gas and flashbang grenades. The numbers of protesters continued to grow, with a significant portion of demonstrators marching down the freeway. At 4:46pm, while the demonstrations were still growing, Seattle mayor Jenny Durkan issued a 5PM curfew — empowering police to make mass arrests. Governor Jay Inslee deployed the National Guard to the city.
Despite the efforts to quash the rebellion, the protests continued overnight. The following day, masses of people gathered outside of the East Precinct in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. To outsiders, this might seem a strange choice for a demonstration. Capitol Hill today is a well manicured neighborhood, full of quirky bars, restaurants, expensive furniture stores and cupcake shops. Although the area has been heavily gentrified over the years, it still maintains its historic character as LGBTQ friendly, and more importantly it is adjacent to the Central District, a heavily Black neighborhood for generations.
The East Precinct was always controversial in Seattle. Originally proposed to be located in the Central District in 1977, its construction was opposed by members of the Black community. Eventually this plan was scrapped in favor of situating the new precinct at 12th and Pine in Capitol Hill. Prior to its completion in January of 1986, the construction site was the scene of several sit-in protests. Seattle has a long history of resistance, and the people who live here have long memories.
On June 1st, after 3 days and nights of protest, demonstrators once again converged on the East Precinct. A year earlier in Hong Kong, protesters utilized umbrellas to fend off tear gas fumes. Learning from this, activists employed this strategy, starting with one iconic bright pink parasol — which emerged to become a symbol of the movement.
The days that followed brought battalions of national guard troops, standing alongside the riot ready cops. The standoff continued for another week. Every day activists converged on the east precinct while other delegations marched at various points around the city.
On June 8th, the police abandoned their station. No one claims responsibility for making this call, although it has been speculated that this was intended as a trap to lure demonstrators into the building so they could later be charged with trespassing or a similar infraction. As the police evacuated, the activists moved in, claiming nearby Cal Anderson park and the surrounding six city blocks as an autonomous zone.
A sign declaring “You Are Now Entering Free Capitol Hill,” an homage to Derry, Northern Ireland, went up almost immediately. This would subsequently be known as the CHAZ, and finally, the CHOP.
For the next twenty-two days, this area became the center of activity for the Black Lives Matter movement in Seattle. Overnight, tents appeared on the athletic area and adjacent field in Cal Anderson Park. The sign on the police station was changed to the Seattle People’s Department. The sidewalk surrounding the East Precinct saw a proliferation of EZ-Ups and makeshift vendor stalls and the creation of the “No Cop Co-op” where activists distributed food, water, literature, sign making materials and even medical care.
After several days porta-potties were installed, along with sources of fresh running water. The barricades around the police station began to resemble an art installation as people made spray paint murals, and attached posters. A local hot dog vendor whose cart was adorned with twinkling fairy lights donated food to the CHOP inhabitants. An enormous Black Lives Matter mural was painted with the entire rainbow of colors at the intersection of 10th and Pine near the park entrance. Medical tents and free Covid 19 testing sites were organized. Musicians and DJs with mobile sound systems performed at all hours of the day and massive dance parties erupted in the streets. Residents installed a garden bed in the middle of the park to promote urban farming.
Anupam Roy
People from all over the region came to see what was happening. A makeshift outdoor café, the “Decolonization Conversation Café” was created with literature, coffee and space for people to hold organizing meetings. The atmosphere was a combination of street festival and refugee camp. In one corner of the CHOP one could encounter a member of the sometimes armed security team; in another, groups of young people were grilling food and throwing frisbees. The revelry continued deep into the night.
Clouds of teargas gave way to clouds of marijuana smoke, and dance troupes jumped into the streets. A projector and screen were set up to facilitate film screenings such as Paris is Burning. A New Orleans style brass band occasionally marched through serenading the crowds. Meanwhile, others attended to the serious business of organizing, using the CHOP as a base of operations to plan the next action.
Signs of tension between these two forces — those who were reveling in the temporary victory and expelling the pent up energy of months of lockdown and anxiety, and those who saw the enclave as a tactical space from which demands could be made — appeared early. On one visit to the area, amidst the celebratory radical graffiti, we found sterner messages. One simply stated “THIS IS NOT BURNING MAN!” Another: “WHITE PPL CUT YR DREADS!!!” These and others like them expressed a growing frustration with people who had been deemed “CHOP tourists” as well as with perceived opportunists who were using the space as an excuse to party. Other graffiti revealed deep class anger, like “Kill Bezos” and “Looting = Robin Hood Shit,” directly above the words “WANK” and “GLORY HOLE” in less articulate scrawling.
