Women want to get active; can they unite?
I was on the northeastern corner of Monroe and Second streets in downtown Phoenix on Tuesday, watching protesters outside the Phoenix Convention Center, where President Donald Trump was speaking to supporters inside.
I was talking with my friend, Maureen DiasWatson, who had come to the protest alone; everyone she had asked to join her had worried it might not be safe.
It had been less than two weeks since the deadly clash in Charlottesville, Virginia, and it was on people’s minds and signs. “She deserved a better president,” read one sign featuring a picture of Heather Heyer, who was killed, police say, when a white nationalist ran his car into a group of protesters during a weekend of violence.
Police officers were everywhere in downtown Tuesday, on bikes and on foot. City dump trucks had been parked at street intersections as barricades. It felt safe.
I’d been outside since about 4 p.m., sweating through my clothes, my hair sticking to my damp face. It was 8:30 now, and Trump had just finished.
Thousands of Trump supporters had stood in line for hours to get into the rally, fanning themselves with “Make America Great Again” hats.
Supporters were kept to the south side of Monroe, a line of police officers standing as a second barrier in front of the metal barriers.
Protesters were kept on the north side of the street, behind more metal barriers in a designated area at the Herberger Theater Center.
The street between was clear. Anyone who tried to cross was sent back by police or told to go one block over and around.
There were exchanges, of course. “Shame! Shame!” some
protesters chanted as supporters filed into the rally. Some Trump backers threw up their middle fingers in response.
While Trump spoke inside, protesters stayed. They cleared walkways for people using wheelchairs and walkers, and offered water and a place to sit down for people overcome by the heat. They prayed in groups. They sang.
Vendors sold signs, T-shirts and bumper stickers. Volunteers handed out water bottles and lollipops. Medics roamed, asking how people were doing. Overall, it had been peaceful. All that changed in just a few minutes.
Finding ways to get involved
I had gone to speak to people for a column I was writing about how the 2016 presidential election had motivated more women to get involved in politics.
Almost 5 million people, mostly women, had taken part in Women’s March events across the country in January. Since then, studies showed, many had stayed politically active, some for the first time and some for the first time in a long time.
They were signing more petitions, calling lawmakers more often and donating more to candidates and causes.
I had already done some reporting, looking at research, talking to experts, talking to people who wanted to do something, anything.
One of them was Erynn Brook, a 30year-old woman from Toronto. She decided to start an anti-racism group in January after a shooting at the Quebec Islamic Cultural Centre, in which six Muslim men were killed and 19 injured during evening prayers. A French-Canadian university student was arrested and charged.
She had posted on Facebook on Jan. 30 about the group, which she was calling Nice White Ladies.
“We’re going to do Nice White Lady things like bring cookies, wear first aid fanny packs and knit fuzzy pink hats. We’re going to stand close to police and diffuse tensions with our Nice White Lady smiles.”
In half a day, 86 women had signed up. Within two weeks, over 200 wanted in.
Because they wanted to help, but they didn’t know how.
The name, Nice White Ladies, is a little cringe-y, but it is meant to be, borrowed as it was from people who used it less charitably.
It’s a tongue-in-cheek way to acknowledge the privilege afforded the women by their white skin and that it is all right to talk about it.
“Instead of making racism impolite, we turned talking about race into something that is impolite,” Brook said.
A friend told her that white women want to fix racism the same way they ask to speak to the manager at Whole Foods. Obviously, it’s not that easy.
This effort has been underway for hundreds of years without them. Brook encourages women to find out what efforts already are underway in their communities and ask what they can do to help.
For many of the women I would meet, that meant showing up.
There are bigger worries
Kim Brands of Mesa showed up hours ahead of the rally’s 7 p.m. start time to get in line to hear the president talk. She had come at the urging of her daughter, Hillary, who’s 25.
“This Hillary is a proud Trump supporter,” Hillary Brands said, laughing.
We could hear the protesters chanting from across the street: “No Trump, no KKK, no fascist USA!”
She could not understand why people were calling them racist. “There are all races in the Republican Party,” Hillary Brands said. There are bigger worries in the country, she said, like tax reform and health care.
Her mother said she’s paid more attention to politics in the past year, prompted by the negative press about the president.
“I came out to show my support for America, because that’s what Trump stands for,” Kim Brands said. “I’m not ashamed that I voted for him.” She was hopeful Trump would pardon former Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio, who was convicted of criminal contempt for ignoring a federal-court order to stop racially profiling Latinos. (Trump did pardon Arpaio, on Friday.)
“I was for everything Arpaio did,” she said. “He was trying to make our state more secure.”
Shelly Sundaram, 44, of Gilbert had been outside for almost five hours and was soaked with sweat. She was campaigning for Republican Kelli Ward, who is running for U.S. Senate.
She said the more polarized things get, the more women seem to want to be informed. Whether it’s attending political gatherings or school-board meetings, the more information women have, the better decisions they can make.
“I encourage all my friends — whatever side they are on — to get involved,” she said.
Josephine Mabe drove up from Sierra Vista, where she is the coordinator for a “tea party” group in Cochise County.
She’s heard from more women interested in getting involved, particularly amid efforts to remove Confederate statues and monuments from public places.
“I am concerned that they’re erasing our history, whether it’s good or bad. If we erase our history, how will we learn from it?” she asked. “How are you going to measure how far we’ve come?”
