Nights in Tents

by Laura Love

  “We’re (now) able to broadcast over a great distance. It’s clearly understood, so there’s no miscommunication. It’s more effective than using a bullhorn,” a uniformed Police Sergeant, Chris Bielfeldt, said innocuously in the interview. He went on to add, “We’re using this as a messaging device. We’re not using an alarm tone. We’re using this to communicate messages.”

  “So alarm tones to those people who might think this is going to be used to bring people down by using alarm tones …” interrupted the newsman.

  “No. We’re here to broadcast messages with the device,” came the swift response from the Sergeant.

  What the story did not elaborate on were the numerous controversies and issues swirling around the use of the LRAD “Sound cannon.” A recent article, posted by Roberto Baldwin at Gizmodo.com website reported that:

  “The Occupy Movement has become one of the longest large-scale protests in US history, and all that protesting had pitted the activists against police departments and their crowd-control weapons. One of the more controversial of those is the LRAD Sound Cannon.”

  So what’s the harm in a little noise? Well, a lot, actually.

  The LRAD Sound Cannon is an acoustic weapon and communication device …

  Developed by the LRAD corporation to broadcast messages and pain-inducing “deterrent” tones over long distances, LRAD devices come in various iterations that produce varying degrees of sound. They can be mounted to a vehicle or handheld. The device produces a sound that can be directed in a beam up to thirty-degree wide, and the military-grade LRAD 2000X can transmit voice commands at up to 162 dB up to 5.5 miles away.

  … that blasts “non-lethal” sound waves …

  The LRAD corporation says that anyone within a one hundred meters of the device’s sound path will experience extreme pain. The version generally utilized by police departments, (the LRAD 500X) is designed to communicate at up to two thousand meters during ideal conditions. In a typical outdoor environment, the device can be heard for 650 meters. The 500x is also capable of short bursts of directed sound that cause severe headaches in anyone within a three-hundred-meter range. Anyone within fifteen meters of the device’s audio path can experience permanent hearing loss. LRAD claims the device is not a weapon, but a “directed-sound communication device.”

  … and keep birds from hitting planes …

  LRAD systems are deployed at airports to sonically deter birds from residing in the paths of aircrafts. The bio-acoustic deterrent helps minimize bird strikes like the one that caused the ditching of Flight 1549 in the Hudson river. In this context, the LRAD broadcasts tones and predator calls that frighten birds away.

  … but has also been used against activists …

  The LRAD device has been used on several occasions against activists in the US. The first documented use was in Pittsburgh during the G20 summit in 2009. The Pittsburgh police used it again following the Super Bowl in 2011. The LRAD has reportedly been used against Occupy protesters in Oakland and recently against Occupy Wall Street protestors in Zuccotti Park.

  … and has potentially long-term side effects.

  Use of the device has come under fire because of the potential for permanent hearing loss. Human discomfort starts when a sound hits 120 dB, well below the LRAD’s threshold. Permanent hearing loss begins at 130 dB, and if the device is turned up to 140 dB, anyone within its path would not only suffer hearing loss, they could potentially lose their balance and be unable to move out of the path of the audio. The device is also entirely operator-dependent, which could lead to serious ramifications if the officer in charge doesn’t have sufficient training.

  As a professional touring musician, who’s sung through hundreds of state-of-the-art outdoor sound systems across the globe, I must say, I do love a good sound system. I’ve even purchased a few over the course of my career. However, the idea that any police department in the United States would find it necessary to buy an LRAD Sound Cannon, whose main purpose is—let’s face it—sending dissenters (and all other living creatures) running for their lives to escape the ear-breaking blasts, rather than a conventional sound system, is ludicrous. We are continually being told that municipal budgets are stretched to the limits and need to be slashed to the bone, so the reasoning leaves me cold. Any police department in the country could easily outfit itself with enough volume and clarity to knock off a mastodon from half a mile away for far less than the twenty-thousand-dollar price tag that came with the LRAD “attention getter.” I wondered if investments like these were part of the reason the Mayor felt he needed to close mental health clinics. If the intended purpose was, as they insisted, to “communicate messages,” there are scads of systems that would do just that, for a fraction of the cost, although they would not be able to drop you to your knees with organ-damaging frequencies at the drop of a hat, like LRAD can.

