Visiting Hours at the Evening Zoo

Dearest Rachel –

You might remember listening to the radio being piped in through the overhead speakers in the cafeteria back at college. While most of the time, it was playing the usual top 40 stuff we could just as easily watch on the ‘campus nightlight’ that was MTV (I referred to it as such because at my dorm, it was on almost perpetually, day or night). But during breakfast, there was also a group of disk jockeys bantering with each other in what I eventually learned was generically called a “morning zoo” program, which every metropolitan area worth its salt had (and I suppose still has) at least one of.

That’s the term that came to mind as I hopped onto the blue lion train, headed into the city; that’s what I figured I was going to be seeing. Not so much a matter of witty banter over the airwaves as a whole lot of crosstalk, where everybody has their opinion, and they all think they’re right and righteous. Indeed, judging from the news footage that I had seen of the previous night, I was expecting it to be more like a real zoo than the type you didn’t counter on the radio, complete with primates hurling their (metaphorical in this case, I would hope) fecal matter at those who came to gawk at them.

Of course, it’s that kind of behavior that had people warning me away from the area in the first place. After all, unlike a real zoo, there are no bars or plexiglass windows between the observers and the observed. Theoretically, you can go right up to them and pet them – although that’s definitely not recommended. You can – also theoretically, since I’d been given to understand that they generally couldn’t be reasoned with – engage them in conversation, and try to understand where they might be coming from in terms of their issues with the government and the party currently assembling here.

Now, in a situation like this, you would probably be quoting to me from Into The Woods about how, when going out (I know the original line starts with “when going to hide,” but that’s not what I was doing; not in the slightest), one must “know how to get there, and how to get back.” Granted, you might add “and eat first,” as per the script again, but as I was coming from a meeting at church, while that could have been an option, I felt the trip would be long enough without me burning daylight at some restaurant along the way. In any event, I wasn’t sure what ‘L’ train or stop would get me closest to the United Center. I’d been under the impression that the Kedzie station would be the closest, but as I was riding down to where the blue line connects to the green, I read about how the station at Damen street had been remodeled and reopening just in time for the convention. This seemed to suggest that it was the place to get off in order to make my way over to where all the action was to be.

You might notice a preponderance of suits and ties among the attendees. Well, you might not be able to see the ties from behind, but trust me, almost all of them were wearing them. Unlike the folks you see on the news, these people were dressed in what looked to me like their Sunday best. To be sure, this might be normal business attire for them, but I couldn’t help thinking that this might be the closest some of them get to dressing up for church. And in fairness, there are some people to whom politics are a religion, and their leaders are like gods. May God help them, because those leaders likely won’t.

Either way, I felt a little bit out of place. Sure there was the occasional fellow sporting a blazer over a T-shirt bearing the names of the presidential running mates, but as a general rule, these people were almost too well-dressed for walking around this part of the city.

And to think, I had dressed in a black T-shirt and cargo pants in order to blend in, or so I thought; I was not managing to do that at all. I had assumed that the crowd would be made up of more protestors than attendees; as it turned out, most of the protest signs I saw at first were held by trees and posts, rather than people:

You might notice the fencing behind several of these signs. It turns out that the party of walls don’t work only believes that statement to a certain point. When it comes to the hoi polloi getting into their little shindig, they’re putting up walls to keep us out. In fairness, if there’s a fee to get in, I can understand not letting those (like me) who haven’t paid from doing so; it’s a hallmark of civil society – although I don’t recall too many walls at any of the anime conventions keeping other guests from wandering the halls of the convention center/hotel. The panel rooms, sure, there would be monitors checking for badges and the like. But here, you couldn’t get within several blocks of the place without dealing with three lines of fencing.

And let’s not forget about the police! Again, I can respect the need for them, and appreciate what they’re doing, but this is the party that was hooting and hollering about defunding the police not too long ago (although long enough ago that you would remember some of those days, especially the “fiery but peaceful protests” of the last election cycle). It gets under my skin that they consider these officers to be “systemically racist” until it comes to protecting their own interests and skin. If you’re going to insist on their presence, at least show some appreciation.

One interesting feature of all this theatre was that other people were taking pictures (like me, they were “just tourists here”), and asking permission to do so, just like what might happen at anime conventions with cosplayers. Plutocrat Guy, in particular, posed proudly next to his bloody hand for the lady in the shot above shortly after I took this one. It seemed odd; while I know that’s a courtesy to request a photograph, these people are dressing like this and holding signs for the very purpose of getting cameras on them. It seems almost silly to be asking permission to take a picture, since that’s their whole raison d’etre, here.

Additionally, I couldn’t help but think about how a bloody hand (or, in a more stylized form, an inverted red triangle on a black field) is considered a symbol of Hamas’ al-Qassam brigade. This is who they support, whether they’re aware of it or not.

Still, it was all pretty calm out here, and since I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get into the venue (not that I necessarily wanted to do so – especially if I would have to pay for the privilege), I began to take a circuit around the place in order to make my way back to the station to get home. If the real action was to happen at night, I wouldn’t be staying for it. Not only would it be more dangerous than even I wanted to mess with, there was (as with Shinjuku) the question of being able to “know how to get back.” At least I could get some more steps in – as well as work out the continued kinks in my leg.

I didn’t take a picture of it, since it was off in the distance, but there was a point where I got to an intersection, and had to stop as ten or twelve black limousines with flashing red and blue lights and sirens came down one street and turned onto the street I was walking down. I could only assume that it was one of the keynote speakers for tonight; probably the former president and his wife, judging from the pomp and circumstance (and based on the fact that the current president left for vacation – again – after putting in his time at the podium the night before and his former running mate – and the new candidate – had jetted off to Milwaukee for a fundraiser, so neither of them were there and in need of such security).

I went in the same direction as the limousine train for a few blocks until I came to yet another “road closed” sign; I was back at the perimeter of the Center again, where I could continue my circuit around it in order to make my way make to the Damen station. Except, no; this particular barricade was as much for pedestrian as vehicular traffic, as this led to the entrance for staffers and guests (as opposed to even attendees). There was no going further, unless I was to go further out of my way – and at this point, I was getting quite lost enough.

So I turned to the officer warning me away from this entrance, and asked him as to which way I should go to get back to the Damen station. Surprisingly, he started of by recommending that I double back on the route I’d actually taken, before he was interrupted by another lost pedestrian asking about another station that was in sight across a bridge from where we were standing. That one turned out to be a station on the blue line, which he allowed that I could take it to Clark and Lake to get on the green line if I so desired, just like at the beginning of this mini-odyssey.

“Oh, that’s actually better; I only needed the green line to get to the blue line,” I responded, and followed the other pedestrian to the Illinois Medical Center station, and rode past some twenty-five stations on my way back home.

And that was it. No real drama, no major craziness. It’s not like I could ask a policeman where the protestors were gathering, as they might think I was part of that group, and would (at best) want to keep me away from where it was organizing (and at worst, might consider locking me up preemptively for thereby ‘admitting’ to being one of them. And if they were to do so, I could hardly blame them; stupidity isn’t a crime as such, but sometimes, it maybe should be). So for all that, it really wasn’t what I expected or hoped for. On the other hand, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to have been caught up in the worst of it, as apparently hit the Israeli embassy some hours later that night (and where was that, anyway?).

Then again, maybe things would have been at least a little more interesting if I had stopped to “eat first,” eh, honey?

Anyway, thanks for keeping an eye on me, and presumably wishing me luck. I’m sure I needed it – and I’ll wager I still do yet, for that matter.