So Mabe showed up on Tuesday, bringing along a friend to show support for her president: “We want unity for our nation.“
Behind her in line, Kathy McCardle of Apache Junction agreed that more women are getting involved: “Women are tired of sitting back. We want to have a voice.”
Showing up, speaking up
Across the street, where the protesters gathered, Angie Taylor of Tempe wore a shirt that said, “The future is female.”
“Old white men have had long enough. They got us into this mess,” she said.
I ran into Maureen, who had just helped an older woman overcome by the heat find water and ice and stayed with her while she cooled down.
Doc Shreve wore a yellow T-shirt with “LEGAL OBSERVER” on the front in all capital letters. She’s a Phoenix attorney.
The day after the presidential election, she gathered other attorneys and associates and started a group called Arizona Women for Justice.
She had about 20 volunteers at the protest. “We want to make sure no one gets hurt and no one tramples on people’s rights,” she said. She hoped their presence would have a calming effect.
Jennifer Longdon, a longtime community advocate, had a case of water bottles on her lap, which she was handing out to whoever needed it. She welcomed new people getting involved and hopes they stick around.
“We need to come to this and listen and figure out where we belong,” she said. “Bring your skills, but come with humility and learn. Respect the people who already are doing the work.”
Stephanie Small, 50, of Phoenix said that’s why she was at the protest with two friends: to learn. They were horrified by what happened in Charlottesville.
“We have to have the courage to stand up and say, ‘This is not right,’ ” Small said. It would be easy for them to stay quiet. But Small quoted Benjamin Franklin: “Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are.”
They are new to this. After the election, Small invited friends over to talk about how to get involved. The first time, 20 women showed up; the next time, there were 40. Now, she attends local Democratic Party meetings and signed up for a daily alert about legislative issues.
“I felt like I needed to do something,” she said. “Just sitting in my house yelling at Facebook is not changing anything.”
“I’m starting to think that we should stop being so nice,” Small said. “We let people off the hook for egregious actions by sometimes being too polite to call them out on bad behavior.”
She knows she is late to the conversation. So she was at the protest, asking questions and listening.
Marlene Galan Woods, a longtime Valley newscaster and first-generation Cuban-American, leaned against a metal barrier with a sign that read, “Never been a sign gal but sheesh.”
Earlier in the day, Woods had posted on Twitter: “I’ve never marched or protested. Today in #Phoenix is the day.”
It was what happened at Charlottesville, the sight of torch-carrying white supremacists throwing Nazi salutes and the violence that resulted, that was the catalyst to get involved.
“It wasn’t acceptable anymore to be silent,” Woods said. “My filter is off, and I don’t care who I offend. We are talking about the very fabric of our society.
“I don’t know how we all can’t agree that what happened (in Charlottesville) is wrong.”
Voices turn to terror
It got cooler when the sun went down. I had been talking with Maureen.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My throat was on fire. My eyes burned. Tears streamed down my face.
I knew what it was right away. Years ago, I had carried one of those keychains with a small pepper-spray canister, the ones you buy at self-defense classes, and I accidentally shot myself in the face once. This was so much worse.
Without warning, it seemed, the police had fired pepper spray and then tear gas into the crowd. The air filled with a yellow and white cloud that stretched up to the second level of a nearby parking garage.
I coughed so hard I retched onto the sidewalk and then pulled bandannas out of my purse, handing a blue one to Maureen and tying a pink one around my nose and mouth.
I shot video with my cellphone as people hustled away in all directions, some yelling, some cursing, helping each other over the barriers.
A woman dressed all in black rinsed the face of an older woman as she was tugged along by two teenagers. A man ran by me with his son in his arms, the boy’s face buried in his dad’s shirtfront.
I called my news director to tell him what was happening, coughing into the phone. He asked if I was safe, and could I get back to the newsroom? Could I see anyone else?
We had at least a dozen reporters and photographers out there.
And then came ear-splitting booms, the sound echoing off the buildings so it was hard to tell where it was coming from. Was it gunshots?
People screamed for friends and family, the terror in their voices real.
And then there was another boom, and I could see the flash of light. Police were throwing flash-bang grenades.
A line of police officers in gas masks and riot gear moved along Second Street.
A protester kicked a smoking canister back toward police.
I backed up toward the newsroom, calling Maureen to come with me. I gave my water to a teenage girl who was crying. I called to two people carrying a young man who looked unconscious to bring him into the lobby of our building.
How do we get past barricades?
Because I work for a newspaper, as a rule, I don’t participate in political protests and rallies. I want to avoid even the appearance of bias. But I’ve covered plenty of them and, for the most part, they ended peacefully, not like this.
Police officers had pulled on gas masks, and for the next 20 minutes or so, they used pepper spray and tear gas to scatter the last of the protesters along Second Street, right outside our building.
I went back outside from our building and watched the helicopter circle overhead, shining a spotlight on protesters. The voice on a loudspeaker told them to leave or face arrest. The street began to empty. A small group of protesters remained. My throat still burned.
I wondered if the women I interviewed made it home safely. I had their phone numbers so I could check on them later.
I think about the women, the ones on one side of the street and the ones on the other, separated by a line of police and metal barriers, the ones who were new to this process, and how some of the thoughts they expressed sounded the same. They wanted unity, equity, peace, good schools and safe places to live.
I heard them say similar words, but they were so far apart — on different sides of a wide street, with all these barriers between them.
I hope what happened Tuesday night won’t keep them there.