Turning Wheel, Burning Flame
Nov. 8, 2016.
The first thing I remember about that night was actually that afternoon. I was walking with my good friend Andrew, back from our history of electronic music class. The sun was setting and it turned the whole Santa Cruz forest a golden orange. We were talking about the election, how we had both voted Hillary despite supporting Bernie in the primaries. And yet, we were satisfied with the inevitable Clinton victory-- Trumpism would be a sociopolitical flash in American history, little more than a bad joke. A MAGA hat might even make a funny souvenir someday. The stable, positive present would surely be extended by the powers that were.
We drove into town to buy liquor. We were gonna need it, we joked. We were right.
I was living in the international dorms at the time. My friends and neighbors were all foreign exchange students, mostly Europeans (and Brits, with their newly-minted quasi-independence). As night fell, they got all gussied up for the spectacle. My friends, in suits and evening gowns, were all gathered around the TV in someone else's apartment. Reports of the ballots were streaming in. Florida was no surprise when it turned red. When Trump took Ohio, my stomach dropped. When Pennsylvania ran crimson, I removed myself. This wasn't good.
I couldn't watch with my expat cohort. To them, it was kabuki. For me, it was Revelations.
I headed over to Andrew's dorm, across campus. I needed to bear witness with my fellow Americans. Nothing inspires patriotism like doom.
Andrew wasn't around. I texted a girl from the same dorm I'd been seeing. She invited me up to her room. I was still lugging the handle of Fireball I'd bought at Safeway.
We started pulling from it. Near silence. Her phone started blowing up. A crowd was amassing in the quarry.
UC Santa Cruz had been built after the Berkeley riots of '65. It was, by design, difficult to gather in any one place. Campus was fragmented into ten discrete colleges, connected by soggy terrain, dense underbrush, and one breakneck two-lane. The only place it was possible to congregate was the old limestone quarry, which housed the student bookstore and administrative offices.
Katie, the girl, was a theatre student. She threw me a metal clamshell. "What is this?" I asked.
"Warpaint," she deadpanned.
I dragged the mascara from temple to temple, and took one of Katie's bandanas. I was already wearing all black.
We set out for the quarry. Hundreds were streaming in with us. When we climbed the last hill, the maw of the quarry opened itself before us. Megaphones squawked impromptu slogans. Fires had been lit.
There were thousands of students, all angry and panicked. The wounded youth were out for revenge.
Eventually, one of the activists, standing upon the rock formation in the epicenter, commanded the crowd to go into town. Knock loose the bedrock of corruption, starting local. This was met with howling approval. It was also a terrible idea.
Town was 3 miles away, downhill, accessible by only one steep road. It was night, and there were no sidewalks. Town was also filled with burly locals, who were never friendly with students, and who always ached to fight.
Even if they'd made it to town, what would they do? Where would the aggravated resentment of a thousand Californian children go, but through windows and the emergency ward?
This all hit me within the space of two seconds. Wide eyed, I pushed through the crowd and scrambled up the rock formation.
"EVERYONE WHO WANTS TO GO TO TOWN," I hollered, "FALL IN FUCKING LINE."
I had no intention of going downhill, but I did not betray this. I cajoled the crowd, saying that our fiery protest needed to go by each of the ten colleges to pick up as many demonstrators as possible. In reality, I knew people would break off when we stopped by their dorm, preemptively calling it a night.
I climbed down from the rock, and the crowd split before me. I made my way to the new front. Katie followed me, and my expat friends had by now shown up, no longer in formalwear.
We marched, carrying banners and singing chants, all through campus. We assumed the full road. Girls had gone topless. The men had draped their arms around each other. Hours flew by as murmurs of anxiety and revolution spread like influenza.
Just as I'd suspected, the crowd dwindled with each bus stop. By the time we'd completed the circuit, there were only a few handfuls of hardline demonstrators left. They were now more interested in each other's company than in pillaging. I suggested a meadow (strategically located near my own apartment) to retreat and rest. This was met with mellow enthusiasm.
I left the flower children and riot goons in the meadow. It was four in the morning. I slouched back towards my bunk, nothing more ringing in my head.
I awoke at 3 the next afternoon. I had slept through my statistical modeling class. I learned that UCSC's lone Trump supporter, a buff Taiwanese guy I'd seen at the gym before, had been jumped. He was in critical condition. Outside, the tattered remains of a scorched American flag blew across the ground like a tumbleweed.