  I knew from having seen the ABC broadcast that the LRAD system would be, “on standby” at the NATO rally, but I didn’t expect to see what looked like beefed-up Humvees advancing toward us, down the same street that I saw the city bus/paddy wagons stationed. I also saw what looked like a tank, amidst the other armored vehicles on that side street. The pain of being mashed on all sides by police barricades, my rented bike and panicked Occupiers, coupled with the frightening approach of paramilitary troops, proved to me more than I could easily handle, so I began pleading with some of the yelling officers in front of me to let me out of the kettle. At first they refused, but one finally took pity on me and relented, after I fell against the bike and tumbled to the ground, inadvertently pushing a small opening in the metal barricades. The cop didn’t stop me when I used the fall to my advantage and pushed as hard as I could to widen the wedge enough to let me squeeze through. It was almost as scary to be standing among the officers without a barrier between us, as it had been to be on the inside of the scrum. Still, I did feel fortunate to be able to get out of there, as it seemed I’d come close to being flattened. Part of me wanted to ride as fast as I could to the nearest airport and highjack the next flight out to anywhere—while the other wanted to witness what lengths Rahm’s army might go to. Once out of immediate danger, I walked with others toward the street with all the armor, and climbed to the edge of an elevated apartment parking lot, hoping to videotape the carnage. Shortly after that, my cell phone battery, inopportunely, ran out, leaving me to oversee, without documenting, what happened next. Our original numbers had declined dramatically after the riot squad rushed in, leaving what looked like about five hundred of us in attendance. At first glance, I judged there to be more police officers than Occupiers, which gave me little solace, as I watched them start swinging their bludgeons at the small group of Black Bloc anarchists, who continued trying to breach the barricades and get onto the forbidden avenue. I looked behind me and saw the familiar round speaker of the LRAD unit, which had been moved into position for possible use. Cries of pain from downed demonstrators registered upon my ears, as a riot cop strode up to me, clenching his baton like a baseball bat. “Get the fuck off the concrete and get out of here, right now,” came the crude order, from the husky officer in the kevlar vest. I wasted no time leaping down from my perch and jumping onto my bike, before he took a notion to take a swing at me with his club. I moved so fast that I made bone bruising contact with the bicycle’s center bar, before getting up to speed. But once I did get going, I zoomed past the parked buses and armored vehicles until I got a few blocks away and darted up another street, wanting to gain a vantage point that wasn’t so tightly patrolled. Every street I went down had cars and cops stationed at every intersection, making it well nigh impossible to penetrate the compound they’d set up. If I wanted to see what was happening, the only method was to head back the way I came, past all those buses and tank-looking things—which is what I tried to do. This time, I only got within two blocks of my original perch before I was stopped by a group of law enforcement personnel, who advised me to go no further, “If I didn’t want to get
hurt.” I took them at their word and dismounted my bike to stand on an upraised apartment lawn, craning my neck along with some mostly black building residents, who had also come out to see what they could. “Ooooooweee, they just tore that little motherfucker’s ass up!” exclaimed a dark-skinned man with binoculars, (a resident, I presumed), who was glued to his post. He handed them over to another young brother, who began cringing and grimacing as he gave us a running commentary on what was taking place up the street. “Bammmmmm, Dawg! Oooooh shit! Ahhhh, hell no … No, boy … don’t get up—just stay down, Nigga. Ohhhhhhh, snap, they got ‘im again. They done beat that other white boy’s face bloody. He a damn mess … Oh, lookout Homie … now there go another one …” I wanted badly to ask for a turn on the glasses, but could see the police eyeing us contemptuously from the car, so I resisted the temptation.

  “How many are there?” I burst, no longer able to contain myself.

