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The day was joyful, warm and breezy. A mixed crowd of a several hundred people gathered at Union Park and marched to Pilsen. I think it gave us something of a sense of where the independent movement is right now. The march had a relaxed kind of anti-authoritarian vibe that can only come from a collective production. Kids made their own flags, people mingled and chanted, a train backed up to watch and blow its horn in support. The open mic was a definite hit, although the ending program lost the interest and passion of the crowd. There were only a few visible “blocks” in the march, few organizations large enough to make their presence felt – or to show up with mass-produced signs in an effort to establish a disproportionate visual presence. It was mostly just different kinds of . . . you know, people. Fewer national flags than had become customary at immigrant rights protests (except for the March 10 event, when they were entirely absent). From what I could see, hear, experience and touch, there is possibly a different culture emerging from this kind of organizing.And then, there were the cops. We had prepared for them and their tactics—or so we thought. We received a permit to gather in Union Park, hoping that a relaxed two hours spent bonding, singing, making banners together, and forging some kind of collective experience would prepare us for inevitable intimidation. We had two giant banners, each big enough to spread over three lanes of traffic. Those carrying the banners had done this before: you slide them into traffic over and over again at the slightest opening of a space, or the slightest breeze, or the slightest change on rhythm or missed step. We talked about what kinds of confrontation we could expect, what people were or were not prepared for; we talked about our responsibility to work as peacekeepers. But there was confusion as to what that would mean, and different camps emerged within the organizing group. As far as I could tell, the source of the difference had to do with understandings of leadership and hierarchy. Some assumed organizing means appointing a marshal, and coordinators of each phase of the action, “managers” of different tasks, appointed spokespersons and decision-makers. Others (the Moratorium on Deportations, a group largely composed of undocumented organizers and those who worked with them for actions on March 10) insisted on blocking the leadership model at every possible turn. The push was for staying receptive to the vibe of collectivity but as part of the crowd and not its coordinators or representatives. We talked about how to work with no marshals, no appointed decision-makers, and no one in charge of “managing” the process; no one to help the police contain the crowd; no one to become the vehicle of their aggression in the name of peacekeeping.

The confrontation with police started on the march when people were pushed to the sidewalks while police cars blocked the street. But a street is always blocked; the question is who will take it. On the March 10 event, we did it by walking or dancing, and found our way around their walls though movement. This time, we just stopped. There was no real confrontation. There we were, and they were in our way. It seemed like a given, that we belonged on the street. The longer we waited the more the waiting became a problem. This faceoff plays out differently every time, and every time it is the cumulated result of hundreds of little gestures, reactions and decisions, done collectively by so many people who are perfect strangers but who need no coordinators, no conductors, and no decision makers. Each time, the way we fight for the street teaches us something. Sunday, it also told us this: we cannot rely on a single response, a single method, because when they lose a bit of ground they return with a vengeance.

The harassment along the route was contained, but barely. Police bikes scraping against our ankles, repeated attempts to close off intersections, the vans, the constant pressure. At the end of the march, one of our organizers was singled out and surrounded—it is no coincidence that the only black peacekeeper, the only black man in the front of the march when it stopped, became the target of a whole circle of cops. They waited until the crowd dispersed and it was only two dozen or so people left, mostly scattered around the intersection. By the time I realized something was happening, Mike was already surrounded. It was his shouting that called our attention; he was refusing the ticket, accusing them of abuse, demanding to speak with the issuing commander, refusing to leave with them, refusing to recognize their authority, refusing the arrest, calling out the only officer of color, screaming and gesturing and getting in their face. They surrounded him and we surrounded them, there was yelling and chanting, the cops ordered the crowd to disperse but it was clear we were not leaving. Above chants of “fuck the police” you could hear Mike’s voice, you could always hear Mike’s voice: it never stopped, never became quiet, never gave any space for the cops to speak. “I’m a volunteer peacekeeper, I know my shit, don’t fuck with me!!” Peacekeeping in this situation meant confronting them with all the noise, outrage and conflict escalation tools any of us could muster. Peacekeeping when surrounded by a dozen armed men, with a dozen armed vehicles behind them, means getting in their face, it means fighting. Somehow, they backed down, and I watched in amazement as a dozen armed cops simply left the plaza and we remained.

Then we danced.

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