While elements of the CHOP might have resembled Burning Man more than, say, the Paris Commune, the demands set forth were radical and broad in scope. Primary demands called for a fifty percent reduction of the Seattle Police Department budget, redistribution of said funds to restorative justice and healthcare, and no criminal liability for the protesters. Additional demands included free healthcare, housing and education, full naturalization of all undocumented citizens, release of nonviolent prisoners, and mandatory retrials for incarcerated people of color.
The site was governed as a leaderless collective via consensus and daily meetings were held to discuss new developments and maintenance of the space. Armed security was independently organized to face down threats by white supremacist groups like the Proud Boys and Patriot Prayer. Delegations of organizers were tasked with communicating with city officials to negotiate demands and public health services. In short, the CHOP represented what one could call “A Carnival of Possibilities.”
* * *
THERE IS a tendency on the left to assume the role of a Monday Morning Quarterback. Those of us who have spent any amount of time in left-wing political organizations have likely been guilty of this at some point. It is easy when one is removed from a situation to be critical. The impulse to explain what everyone is doing wrong is as tempting as the impulse to believe The Revolution ™ is finally here when you are actually part of such an experience.
I was critical of the CHOP from its inception. It was clearly temporary from the outset, and the likelihood of any of its demands being met were slim. Was it worth all the energy expended to protect and build it? Couldn’t that time have been used more effectively building organizations and strengthening and expanding the movement? Would the forces of the state be brought to heel by a former mayoral candidate, or the person who looted a cheesecake and some wine to wash it down?
Despite these misgivings, I cheered when I saw the Cheesecake Liberator jauntily marching forth with their haul. I ran outside every single time another spirited march passed my building. I felt enthusiasm and hope when I heard that the people in my city had forced the cops out of our neighborhood, and my hips swayed to the live music being performed in Free Capitol Hill.
Organizing for a better world is serious, and the stakes are alarmingly high, but the human desire to be connected and act collectively does not bend to the rules of prevailing wisdom. Russian philosopher and literary critic Mikhail Bakhtin developed the theory of what he termed the carnivalesque in Rabelais and His World. In an earlier work, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, Bakhtin laid out four categories of the “carnival sense of the world:”
Familiar and free interaction between people — the phenomenon of people becoming unlikely allies and the freedom of expression that emerges when people collaborate to upend social norms.
Eccentric Behavior — Behaviors normally prohibited are embraced, revealing the truer self.
Carnavalistic Misalliance — Normal social separations are bridged/peoplpe reunited.
Profanation — Authority and long held beliefs are stripped of their power through loosely agreed upon debasement of these social structures.
Bakhtin writes that the carnival sense of the world “is opposed to that one-sided and gloomy official seriousness which is dogmatic and hostile to evolution and change, which seeks to absolutize a given condition of existence or a given social order.” Furthermore, the carnivalesque is collective in nature, anti-elitist, necessarily of the body’s most primal and basic functions and based in a “culture of laughter.”
Bakhtin was writing about the carnivalesque in terms of the medieval practice of carnival. An ancient tradition related to the changing of seasons, it was adopted by early Christians as the period preceding Lent — a season of enforced austerity. During this time people across all social strata are encouraged and allowed to indulge in rich food, sexual promiscuity, dance, song, ritual, and even to temporarily assume the status of kings.
It is a period meant to serve as a release valve for trying times of scarcity ahead; scarcity resulting from either seasonal changes or religious imposition. It arises more organically, outside of the allowances made by the ruling entities in political and social movements, and these occurrences — outside of the sanctioned realm — were the focus of Bakhtin’s theories.
In modern times we have examples of officially sanctioned carnival: Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Carnival in South America, the Caribbean and Europe, and Purim in Judaism, are all holidays which are characterized by the temporary suspension of social norms. The primal roots and potential power of these organized moments of revelry and capitulation to our most basic desires and connectivity are somewhat undermined by the fact that there is official approval for such activity.
Like a rapidly mutating virus, capitalism is excellent at adapting in order to commodify almost every aspect of our lives. Historically, in the United States, the entirety of the American West was used as a release valve from the societal pressures of the east coast, and as an abrogation of the commonly held values of polite society. Laws existed only nominally in most places, and this arrangement was collectively agreed upon by the people who settled the lands west of the Mississippi. Of course this was at the expense of the millions of people who had been living there for millennia as well as those who had been forcibly relocated to the west prior to white western expansion. The frenzy for gold, timber, ore and buffalo hides drove white settlers across the vast expanses of native lands laying waste to ancient societies and people their grotesque revelries had no use for. A carnival of riches for the white settlers; a holocaust for the colonized indigenous people.
