August 17th, Sacramento State Capital, 1315 10th Street, Sacramento, California, from 1:30 – 4:00 pm.
Photographs by Chris Tuite
It was a beautiful, hot day; the kind of cliché California weather one might sing about in a 70’s love song. Even while the blue sky shined, Chris, my photographer, and I were driving up Interstate 80 toward Sacramento, and I wondered how much of California was burning up just East of this main strip. The contrast felt so black and white in my mind, beautiful here, and ugly there; like I’d often felt about police violence. But I knew better. Life is full of grays.
We arrived around 12:45, and walked through the Capital mall straight to the front of the building. Standing at the entrance, I decided to bring my cape inside with an experiment in mind. As a kid, I was never satisfied with the reasoning adults gave me about following rules.
I’d ask, “Why do I have to do it that way?” And most grown-ups would reply, “Because I said so.” Most of us have known this rote answer from parents, teachers, or other figures of authority. There was no imagination, generosity, or negotiation in that response. I’d always found this outright rejection of my curiosity to be infuriating. Because of this, I’ve questioned laws and rules throughout my life. I’ve also liked mischief. I knew that bringing my cape into the Capital would be mischievous, if not risky.
Chris and I entered the Sacramento doorway entrance separately, and our belongings were scanned for weapons. When I’d found the rotunda to my right as I came down the hallway, I got very excited! I entered the domed room. The space was incredibly elegant, and grand; a classic jewel of neoclassical architecture from the 1860’s. I was amazed by the stunning gold-leafed walls, the sconces lit, just so, and the balustrades above. I pulled out my cape, and knelt down in the middle of the beautifully tiled floor. Three minutes later, two sheriffs strolled by, along with a few lawyer types, and some tourists. They all looked casually my way, and didn’t blink an eye. I started to relax.
“Hey guys…. I’m sorry. We can’t have you guys here without pre-approval.” She said.
“If you guys would like to do this outside on the west steps, I can give you a permit right now… set up with the whole backdrop of the capital and everything…” He said.
A woman in a formal black dress walked into the rotunda with a white sheriff and they were both standing just to my right.
I said, “Well, it’s not a photo-shoot.”
She said, “Oh, it’s not?”
I took a long breath in, and exhaled real slow.
I said, “No, it’s a protest.” As soon as I said it, I regretted it, because it was more complicated than a protest.
She said, “Oh okay.”
The sheriff said, “Yeah, it doesn’t matter, you can go on the west side of the building. I can write a permit for you to be outside right now. I do this for a lot of people. Lots of people come and want to protest. In fact, they just had a campaign here earlier…”
She said, “I can go grab my business card, and you can get back to me if you like and I can write down the formal process for being inside the building.”
As soon as I heard about filling out paperwork and a formal process, I wanted to roll my eyes. I’ve always known my attitude has been ornery if not hostile towards bureaucratic contingencies. I can’t help it. We’d just driven for 2 ½ hours from San Francisco and I wanted to make an interruption. Then, I thought about it for a split second…did it really matter if I was outside or inside. The sheriff was going out of his way to be nice.
I said, “I’m not doing any harm.”
She said, “It’s just our policy, unfortunately.”
I kept still for a moment contemplating what to do. Finally I said, “mmmmm…. you can write a permit for me right now to do this outside?”
Sheriff said, “Yeah, I can, I’ll do it right now! I’m the permit guy. I work with a lot of people… You could be at the steps and people passing by could read it better. It’s a beautiful backdrop and you could read it and it would probably be better!” He was almost bursting with enthusiasm.
She said, “You could drape it down the steps and people could read it better.”
I said, “Have you read it?”
The sheriff said, “I started at the top… I saw cop, and terrorize.. so…..I can say I’m sorry…. No matter what because…. He stopped and looked down, and he seemed to be searching for words. I could see he was trying his best. “You know…. I’m the permit guy, I work with everybody.”
It’s the pauses between the sentences that say a lot when you’re speaking to someone, what they do with their hands or eyes, whether they look at you or not. He was trying his dandiest to move me outside in a polite manner, with encouragement even.
I asked him, “What’s your name?”
Sheriff said, “Paul.”
I said, “Okay, nice to meet you. How about we make a deal, you read the whole cape, and make me a permit, and I’ll go outside.” I couldn’t believe I said, “how about we make a deal?” as if I was in a game show with the Jeopardy host. I gave him a card with my website address on it.
He said, “Okay.”
He stepped behind me and read the cape.
The woman went away. I know what my cape says, but sometimes the idea of it goes blank in my mind. I mean, I know it’s back there somewhere, but once in a while it feels like a tiny black dot in a distant field. Still, I almost always tighten up when I ask someone to read it.
He stepped back in front of me. He said, “I’m sorry”, as he looked down at the floor and I felt a big gap of quiet space …….you go by Patricia?” Then in a clumsy, sweet way he said, “I’d give you a hug if I could….. but I’m a police officer….”
I felt a genuine kindness in the awkward way he expressed himself. I mean who wouldn’t be awkward, being a cop and reading this story. Then he straightened himself up, and explained to me the rules of being outside. “Can’t climb on anything, can’t tie your cape to anything… but you can come back as many times as you like!” He said, “My whole job is to help people go as far as they can ... that’s how I look at it.” I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or happy to see me leave; maybe he actually cared a little.
I agreed to move myself outdoors. He would bring my permit out to me later, and we talked a little more about policing. I told him, “I only want the truth to be told.” “Yeah”, he said, and he stood quiet for a while, a long while. His pause made me pause and wonder. After a few moments, he wished me luck and said I could come back again. Then, he walked away.
As I knelt on the steps, I saw people come and go. An older Black couple stood behind me for quite a while. When I conversed with the man, he leaned over from far away and spoke softly. I wasn’t sure if he was afraid of Covid, or if he was afraid of who I might be. I couldn’t hear him very well, but I think he said they’d lived most of their lives in Sacramento. The couple had a very gentle, and contemplative way about them. The man would have been old enough to remember the Civil Rights movement, certainly. I thought about the Black Panther Party showing up here to protest the Mulford Bill, signed in 1967 by Reagan. Until that year, California had let all persons “open carry” guns since the Gold Rush era, that is, until Black men like the Panthers got a hold of rifles. Even the NRA agreed to ban “open carry.” The NRA! I wondered for a moment how our country looked to them now. When the Panthers entered the Capital, they were dignified, proud, and resolute with the knowledge of the constitution, a deep contrast to how things had occurred at the D.C. capital, on January 6th.
Later, two ladies in blue outfits rode by on bicycles. The colors they wore were so bright and happy, it almost hurt. They looked back at me as they went by, and then they slowed, and then they looked back again. Finally, they stopped, got off of their bikes, and went around to read my cape. One of the women came around to the front and clasped her hands together in a very somber gesture. She seemed quietly moved by my cloak. Near 3:30, an American East Indian man approached me and he felt connected enough that he shook my hand and spoke to me of his own struggles.
Near 4:00, I took off my cape, folded it up, and packed it in my bag. We walked to the car, and drove to the Sheriff’s department so I could kneel there for an hour, and maybe, concoct more mischief and conversation.