International Women’s Day, March 8th: another opportunity for collective action. Another opportunity for collective performance for one’s social media audience: here is a picture of my girlfriend/sister/mother/friend, and isn’t she great, and aren’t I great for acknowledging how great she is? Snapchat made special filters to celebrate, allowing users to turn themselves into cartoons of Marie Curie, Rosa Parks, Frida Kahlo. Reaction, of course, “has been mixed.” Never miss a chance to be performatively woke. We all have brands to sell.
There was also something of a strike – “A Day Without a Woman.” Don’t go to work, don’t buy anything, bring the whole capitalistic apparatus grinding to a halt. Just like the good old days, when Russian women broke the camel’s back and brought on the revolution of the proletariat. The strike is a fundamentally class-based action. Those who work collectively mobilize against those who own in the interest of doing them the only kind of harm they give a damn about: financial. The dichotomy need go no further. The success of a strike depends entirely on the number of strikers, and “workers” v. “owners” allows for the biggest possible tent. But here was another battlefield in the War of the Woke: this was a strike for “privileged protestors.” That the first hit Google returns for the term “womens strike privilege” come from conservative circle-jerk The Federalist should say all that’s necessary, but that didn’t prevent the Los Angeles Times from running an op-ed along the same lines, or purveyors of magical centrism Vox.com from posting a classic “this is right but also wrong” nonpiece. The argument seems to have been promulgated mostly by “privileged” men and women too content and/or scared to actually strike themselves, as a way of absolving guilt. Identity politics and class politics don’t go together quite as well as chocolate and peanut butter.
This International Women’s Day happened to fall on a Wednesday, one of my days off. I had no work from which to strike, so I went to the local rally with my girlfriend Grace. It was a very fine day in Los Angeles, eighty degrees and sunny, a radiant end to winter. We had gone to The Grove earlier, and there were very many people out shopping and eating and enjoying themselves, perfectly content with the capitalistic apparatus as it is. Why strike, weather’s great! I returned an oversized denim shirt to the Gap and purchased an expensive chicken sandwich at the Farmers Market. On the whole I took back more money than I paid out, so I did my part. Some heroes don’t wear capes.
The rally was downtown in front of the Federal Building, at Temple and Los Angeles. Walking from the Civic Center Metro station we passed a few protestor-types headed in the opposite direction, apparently already satisfied with the amount of social change they had affected. The Criminal Justice Center, the site of the trial in which Johnnie Cochran magicked a member of the bourgeoisie into a black man, loomed. It seemed significant at the time.
We were instructed to wear red and I did. So did most others — it made for a nice initial sight, rounding the corner into t-shirts repping the Los Angeles Clippers and the Communist Party of the United States. Some number of people — 500? 1000? 2000? — were present, corralled into a designated space pre-arranged by the LAPD. A distinctly Los Angeles approach to collective action, all of us funneled orderly into half a block of aspahlt as the perfectly accommodating Grand Park sits steps away. So much for that civic awakening.
The crowd skewed young, female, docile. A few held cardboard signs. I thought of making one myself, but I couldn’t come up with the right phrase. Only at the rally did it strike: “Listen to Chapo Trap House.” A group of older women organized a “knit-in,” teaching those who brought yarn how to make their own pussy hats. Two women sharing a joint arrived a bit after we did and settled next to us. Grace informed me that one was Lola Kirke, sister of Jemima Kirke. A smaller shirtless woman walked around posing happily for photos, “Symbol of Protest” painted just above her breasts. I took a picture for a mother holding her son. She thanked me and told me to “have a good one.” A man to our right, taking a picture of three friends, told them “Say Resist!” as he snapped the image. There was a guy dressed like a pirate. Several dogs were present — a chug, a pug, a pitbull. Grace and I pointed them out to one another, remarking on what good boys and girls they were for exercising their right to free assembly. I am utterly convinced that a citywide “Dog Walk Against Trump” would be a stunning collective success.
Our speakers came and went and we clapped and cheered for them. I had been prepared for milquetoast Debbie Wasserman Schultz #StillWithHer-ism, but the rhetoric was right on target. Here were women aware of the need for a comprehensive, unitary platform: not only women’s rights but labor rights, immigrant rights, indigenous people’s rights, LGBTQ issues, environmentalism, anti-imperialism. “A feminism of the ninety-nine,” someone said. The magnetism of the speakers varied, but the message was consistent, consistently compelling. A coalition is the key to affecting material change in the day-to-day lives of the citizenry. The range of topics addressed seemed to indicate that some folks understand. Social and fiscal, identity and class, chocolate and peanut butter.
An interesting thing happened. Melina Abdullah, speaking at the head of the Los Angeles chapter of Black Lives Matter, began to be shouted down by a member of the crowd. Her offenses seemed to be not doing or saying enough (anything?) for trans women of color, and the shouter (a black trans woman) drew a non-trivial slice of attention. This went on for some number of minutes until a member of the Black Lives Matter delegation (herself a queer woman of color) left the stage to confront the offended party. Whether anything was resolved between them is unclear, but the exchange was heartening; here at last was a bit of anger, a bit of ugly injected into the distinctly polite proceedings. The people must have skin in the game if a movement is to be built and sustained and capitalized upon. Lives are at stake. The bad guys won. The government is run by the Hamburglar. Anger is an asset now.
We left as the sun set, apparently already satisfied with the amount of social change we had affected. It had grown cold, and we both were tired. One of the knitters, a woman of a given race, caught the train back with us. Another woman — a woman of a different race — asked her if she was knitting, and if she wouldn’t mind showing her how. The knitting woman said she wouldn’t, and the other woman took a seat next to her.