  “You mean cops or them other people?” the commentator replied, never taking his eyes off the action.

  “Both,” I answered.

  “Shoot, it looks like there’s maybe twenty or thirty of them protesters … and like … eighteen … million cops!” he finished, cracking himself up as his neighbors erupted in hysterics.

  Soon thereafter, one of the officers who had been leaning into a car talking to his coworkers, straightened to turn and address us. “Okay, look folks, we’re going to have to ask you to leave now and head back up to your homes if you live here, and … if you don’t live here, you’ll have to head back that way …” he said, motioning behind him.

  I appreciated that this one’s tone wasn’t as bossy as I’d heard near the kettle, but I knew he meant business, so I turned to leave, just as one of the residents beside me said, “Why’ve we got to leave? We live here. This is our building and this is our yard.”

  “I understand that sir, but I’m asking you and the others to go back inside to your apartment now—for your own safety,” was the officer’s response.

  The man turned, grumbling, and slowly walked toward the apartment entrance, as did the others. Another man mumbled under his breath, as he walked past them, “The only danger I see here is you.” He was closely followed by a woman, balancing a toddler on her hip, who defiantly tossed a denuded pork rib bone out onto the street near the police car before flouncing toward the entrance door that another man was holding open. “I ‘spose you gon’ charge me for littering now,” she hissed, belligerently.

  Oh please don’t make him mad, I mentally pleaded with her.

  “‘Asking”—you say it like we got a choice. Hmmmph, I really don’t see why the hell we cain’t just stand here in our own damn yard!” She concluded, all lathered up, as she tried to slam the shock-absorbed door behind her.

  Chapter 11

  Vaginista

  July 18, 2012

  Sitting in the balcony of the Michigan State Legislature had an allure all its own. Especially when compared to the hard work of trying to outrun CPD riot cops on bloody stumps and racking my junk on oversized bike bars. I’d returned to Pagan Place two months earlier, reeling from Occupy NATO and the combat zone-iness of it all. On my flight home, I once again vowed to find safer, easier ways to protest, that didn’t involve travel, tear gas, or tanks. Perhaps it might behoove me to become proficient at writing compelling letters to my elected representatives, from the warmth and comfort of my living room. For a full two weeks I happily immersed myself in domestic projects that may have bored me in the recent past. By the third week, I was gnashing my teeth and sitting on my hands trying to endure the silences that gave me so much time to ponder the great distance we had yet to cover before even coming close to achieving our goals. Unscrupulous lenders had blinked for a brief moment in time, but houses were still being plucked daily out from under desperate families. Big Oil, gas, and coal were still providing us with reams of nightly news footage featuring oil-soaked marine life, flaming faucets, and destroyed riparian ecosystems. Wall Street bankers and corporate CEOs were still reaping outrageous profits while labor unions got crushed under the pressure to accept takeaways in order to placate the “job givers.” And the country’s highest legislative body was still earning its nickname, the “Supreme Koch.”

