I often spend hours hanging out at Queen and Spadina on a Sunday. But generally, I have a choice in the matter, instead of being trapped there by riot police.
The day started innocently enough. It was the last day of the G20 summit, I didn’t have to work, and I wanted to feel the vibe downtown. After the anti-capitalist rioting, it seemed the perfect day for shoe-shopping and latte-sipping in the core.
While biking through the city, I heard via text message that Queen Street was turning into an impromptu parade route. Hoards of mostly apolitical youth were strolling west, with no clear destination. After days of an oppressive police presence and curtailed civil liberties, the streets were ours again! I took off to join some friends who were among them.
I caught the tail end of the “march” at Nathan Phillips Square, and found the legions walking down the middle of Queen St. unmolested by their heavy police escort. The mood was peaceful and upbeat, and there was no clue that this spontaneous celebration of freedom would end in us being corralled and held for hours upon reaching Queen and Spadina.
Take me to the riot.
What follows is a journal of the ordeal. It’s a little absurd, sure, but so was the whole darn weekend. (Times are approximate, as torrential rains destroyed the paper in my bag.)
5:30 p.m. – The crowd is reaching the police at Spadina, who have blocked off Queen St. to the south and the west. A man jumps into the gap between the two groups, and starts doing handstands and cartwheels. A protestor warns the acrobat through her megaphone that he’d better stop, because “having fun is illegal now!”
5:31 p.m. – There is no violence from protestors or police, but there is more theatre of the absurd. One participant shouts at cops that they’re endangering our safety by not allowing us to continue west. “You’re trying to force us into traffic!” We are, of course, already in the street.
5:35 p.m. – We are confused. The girl with the megaphone, our de facto leader, offers no guidance. We are a flock without a shepherd. People are drifting north up Spadina, waiting for something to happen. In what has become a theme, this “protest” has roughly one angry, G20 hating-hippie for every 50 journalists and curiosity-seekers. There’s an ice cream truck there, and I wonder if he’s been following us. He knows rioting is hot work, and that we could use a frozen delight to cool down.
5:45 p.m. – We are somewhat galvanized when police haul two people into an alley off Spadina. While everyone’s attention is diverted, more riot police are spilling out of buses closer to Dundas. They fan out and spread across the street. Meanwhile, even more troops are sealing the last escape: east on Queen. I notice the omnipresent hotdog guy has split, abandoning his cart. It doesn’t bode well.
5:50 p.m. – The cops are closing ranks, slowly tightening their circle while beating on their shields with batons. My group decides it’s a good idea to find a different vantage point, but as we try to leave we are told we’re all to be arrested. “You can be arrested nicely, or the other way,” one officer lets us know. Should we vote on it?
6:00 p.m. – We’re officially pinned from all sides. Just when my friends are getting nervous, a man starts dancing in front of the cops, holding a sign towards us that reads “Everything is OK.” We are reassured!
6:30 p.m. – No one knows what’s going on. The cops are keeping mum, but it seems that anyone approaching them is summarily forced to the ground, cuffed, and marched off. There has to be a better way out of here. I curse the 21st century for not delivering on personal jetpacks!
6:45 p.m. – The “everything is OK” guy has been arrested. Morale takes a hit! We need a new hero, so I open my cardigan to reveal my potent t-shirt, which says “Don’t worry, everything is going to be amazing.”
7:00 p.m. – The skies open up. This is not a light shower, it’s a bath. We have no umbrella, the cops aren’t budging, and I’m starting to lose faith in platitudes.
7:30 p.m. – It’s pouring harder, if that’s even possible. These cumulonimbus clouds are out of control! Someone should arrest them. My friend Liem says we should just pretend we’re at an outdoor concert, waiting for Vampire Weekend to take the stage.
7:45 p.m. – An indignant young man is speaking loudly into his phone, and I make out he’s trying to get through to the Prime Minister’s personal cell. The man is determined, and looks not-crazy. We scoff to each other, but on the inside I’m daring to dream. What if they’re buds? What if he calls the PM “Stevie?” What if Harper comes out of the sky like Fan Man and plucks him from the crowd? I pat my shirt for good luck.
8:00 p.m. – Shift change for the police. New lines come in on both sides to relieve their colleagues, who are surely tired of holding up those heavy shields and guns. I’m pretty sure that nobody’s coming to sub in for us. What about the poor drenched pooches with us, caught up with their owners in the dragnet? I hope the police horses aren’t out in this. It’s a real dog and pony show down at Queen and Spadina.
8:15 p.m. – I’ve phoned my dad, in the increasingly likely event I’ll need legal help. I figured he’ll be upset, but he’s actually pretty stoked. He’s started texting me Bruce Springsteen lyrics, but it’s when he excitedly lets me know that we’re being “kettled until we chill out” that I realize he wants to be in here too. I assure him we’re thoroughly chilled.
8:30 p.m. – It will not. Stop. Raining. It is Biblical; God’s wrath for violating His will by disrupting traffic. The police pass oranges among themselves. We pass sodden cigarettes. It’s a shame that hotdog guy vamoosed, because this “riot” is turning into a hunger strike.
9:00 p.m. – Another shift change for the cops. Time to text my boss and warn her I might not make it into work the next day. I seriously consider just telling her I’m on a bender.
9:10 p.m. – Final text before phone dies: Mom has seen me on CP24. Hi mom!
9:20 p.m. – No one is dressed for this. One friend is shaking, and jokes the police will think he’s a junkie. We’re doing a football huddle for warmth, including people we’ve just met. I’ve never felt so close to them.
9:30 p.m. – A sergeant loudly informs the crowd that he sees us getting hypothermia, and that they’ve commissioned TTC buses for us to wait in for processing. He can’t help the legality, he says, but he’ll get us out of the rain. We’re cheering.
9:35 p.m. – The buses pull up, and while some people rush to get on, we remain in the thinning crowd. We figure those things are heading straight to the detention centre, and if we end up there we’ll never make last call. We probably won’t even make first call, whenever that is.
9:48 p.m. – Deus ex machina! An officer who seems to be in charge tells the crowd that we had all been arrested for breaching the peace, but were being released without charges. No further explanation of why we’re suddenly free, so riot police and protestors alike melt into the night. New friends from the huddle and I exchange Facebook contacts, and agree we should make this an annual thing.