Today, the city of Las Vegas is dedicated to tacitly approved carnivalesque behavior, as long as the participants agree on the terms: “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.” A coy slogan assumed to mean that no one will tell on you for bad behavior, but with a double meaning as well: don’t bring that shit home. People from all walks of life, who normally behave perfectly within the strictures of their communities travel there to experience a life of pure excess.
What happens when these moments or places emerge outside of the sanctioned realm? The carnivalesque has no inherent virtue, and no inherent vice. It doesn’t subscribe to a creed, or a political formation, and yet it frequently manifests within or around such structures. Wherever people gather together the potential to serve the collective id exists. If there is a formula for when and how these spontaneous manifestations unfold I would argue that it’s usually prefaced by, or during a period of scarcity, and sparked by an event that challenges the status quo.
The Occupy Wall Street movement, for example, emerged after three years of deep recession stemming from the financial crisis of 2007-2008. Inspired by elements of the Arab Spring and the occupation at the capitol in Madison, Wisconsin, Occupy was the first sustained mass protest in the United States since the Global Justice Movement in the late 90s. While the original sit-in demonstration was planned, its viral spread to every corner of the globe was not. Protesting dramatic wealth inequality struck a collective nerve that allowed Occupy encampments to pop up wherever there were people who identified as “the 99%”
The demands of Occupy were broad and largely nebulous. After a while it seemed as though the entire point was to keep the encampments going — little islands free of the rules of society. Opportunists took advantage of the situation and various Occupy zones experienced drug overdoses, gun violence and sexual assaults within their borders.
Critics of the movement on the right attempted to smear the ideas of Occupy as the cause of these incidents. Their narrative is that Occupy was comprised of leftist scum who are too lazy to work and just want to do drugs and rape. Liberals feigned concern that the encampments were a public health hazard, while critics on the left pointed to a lack of serious politics, interlopers, agents provocateur or disorganization.
Anupam Roy
However, to return to Bakhtin, I would argue that these kinds of incidents are also part of the carnivalesque — the flip side being the grotesque or that which is concerned with the “lower order.” We live in an intensely violent and stratified society. When a space exists where the laws and norms are temporarily suspended, and that space has no unifying ethos, the darker aspects of the grotesque have an opportunity to emerge. This is not to say that these kinds of events are inevitable in these spaces, but the potential increases when the purpose of the space is diluted or the level of societal repression is very high.
CHAZ/CHOP also had its share of grotesque events. Late night hours saw heavy drug use, at least one attempted sexual assault, and just outside the borders of the free zone, five shootings which resulted in two deaths. Although all of the shootings took place outside of the official parameters of the CHOP, city officials used this to definitively evict the protestors and end the reign of the CHOP. The zone was officially cleared on July 1st 2020.
* * *
THE AFTERMATH of the CHOP had a surreal quality. Even now, almost a year later, the East Precinct is still heavily barricaded. The graffiti remains, as do the boards on many of the windows in the neighborhood. As the summer of 2020 continued, there were several more protests — many a response to Donald Trump’s policy of sending federal forces into cities to kidnap protestors off the streets.
The cooling weather and the fall surge of Covid-19 cases drove people inside once more, and the protests tapered off. The long winter inside left time for reflection. Reflection brings perspective, and with perspective comes the space for analysis.
Can these primal moments ever be harnessed to bring about radical social change? Historically, the answer has been no. By their nature these carnivalesque moments are temporary and effusive. They lack the structure to produce sustainable results. The exhilaration of perceived total freedom eventually dissipates and we, the collective, seek out more stable and reliable methods.
That said, many of the demands of CHOP are now debates on the national stage. Major cities nationwide are debating cutting their police budgets and looking for alternatives to police intervention. The mythology of police as blue collar heroes is cracked, and the light is leaking through. The moment might not have radically transformed society, but the spirit of it remains and informs the way forward.
If we can, for a moment, strip away the muck of the ages, the dark grotesquery that inhabits the air we breathe under capitalism, we can catch a glimpse of the kind of world we want to see. These spaces, these moments of carnival invite us like a barker. “Come and see! Come and see!” A world where our basic needs are met and we work together to improve upon it by the seasons of our hearts, instead of the bosses time clock. A world with a lot more dancing in the streets, and collective revelry. A world where our primal yell is a shout of joy rather than a wail of grief and rage. As I walk the streets where the CHOP used to be, with the cherry blossoms raining down and sparkling lights illuminating everything, the memory of what was sends an echo and I can almost catch a glimpse.
Kira Woodworth writes about politics and art. She lives in Seattle, Washington.Social media splash image from Born Again Labor Museum.