February 28th, 2020 at 12:03 PM
McDonalds in the Walmart at Military and Roosevelt
San Antonio, Texas
I got a little lost on the way to the town hall meeting. I
knew I had time to get to Sunset Station, so I kept plugging. I left the Bernie
office at Four in the afternoon, knowing that nothing would happen at the rally
until Elizabeth Warren and Julian Castro showed up.
I walked east on Florida Street, a street that passed
through a neighborhood once called Lavaca. Old neighborhoods survive all too
rarely, and many were torn down in the name of urban renewal. Lavaca lost most
of its buildings and residents when the city tried to modernize. Usually, this
loss has happened when the government puts through an interstate.
Black Bottom vanished under I-75 in Detroit. Mayor Coleman
Young had to have hated to see the neighborhood full of black businesses, homes
and boarding houses vanish. He had practiced his charms upon the women of that
enclave. He once referred to the Lodge Freeway as a ditch, spoiling his dry-cleaning
business.
Syracuse sacrificed the 15th Ward to put through US-81.
Father Charles Brady, a Catholic Priest, once wandered the ward, trying to be
of service. And then the ward fell to the wrecking ball. His work continues as
part of the Brady Faith Center, a center that teaches music lessons to children
in the remaining poor neighborhoods of Syracuse. The center even sells produce
raised on its farm on Onondaga Creek.
I’m shooting from the hip here, but I’m guessing Lavaca got
the uplift when US-37 was constructed.
An art project tried to save a piece of Lavaca culture by
engraving quotes of residents into the sidewalk of Florida street. I had to
stop every few steps and read them, one after another. I had no pictures to
tell me who was talking. I could only guess. The quotes captured my
imagination, maybe because I remember the days before the aggressive insertion
of freeways and the people who were old when I began my life on earth.
When I read, “The soles of our feet were always purple from
stepping on ripe mulberries”, I remembered the mulberry tree in my parent’s
backyard and my purple bare feet after walking around the trunk. I climbed that
tree. I chewed its surprisingly tasty leaves. I gulped the purple berries by
the handful. I even fell out of the tree once.
I was a strong climber and I could swing from branches,
which thankfully never broke. I had watched too much Tarzan the Ape Man. I also
had watched too much Mary Poppins and loved how her umbrella could lift her
into the air. One day, I sat on a branch, opened an umbrella and jumped off the
branch. The umbrella turned inside out, and I plummeted to the grass and fell
on my hip. I was stunned. My grandfather, Stanley Barzsch, was burning a pile
of copper by the edge of our lawn and saw me hit hard. He ran over and stood
over me, saying, “Billy, Billy, are you okay. Billy, are you okay”. I finally answered
him, “I’m okay”, and I walked away with a limp, my left hip feeling numb for a
day.
I passed under the US-37 highway and walked east for the bus
stop at Hackberry. I boarded the wrong bus, and once I realized it, I got off
just south of the Alamodome. I found myself looking for a way through Hemisfair
Park, finding it impassable.
The Institute of Texas Cultures had a tall iron rod fence
around it. The Tower of the Americas had a fence just like it around it. I had
to backtrack and I hate to backtrack. Then I found a bike path and noodled my
way to Sunset Station. I thought about giving up and not attending the
Elizabeth Warren rally. But I didn’t want to disappoint my daughter, a huge
supporter. I pretty much walked around three sides of the Alamodome, and I will
alway remember the Alamodome.
I love the fringe of events, and the Warren rally didn’t
disappoint. The spectre of Communism rallies the Americans who look askance at
Bernie, Elizabeth and Pete and Joe. Medicare for All must look like Communism
for them. Gun control must make them think about the Nazis rounding up all the
guns in the Polish Ghetto. They won’t be fooled again.
About ten of these Sons of Texas stood across from the venue
and waved flags, including a “Come and Take It” flag with an assault rifle in
the place of the Gonzales cannon. I filmed the squad. One of the leaders
shouted to me, “Come back later. We have more patriots coming”. He flashed his
sign at me: “Thanks for Coming to Texas, Elizabeth Warren. Now Go Home”!
I found a complicated line to get in using my reservation on
the Warren website. I saw a woman standing alone at a table for Media Check-In.
I put my Syracuse Press Club card on the table and requested credentials. She
asked a few questions for the database and I got a pink card on a safety pin to
get me through the gate. And then I watched as mostly women in groups arrived.
I asked a few questions, more interested in the people than the politicians.
One daughter had driven all the way from the Rio Grande to
attend the rally with her mom who lived in San Antonio. A woman was working the
crowd, handing out a sign telling the virtues of Judge Mery, running for
re-election. I had to wonder why she had chosen this thankless task. She
introduced herself as the wife of Judge Mery. “Hey, glad to meet the Mery wife
of San Antonio”. She knew her Shakespeare, so she laughed.
We waited. Staffers got on the stage to collect questions
for Warren. For hours, nothing else happened. The DJ played song after song,
but she didn’t mixmaster. The sun set. The temperature dropped. Why would the
organizers leave a perfectly good stage unoccupied by talent? Bernie has an
appearance scheduled with Public Enemy in LA. An San Antonio local band local
to Warren could have made a difference.
I worried. So I started to blog snarky statements.
The sun has vanished from Sunset Station. This morning, the
citizens of San Antonio awoke to frost and freezing temps. Tonight, the
temperature drops. Why did Elizabeth Warren and Juan Castro push their
appearance late into a cold Texas night?
We have an audience, a full house. We have local politicians
of every level working the crowd. We have vendors, hawking unofficial Warren
swag. We have nothing but three dollar water and soda to buy. Isn't this
supposed to be a party?
But wait, here's Julio Castro. The crowd has gone wild!
But why did the organizers let a perfectly good stage go
empty for two and a half hours. This could have been a cool concert.
Elizabeth Warren sounds hoarse, but she burned at Sunset
Station in San Antonio. She raised the spirits of the gathered faithful,
declaiming like William Jennings Bryan. She had a plan for that and that and
all that and she had declared each plan.
And now she has three hours of men ... right .... women
& children & babies lined up for selfies with her. Four days like this
& she's hardly letting up, burning like a Roman candle until Super Tuesday.
Somebody bring her some tacos!
I said to a volunteer, “Is someone going for tacos for
Elizabeth”?
“She doesn’t have time to eat between pictures. She has a
place she loves and she’ll beeline there after the selfies”.
Maybe she gets her fire from the sauces?
Elizabeth Warren
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