By William Bradd – Anderson Valley Advertiser, July 25, 1990
We gathered in small knots, unsure of what to do, the event was over and they were going to march on the mill and I didn’t know if I wanted to do that, at one level, and yet I was in for the ride so I moved up towards the main street. Others were moving, slowly but a march was forming, people sort of kept their eyes lowered and moved out on to the main street of Fort Bragg. I think most of us were scared shitless at one level, but once out there, a certain bravery took over, a certain hugging together with the next person happened, even metaphorically. I didn’t know half these people, the Coast didn’t bother to show up, where were all the loud mouths. It was mostly Earth First! people and a whole lot of other folks who were angry at the rudeness, the lack of respect for the human condition, as if to say, small town people don’t need a forest, a sanctuary, a mystery. How dare they?! So we showed up to be counted, and now it was time to march, and there I was marching down the main street of Fort Bragg, past the old hospital, the old mortuary, the old print shop and the old company store. We finished up there, but it was too cramped and we felt cornered behind the joint so we all filed back out to main, where a truck with musicians was giving us the slowdown hoedown.
But the march was the thing. I mean 12 wide, stretching back for a block and a half, what a feeling. We were chanting Woodpecker Rebellion in my area, and that’s what I thought, here we are a block and a half of woodpeckers, all heading downtown. At one point I was holding hands with an attorney. I figured if a cop comes to whack me I’m going to point out this guy and the cop will whack the attorney. Actually, I never thought there was going to be anybody whacked. When I arrived and saw the cops, 20 different assortments, it looked like Czechoslovakia in a cheap movie, I was pissed for a moment, but reason kicked in and I thought, these cops are probably here to protect us, at least its 50-50. So they didn’t bother me.
It’s interesting where people decide to draw the line. Someday, some odd moment, maybe a seagull has blocked the sun for a sec and suddenly all things change and you decide that’s it. You don’t care what other people say, what they do, how they whine or invent stories, you have drawn the line. And if you grew up with Randolph Scott westerns, buddy he knew where to draw the line. Somewhere between the eyes of the black hats. Handgear was an important aspect in the breathing business, early on.
So we stepped forward singly and in groups out onto the main street of Fort bloody Bragg. I was sort of in the front half, but I never really wondered much about what was happening, either in front or in back of me. I was very interested in what was happening at the sides of me. I marched along keeping a good eye on the rooftops as we passed. These suckers were busy. I mean the top windows of those B & B’s on the main drag there, photographers of some sort, some quite hidden. These guys were snapping away.
A quick aside. Early I was sitting on the grass, my back against the back of three friends. A man comes along, a kind of beach lizard look and takes my picture. I turned my head, he continues, then he comes over and says “Hey man, I don’t mean no harm,” or some other thing, then he says, “Don’t be afraid.” I say, ‘‘I’m not afraid” and he goes off. I think it’s rude to take people’s pictures without their permission. Call me old fashioned if you will, but it irritates me. I feel that I cannot be free with my soul for that moment, what if, the grand exposure, n’est ce pas. Anyway.
We are on the march. I can hear the drummers. I’m behind a big banner that says something, and I’m next to a little kid in pink who’s singing “I’m part of the woodpecker rebellion.”
When we get near the burned out library site I begin to wonder what will happen next. As the old company store loomed above us the chanting got louder, we were chanting, we were waving our fists, we were jumping up and down to still, utterly, the heart of small town fascism. We marched down the main street and into the maw. We sang God shed his grace on thee, and went home to sit in the twilight and relive the day.
I don’t know if we had a parade. I don’t think our march was a parade. The parade took place earlier in the day, at another site, where they waved pom-poms. Our march had drums, drummers and masked spectres with a coffin, our march had little kids and weirdly dressed individuals, and tourist yuppies, and some of us, coastal people. I see a face up ahead, a face I know, looking around for another face that I might know, and when these faces locked eyes, these faces said, “hey, thanks for being here, having our moment”. Our bravery, along with your bravery, will mingle together with those of us of like ilk all over. Noisy people, nosy people, what are you doing behind the forest corridor people, neighborly people, little nuts people, I gotta take my hat off to you.
P.S.: To those of you who didn’t bother to show up, let me say this: A lot of us have lived here a long time, we know who Prometheus Firbough was, got Toad throat, had poetry readings at the Studio, but never did we dare to walk down the main street of Fort Bragg without their permission. Some badass thing could happen to you. The town has no shortage of hatred, stooped as it is by an inexcusable school system and a crippling industry. Nevertheless your absence on this day was noted, and those of us who were there will know each other by the name sister or brother.