Page One

It wasn't the first time I stood and demonstrated on the Savio Steps outside UC Berkeley's Sproul Hall but it was the first time I found myself hoisting the middle of a 12-foot-wide banner reading "Save People's Park."

In the early hours of Tuesday, armed police had sealed off the park with a metal fence, standing by as hired contractors set to work chopping down the park's trees.

A rally had been called for 5PM and now, more than a hundred park supporters were standing in the shadow of the Student Union as a tattooed activist flipped on a microphone. He invited the crowd to move into the sunshine to hear short messages from a half-dozen scheduled speakers.

The choreographed event soon turned into a Free Speech free-for-all when a self-important bozo in the audience marched up the steps, snatched the mike from the startled moderator and began to pontificate.

The crowd responded by booing his bullying tactics. He only stopped ranting when the power to his microphone was cut.

With power—and decorum—restored, Park co-founder and legendary radical presence Mike Delacour returned the rally's focus to the University's desecration and peoples' defense of the park. A few more speakers stepped forward with comments, condemnations and legal updates—while an unamplified chorus of critics hovered behind, waving their arms, pointing fingers, and seeming to challenge whoever held the microphone. 

Then it was time to join my two fellow banner-bearers and begin to march. Two large banners were supposed to be in the lead as the crowd surged onto Telegraph Avenue but we got a late start and soon discovered a mass-action fact: You can't steer a banner through the middle of a mob. We eventually moved toward the curb and weaseled our way to the front. 

As we reached Haste and turned toward the park, we passed alongside Osha Newmann and Brian Thiele's historic mural showing the park's birth—along with the immortal image of Free Speech Movement activist Mario Savio speaking from atop a cop car surrounded by a painted crowd of UC students. 

Approaching the park was a challenge since it involved mastering some trampoline-hopping maneuvers to cross over sections of metal fencing that had been torn down and let piled on the sidewalks and street. 

The sight was heart-breaking. An open space that once resembled a scruffy Urban Eden, now looked like a battlefield—or worse, like the site of a massacre. Scores of once-tall trees lay dismembered on the ground. A single towering sequoia (quite possibly older than the city itself) was one of the few trees that had not been felled. Huge mounds of sawdust cluttered the land. Heavy equipment stood abandoned in the park, dismantled by the clawing hands of park defenders. 

A a number of the sawed stumps and truncated limbs had been honored by anonymous artists who had covered their remains with painted images of hearts and flowers. 

We spread our banner over the front of two disabled bulldozers and joined the crowd as speakers began to climb on to the park's still-intact stage and began to share memories and strategies. 

One park elder (who was so well-known that many in the audience greeted him by shouting his name) spoke emotionally of his bonding with the park. At one point, he swept his arm toward an empty patch of parkland and uttered an anguished cry: "They cut down my tree!" 

Park defenders offered advice for the days ahead. "Dress in black to show solidarity." "Wear masks to protect your identity." "Don't take photographs of other protestors." 

Many speakers recalled the magic of the park as a place of refuge. Many speakers condemned the University. Some spoke of the brutality of the minions who would destroy the park to YIMBYfy the city's vanishing open spaces. (Was it really necessary to weld shut the metal door on the park's public restroom?) 

After an hour of oratory, ranging from rebellion to regeneration, a van pulled up on Dwight and two black-clad volunteers emerged with two large saplings in planter pots. They carried to the young trees to the edge of the stage and placed them on defiant display—ready to plant and protect in the days ahead. 

Leaving the park, I headed back down Haste and encountered a woman heading up the middle of the street. She was pushing a shopping cart filled with clothes, food and some meager possessions. 

"Is that People's Park?" she asked. 

I nodded yes. 

"I remember it with trees," she sobbed, wiping her eyes.