  I lay in bed at night, restless and heartbroken, dreaming of new ways to foment the revolution and restart the momentum we had in September, 2011. Right about that time, an interesting/infuriating story was making the rounds on the mainstream media. In a June session of the legislative House, Michigan Representative, democrat Lisa Brown had taken the floor to voice her opposition to HB5711, a republican-authored bill that would essentially make the cost of abortion prohibitive by imposing so many new regulations on providers, they could no longer practice the procedure. In her concluding remarks she said, “I’m flattered you’re all so interested in my vagina, but no means no.” White, male, republican speaker of the house, Jase Bolger had been so inflamed by her indecorous utterance of the “V” word, that he had exploded into a fit of gavel pounding, declaring Ms. Brown to be “out of order,” whereupon he informed her that she was no longer allowed to speak. The wave of indignation that ensued washed like a tsunami over the bodies and minds of women nationwide, resulting in five thousand angry Lisa Brown supporters descending, like hornets, on the state capitol steps to rebuke the offending men. Though Americans are notorious for their short attention spans, I vowed to attempt to revive the conversation about the “War on Women,” by theatrically disrupting the next legislative session on July 18. To that end, I began working my social network to see if there was any interest in helping me put together a demonstration in Lansing, Michigan for the reconvening of the state Legislature on July 18. A Washington State woman named Diane Jhueck answered the call, which got the ball rolling for a direct action I dubbed, “Twattergate.” To prepare for any eventuality, I procured a used, king-sized bedsheet, which I converted into a giant banner, emblazoned with the enigmatic blood red message, VAGINAS ARE REVOLTING. Diane, who predicted the need, created a website for the occasion, whose address she suggested I paint on the bottom of the sign. Before long we had carved out a plan to assemble a small choir in the balcony of the legislative chamber, which would leap to its feet when the signal was given and erupt into a loud song and dance routine. Our aim was to infuriate and embarrass Speaker of the House Jase Bolger, along with the bill’s author, Bruce Rendon and their other republican colleagues, whom we saw as arrogant, controlling, and out of line, in the censure of Representatives Brown and Byrum. Our choir consisted of ten women from the Lansing area, as well as one man, (our lone Vagangsta), who were all set to launch into the song, “Vagina Yeah Yeah Yeah,” which I had written to the tune of the Beatles song, “She Loves You.” The lyrics were:

  Vagina yeah yeah yeah, vagina yeah, yeah yeah, vagina yeah yeah yeah yeah

  We think you lost your mind, when you told her what she couldn’t say

  It’s her we’re thinking of—it’s why we came to sing today

  She said vagina—and you know that can’t be bad

  She said vagina—and you know you should be glad—oooh

  Vagina yeah yeah yeah, vagina yeah yeah yeah

  With a rep like that you know you should be glad

  You good ole’ boys are through and you can’t push us around

  ‘Cause you may have the floor but we’ve got Lisa Brown

  She said vagina—and you know that can’t be bad

  She said vagina—and you know you should be glad—wooo

  CHORUS

  We think that you’re absurd, and we think you ought to know

  If you can’t say the word, then we think you ought to go

  She said vagina—and you know that can’t be bad

  She said vagina—and you know you should be glad—wooo

  I recruited my friend, PunkBoy, to accompany me to Michigan and livestream the day’s festivities, so that others around the nation could watch our antics. The rehearsal we scheduled
the night before went well so we met up the next day on the steps of the Capitol Building for the real thing. Several speeches were already scheduled to take place prior to the beginning of the session, which we hoped would inspire us to deliver a flawless performance. Coincidentally, an antifracking rally was also taking place there at the same time, which I threw myself wholeheartedly into before our special serenade. The leader of the group of sign waving “fracktivists,” gave a sobering description of the frightening consequences that came with hydraulic fracturing of shale gases buried deep beneath the earth’s surface. A cluster of moms, calling themselves “lactivists” held their babies to their bosoms to nurse, while standing next to signs bringing attention to the hostility they felt when trying to breastfeed in public. Planned Parenthood had a booth surrounded by employees and patrons who passed out flyers and engaged in conversation with others. Next up was Representative Barb Byrum, who spoke compellingly about the raw deal women get when men take control of their health care and reproductive rights. I conspicuously displayed my, “Vaginas Are Revolting,” bedsheet, twenty feet in front of her while she spoke, which guaranteed its inclusion on the local nightly newscast. As her speech wound to a close she bade us accompany her to Bolger’s office to deliver the 115,000 signatures she’d gathered from her constituency, demanding an apology from the Michigan Speaker of the House. PunkBoy and I positioned ourselves toward the front of the pack so we could witness, firsthand, his reaction upon receiving the package. Ms. Byrum swung the door open wide to admit us, as a startled aide named Ari, swallowed a gasp and backed into a corner of the office. His mouth remained open as Representative Byrum asked the receptionist if the Speaker was available. “No, I’m sorry, he was called away,” she replied, patronizingly, through the plastic smile glued on her face.